Page 4 of High Stakes (The Morrison Brothers #2)

"Am I wrong?" I ask

The moonlight catches in Michael's eyes, turning them to midnight pools. I've pushed too far, I realize. Crossed a line.

"Yes," he says after a long moment, his voice flat.

"You're wrong. I'm a businessman, Elena.

I built this company through strategic thinking and hard decisions.

There's no hidden heart of gold, no secret softness.

" His face is impassive, the mask firmly back in place.

"The walls aren't protection. They're efficiency. "

I don't believe him. I've seen too many glimpses of the man behind the mask to accept this corporate robot version he's presenting. But I also recognize retreat when I see it. Whatever moment of vulnerability we shared has now passed.

"Of course," I say, smoothing my expression. "I apologize for overstepping."

He turns away, staring out at the ocean. "It's late. We should head back."

The sand feels heavier beneath my feet now, each step an effort. I wrap my shawl tighter around my shoulders, suddenly chilled despite the warm night air.

What did I expect? That he'd confess some deep emotional truth to me just because we're away from the office? That the moonlight and waves would magically dissolve years of barriers? I know better than that. I know him better than that.

When we reach the villa's beach stairs, Michael stops. "About tomorrow—"

"Snorkeling at ten," I say briskly, professional assistant mode fully engaged. "I've already made the arrangements with the villa staff. The equipment will be ready after breakfast."

He nods, "Good. Thank you."

"Just doing my job," I say, the words tasting bitter. "Goodnight, Michael."

I don't wait for his response, climbing the stairs quickly, needing distance.

In my room, I close the door and lean against it, taking deep breaths.

This is exactly why office romances are a bad idea, why professional boundaries exist. I let myself forget our actual relationship for a moment, allowed myself to believe we were just a man and woman enjoying a tropical evening together.

Stupid, Elena. So stupid.

I shower quickly, as if I could wash away my embarrassment along with the salt air and sand. The enormous bed that looked so inviting earlier now seems too empty, too large for just one person. I try not to think about who else I wish was here with me.

Sleep doesn't come easily. I toss and turn, replaying our conversation, wondering what I could have said differently.

The analytical part of my brain—the part that got me through double majors at Cornell—knows I should be relieved.

This awkward moment has reminded us both of the professional nature of our relationship and reset boundaries that were in danger of blurring beyond recognition.

So why does it feel like loss instead of clarity?

Next Day

Morning arrives with relentless Caribbean sunshine streaming through the windows I forgot to close.

I check my phone—6:30 a.m. Too early to face Michael after last night's awkwardness, but too late to fall back asleep.

Instead, I change into my running clothes and slip out of the villa, needing a nice run to clear my head.

The island is beautiful in the early morning light, the hills vibrant green against the clear blue sky.

I run along a coastal path, pushing myself harder than usual, as if I could outpace my thoughts.

By the time I return to the villa, sweaty and breathless, I feel more centered.

Professional. Ready to face whatever the day brings.

I shower and change into a modest one-piece swimsuit with a light cover-up over it. Practical for snorkeling, nothing that could be seen as provocative. I pull my hair back into a simple ponytail and apply waterproof sunscreen.

When I finally emerge for breakfast, Michael is already at the terrace table, reading something on a tablet. I stop short.

"Is that work?" I ask, slipping into my role as health enforcer.

He looks up. "News. Doctor didn't say I couldn't stay informed about world events."

I relax slightly. "Fair enough."

Breakfast is a spread of tropical fruits, local pastries, and fresh juices.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, the politeness forced.

"Fine, thank you," I lie. "And you?"

"Well enough."

The small talk is painful, so different from our easy conversation at dinner. I focus on my plate, trying to appreciate the delicious food despite the knot in my stomach.

"About last night," Michael begins.

"We don't need to discuss it," I interrupt quickly. "It was unprofessional of me to make personal assumptions about you. It won't happen again."

"Right. Good."

We finish breakfast in silence, and I'm relieved when the villa manager appears to inform us that the snorkeling equipment is ready whenever we are.

"I'll just go change," Michael says, standing.

"I'll meet you at the beach," I reply, not meeting his eyes.

Twenty minutes later, I'm waiting at the water's edge, trying not to think about how Michael will look in swim trunks. I've seen him in perfectly tailored suits for six months, each one probably costing more than my monthly rent. The thought of him in casual beachwear is strangely disconcerting.

When he appears, I'm simultaneously relieved and disappointed to see he's wearing a rash guard with his swim trunks. The disappointment is unprofessional and unwelcome. I push it away.

"Ready for your first snorkeling lesson?" he asks, his tone lighter than at breakfast.

I nod, gesturing to the equipment laid out by the villa staff. "As ready as I'll ever be. I'm trusting you not to let me drown."

"I would never." There's a seriousness in his voice that catches me off guard. "Your safety is... important."

He wanted to say something else there, I'm sure of it. But we're back in safe territory now—polite, distant, professional.

Michael explains the basics of the equipment, showing me how to use the mask and snorkel. His instructions are clear and precise, just like in the office when he's explaining a complex business strategy. This is familiar ground.

"The key is to relax," he says, demonstrating how to breathe through the snorkel. "If you panic, you'll tense up and have trouble staying afloat. Just trust the water to hold you."

"Trust isn't exactly my strong suit," I mutter.

"Mine either," he admits, "But the ocean doesn't care about our trust issues."

That surprises a laugh out of me. "Fair point."

We wade into the water together. It's warm and crystal clear, the sandy bottom visible beneath our feet. Small fish dart around our ankles, unconcerned by our intrusion into their world.

"We'll start in the shallows," Michael says. "Just get comfortable with the mask and breathing through the snorkel before we swim out to the reef."

I nod, fitting the mask over my face as he showed me. It feels strange and slightly claustrophobic at first, but after a few experimental breaths through the snorkel, I start to adjust.

"Good," Michael says, his voice slightly muffled through my own snorkel breathing. "Now just float on your stomach and look down."

I do as instructed, letting my body relax into the gentle lightness of the salt water. The underwater world comes into focus. Sand rippled by the current, tiny crabs scuttling across the bottom, colorful fish investigating my presence. It's beautiful and peaceful and completely absorbing.

I'm so entranced that I don't notice Michael floating beside me until his hand enters my field of vision, pointing toward a particularly vibrant blue fish.

I turn my head slightly to look at him, and our eyes meet through our masks.

Michael gestures toward deeper water, where a coral reef is visible.

I nod, and we swim side by side toward it.

The reef is breathtaking. A riot of colors and shapes, teeming with fish of every description.

I follow Michael along its edge, grateful for his guidance as he points out particularly interesting features and creatures.

Despite my initial nervousness, I find myself completely relaxed, breathing easily through the snorkel as we glide through the water.

At one point, a sea turtle appears, swimming lazily past us with indifference to our presence. I make an excited sound through my snorkel, pointing, and Michael nods, his eyes crinkling at the corners in what I know is a smile behind his snorkel.

Time loses meaning as we explore. The underwater world is meditative, requiring presence in a way that's rare in our busy lives. There are no emails here, no meetings, no deadlines, just breathing and gestures as we point out discoveries to each other.

Eventually, Michael taps his wrist where a watch would be and points to the surface. I nod, understanding that it's time to head back. My muscles are pleasantly tired as we swim toward shore, and I realize I haven't thought about last night for hours.

We emerge from the water onto the beach, removing our masks and snorkels. My hair is plastered to my head, and I'm sure my makeup (what little I applied) has washed away entirely. Michael doesn't look much better, his usually perfect hair slicked back and dripping.

"That was..." I search for the right word. "Amazing. Thank you."

He smiles, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. "You're a natural. Most first-timers panic at least once."

"I had a good teacher," I say, then immediately regret the compliment when his smile falters slightly.

"We should probably head back," he says, gathering the equipment. "Get cleaned up before lunch."

Just like that, the wall is back. I nod, keeping my expression neutral. "Of course."

As we walk back to the villa, I wonder if this is how the entire week will go.

Moments of connection followed by swift retreats to safer ground.

The thought is exhausting. But maybe it's for the best. In four more days, we'll return to New York, to our normal professional roles where the boundaries are clearer.

Back in my room, I shower away the salt water and change into a sundress for lunch. My skin feels tight from sun exposure despite the sunscreen, and my muscles ache pleasantly from the swimming. I should feel relaxed, refreshed. Instead, I feel oddly melancholy.

I reach for my phone, then remember I've confiscated both our devices for the duration of the vacation. No distractions, doctor's orders. Usually, I'd bury uncomfortable emotions in work or social media scrolling. Without those escapes, I'm forced to sit with my feelings.

The real problem, I realize as I brush my hair, isn't that Michael retreated last night. It's that I wanted him not to. Despite all professional boundaries and office rules, I wanted him to confirm my theories about the real man behind the CEO mask. I wanted him to let me in.

And that can only mean one thing… I'm in much deeper trouble than I thought.