Page 6 of High Stakes (The Morrison Brothers #2)

The small coastal town appears around a bend in the road, a collection of colorful buildings nestled between the mountains and the sea. Michael parks the Jeep in a small lot near what appears to be the main street, and I adjust my windblown hair as best I can.

"I must look a mess," I say, trying to smooth the tangles with my fingers.

Michael glances at me, a half-smile playing on his lips. "You look..." he pauses, seeming to search for an appropriate word, "perfectly vacation-appropriate."

It's such a measured response that I almost laugh. The Michael Morrison of the boardroom would never hesitate like this. He's always precise, always certain. This hesitant version is new and strangely endearing.

We walk side by side down the main street, which is lined with small shops, cafés, and art galleries.

The buildings are painted in vibrant Caribbean colors—turquoise, coral, sunshine yellow—with wooden shutters and flower boxes overflowing with tropical blooms. It feels worlds away from the steel and glass of Manhattan.

"It's charming," I say, taking in the relaxed atmosphere. Local music drifts from an open-air café, and the scent of spices and grilled seafood fills the air. "Like something from a travel magazine."

"Too touristy?" Michael asks, watching a group of visitors emerge from a souvenir shop laden with bags.

I shake my head. "No, it feels authentic. Just... curated. The best version of itself."

"I can appreciate that," he says. "Presenting your optimal self to the world."

The comment feels loaded somehow, but I choose not to dig deeper. We're finding our footing again after last night's misstep, and I don't want to disrupt this fragile equilibrium.

We wander into a small art gallery displaying the work of local artists.

The paintings are vibrant and full of life—seascapes, village scenes, abstract interpretations of island flora.

Michael stops in front of a particularly striking canvas showing the island at sunset, all deep purples and fiery oranges.

"Do you like art?" I ask, realizing it's yet another thing I don't know about him.

"I appreciate it, though I wouldn't call myself knowledgeable. My Manhattan apartment has several pieces, but they were all selected by a decorator."

"Really?" I'm surprised by his honesty. "I would have expected you to be very particular about what hangs on your walls."

"I am, in theory," he admits. "But there's never been time to develop my own taste. It was easier to outsource to an expert."

There's something sad in this admission. The idea that even his personal space has been delegated to others, optimized for efficiency rather than joy.

"What about you?" he asks. "Do you collect art?"

I laugh. "On my salary? Hardly. But I do have a few prints I love, and a painting my grandmother did years ago."

"What's it of?"

"The family cabin in the Adirondacks. It's not technically impressive, but it captures exactly how the light hits the lake in the morning." I smile at the memory. "Some of my happiest childhood memories happened there."

Michael nods. "That's what art should do, right? Connect you to something meaningful."

It's such an unexpectedly poetic sentiment from a man who speaks primarily in quarterly projections and market analyses that I find myself staring at him. He catches my look and raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing," I say quickly. "Just... I didn't expect that from you."

"There's probably a lot you don't know about me," he says.

"Probably," I agree, meeting his gaze. "Though not for lack of interest."

His eyes widen slightly at having his own words turned back on him, and for a moment, that invisible thread between us pulls taut again. Then he clears his throat and turns back to the painting.

"This would look good in my office," he says. "A reminder of this place when we're back in New York."

The use of "we" doesn't escape me, but I choose not to comment on it. Instead, I nod. "It would certainly brighten up all that chrome and glass."

While Michael speaks with the gallery owner about the painting, I wander to the next room, which displays local crafts.

Woven baskets, carved wooden figures, and handmade jewelry.

A display of sea glass catches my eye—pieces tumbled smooth by the ocean, transformed from broken bottles into something beautiful.

I pick up a necklace, a simple piece of blue-green glass wrapped in silver wire.

"That's lovely," says a voice behind me. The gallery owner's wife, a warm-faced woman with blue-streaked hair, smiles at me. "Local sea glass. Each piece is unique."

"It's beautiful," I agree, admiring how the light plays through the translucent glass.

"It matches your eyes," she says. "The color is unusual. Most sea glass is green or brown. Blue is much rarer."

I'm about to return the necklace to the display when Michael appears at my side. "We'll take that too," he says to the woman.

"Michael, no," I protest. "You don't need to—"

"Consider it a thank you," he says. "For making sure I actually take this vacation instead of working myself into an early grave."

I want to refuse. It crosses another line in our already complicated relationship, but the sincerity in his expression stops me. This isn't the CEO making a power play; it's simply Michael, trying in his own way to express gratitude.

"Thank you," I say finally. "It's beautiful."

The woman smiles as she takes the necklace to wrap it up along with the painting Michael has purchased. I feel myself blushing under her gaze and turn away, pretending to observe a display of wooden carvings.

Outside the gallery, the afternoon has progressed, the sun lower in the sky casting golden light across the village.

Michael suggests we find somewhere for a cold drink before heading back to the villa, and I readily agree.

We choose a small café with tables overlooking the harbor, where fishing boats bob gently in the clear water.

"This is perfect," I say, settling into a chair beneath a striped umbrella. "I could get used to this lifestyle."

"Couldn't we all," Michael agrees, ordering us both fresh coconut water from a passing server.

When our drinks arrive—actual coconuts with straws—I can't help but laugh at the sight of Michael Morrison, billionaire CEO, sipping from a coconut like a tourist. He catches my amusement and smiles ruefully.

"Not exactly my usual scotch on the rocks, is it?"

"Definitely not," I agree. "But somehow it suits you."

"Island Michael?"

"Something like that."

Fishermen unload their day's catch, children play along the water's edge, tourists and locals mingle in the golden afternoon light. It's peaceful in a way New York never is, even in its quietest moments.

"I've been thinking," Michael says suddenly, "about what you said last night."

My stomach tightens. I'd hoped we could leave that awkward exchange behind us. "Michael, we don't need to—"

"No, I want to," he interrupts gently. "You were right."

I blink, surprised. "About what?"

He stares out at the harbor, not meeting my eyes. "The walls. The protection. All of it." He takes a breath. "I wasn't honest with you last night."

I stay silent, afraid that anything I might say could end this moment.

"The truth is," he continues, his voice lower, "I've spent so long being 'Michael Morrison, CEO' that sometimes I'm not sure where that ends and I begin. It's easier to stay behind those walls than to figure out who I might be without them."

The admission costs him. I can see it in the tension around his mouth, the way his fingers grip the coconut too tightly. Michael doesn't do vulnerability, doesn't expose weaknesses. Yet here he is, offering me exactly that.

"Thank you for telling me," I whisper. "For what it's worth, I like the glimpses I get of the man behind the walls."

"I'm not good at this," he admits. "Vacations. Relaxation. Personal conversations."

"You're doing fine," I assure him. "Better than fine."

The moment is interrupted by the arrival of a small group of musicians who set up near our table.

They begin to play traditional island music—upbeat and joyful, with rhythms that seem to capture the essence of this place.

Other patrons begin to clap along, and a few even get up to dance in the small space between tables.

"We should head back soon," Michael says, checking his watch. "It'll be dark before long."

"Just a few more minutes," I plead, caught up in the festive atmosphere. "This is wonderful."

He relents with a small smile, and we watch as the impromptu party grows, more people joining in the dancing. A kind-looking older local man approaches our table and extends his hand to me with a gallant bow.

"Dance, miss?" he asks, his smile revealing a gold tooth.

I hesitate, glancing at Michael, who nods encouragingly. "Go ahead," he says. "When in Rome, right?"

With a laugh, I take the man's hand and let him lead me into the swirl of dancers.

The music is infectious, impossible not to move to.

My dance partner is surprisingly spry, twirling me around with ease.

I catch glimpses of Michael watching from our table, smiling like I've never seen him do before.

After one song, I thank my partner and return to the table, breathless and laughing. "That was fun! You should try it."

Michael shakes his head firmly. "I don't dance."

"Ever?"

"Not if I can avoid it," he says with a grimace. "Another thing I'm not good at."

"I find that hard to believe," I tease. "The great Michael Morrison, admitting there's something he can't master with sheer determination?"

He chuckles, "Even I have limitations, Ms. Carter."

The use of my last name is playful rather than formal. It feels like we've found our footing again, that delicate balance between professional and personal.

As the sun begins to set, we reluctantly leave the lively café and make our way back to the Jeep. The sky performs a spectacular color show as we drive, oranges and pinks deepening to purples and indigos.

"Today was..." Michael begins, then pauses.

"Yes?" I prompt.

"Good," he finishes simply. "Really good."

Coming from a man who typically describes business deals as "adequate" or "satisfactory," it feels like high praise. I smile into the gathering darkness. "It was."

When we reach the villa, there's a moment of awkwardness as we stand in the driveway, neither quite ready to return to our separate wings.

"Dinner in an hour?" Michael suggests.

I nod. "Perfect."

As I head to my room, I find myself thinking about the sea glass necklace in my purse.

Like those pieces of broken glass, transformed by time and tide into something new, something is changing between Michael and me.

What started as sharp edges, boss and employee, billionaire and assistant, is being worn smooth by this unexpected time together.

I just hope we don't cut ourselves on the edges that remain.