Page 7 of High Stakes (The Morrison Brothers #2)

I watch Elena disappear down the hallway to her room, my mind replaying the day we've just shared. The coastal drive, the art gallery, that small café with its lively music. Elena dancing, her face alight with joy.

All of it feels like memories from someone else's life, someone who knows how to appreciate simple pleasures, who isn't constantly calculating risks and returns.

Yet here I am, standing in this beautiful villa, feeling more like myself than I have in years. All because I finally told the truth instead of hiding behind corporate armor.

I head to my own room to shower and change for dinner. The hot water washes away the salt and sand of the day, but the memory of Elena's words remains:

"I like the glimpses I get of the man behind the walls." Not the CEO, not the billionaire, but the man. When was the last time someone saw me that way? When was the last time I let them?

By the time I emerge onto the terrace for dinner, the sky has deepened to a velvety black scattered with stars.

Candles flicker on the table, and the private chef has outdone himself with an array of local specialties—grilled lobster, coconut rice, tropical vegetables in some kind of spiced sauce.

Elena is already seated, wearing a simple white dress that makes her sun-kissed skin glow in the candlelight.

"Hungry?" I ask, taking my seat across from her.

"Starving," she admits. "All that sea air and dancing works up an appetite."

"The dancing was all you," I remind her. "I maintained my dignity on the sidelines."

She laughs. "Your dignity is always intact, Michael. That's part of your brand."

"My brand?" I raise an eyebrow, pouring us both glasses of the chilled white wine the chef recommended.

"Absolutely. Impeccably dressed, always composed, slightly intimidating Michael Morrison." She takes a sip of her wine. "Though I notice the island is affecting even that. I don't think I've ever seen you in linen pants before."

"Do they meet with your approval?" I ask, surprising myself with the flirtation in my tone.

Her cheeks color slightly. "They're... a good look for you. More relaxed."

"I feel more relaxed," I admit. "Though don't tell anyone back at the office. It would ruin my reputation."

"Your secret's safe with me," she promises, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glass.

The chef appears with our first course, momentarily breaking the tension that seems to build whenever we hold eye contact too long.

We begin eating, the food as delicious as it looks.

The conversation flows easily now, none of the awkwardness from this morning.

Elena tells me about her family, her academic parents who still don't quite understand why their brilliant daughter chose to be "just an assistant" instead of pursuing a PhD.

"They mean well," she says with a shrug. "They just can't comprehend that I might enjoy what I do."

"And do you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Enjoy being my assistant?"

“I enjoy the challenge. The pace. The feeling that I'm contributing to something significant." She smiles. "Even if my main contribution some days is making sure you eat lunch."

"You do far more than that," I tell her seriously. "The company wouldn't function half as well without you."

Her eyebrows rise in surprise at the compliment. "Thank you. That means a lot."

We're halfway through the main course when my phone rings. I freeze, then look guiltily at Elena.

"You have another phone?" she asks, clearly pissed.

"Emergency line," I admit. "Only my brothers have the number."

She frowns but nods toward my pocket. "Then you should answer it. It might be important."

I pull out the phone and check the display.

"It's David," I say. I haven't spoken to my quarterback brother in weeks. "I should take this."

"Of course," Elena says, setting down her fork.

I press answer. "David? What's wrong?"

"Mikey!" my brother's voice booms through the speaker, slightly slurred. "The miracle worker! The man with all the answers!"

I wince at both the childhood nickname and the obvious signs that he's been drinking. "Are you drunk?"

"Maybe a little," he admits with a laugh that sounds forced. "Or a lot. What's it matter? Not like I have anywhere to be tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next."

I sigh, glancing apologetically at Elena, who's trying to look like she's not listening. "Is your knee bothering you again?"

"Bothering me?" David's voice turns bitter. "Bothering me doesn't begin to cover it, brother. Doctor says I need another surgery. More months of rehab, minimum. Season's officially over before it started."

My heart sinks. David's identity has always been wrapped up in football. This injury has been devastating enough already; another setback might push him over the edge. "I'm sorry. That's tough news."

"Tough news," he repeats mockingly. "Always the king of understatement, aren't you, Michael? My career is probably over, and it's 'tough news.'"

"What do you want me to say, David?" I keep my voice level with effort. "That it's unfair? That it sucks? Of course it does. But getting drunk isn't going to fix your knee."

"No, but it makes me care a little less that I'm in my thirties with no college degree and only one marketable skill that I can't use anymore." The raw pain in his voice cuts through the alcohol. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

I run a hand through my hair. "First, you're going to drink some water and sleep this off. Tomorrow, when you're sober, we'll talk about options."

"Options," he scoffs. "Like what? Joining your corporate empire? Becoming another suit-wearing drone? No thanks."

"That's not what I was going to suggest," I say, though truthfully, I had considered offering him a position. "Look, you're not thinking clearly right now. Let's talk tomorrow."

"I called Ethan first," David says abruptly. "He didn't answer. Probably elbow-deep in molten metal or whatever the hell he does up in those mountains."

"Have you called Jack?" I ask, referring to our youngest brother.

"Rodeo boy? No. He's got his own problems." There's a pause, then David's voice softens. "I shouldn't have called you either. You're always so busy. Running the world and all that."

"I'm actually on vacation," I tell him. "Doctor's orders."

This produces a burst of genuine laughter. "You? On vacation? Since when do you listen to doctors?"

"Since my assistant made it her personal mission to ensure I follow medical advice," I say, glancing at Elena with a small smile.

"Wait, is she there with you?" David sounds suddenly more alert. "The famous Elena who actually makes you behave like a human being?"

I feel heat creep up my neck. "You're on speaker, David."

"Hello, Elena!" David calls out cheerfully. "Thank you for keeping my workaholic brother alive! The family appreciates it!"

Elena laughs, her eyes meeting mine across the table. "You're welcome, David. It's a full-time job."

"I bet it is," David agrees. "He's been impossible since he was ten. Always with the schedules and the plans and the rules."

"David," I warn, but he ignores me.

"Did he tell you about the time he created a neighborhood business selling our mom's cookies and then expanded to three blocks before she found out? He was fifteen. Had kids working delivery routes and everything."

Elena's eyes widen with delight. "He most certainly did not tell me that story."

"Mom was equal parts furious and impressed," David continues. "Said he was either going to end up running a Fortune 500 company or in federal prison for securities fraud."

"That's enough childhood stories," I interrupt, though I can't help smiling at the memory. Mom had been mad, but also proud. She'd helped me set up a legitimate business afterward, teaching me about permits and taxes.

"Fine, fine," David concedes. "I should let you get back to your vacation anyway. Sorry for the drunk dial. Just having a moment, you know?"

His voice has sobered slightly. "It's okay," I tell him. "But David? The drinking isn't helping. You know that, right?"

A long silence follows. "Yeah," he finally admits. "I know."

"Call me tomorrow," I say. "We'll figure something out."

"Sure." He doesn't sound convinced. "Enjoy your vacation, Mikey. Nice meeting you, Elena."

"You too, David," she replies warmly. "Take care of yourself."

The line goes dead, and I put the phone down with a sigh. "Sorry about that."

Elena shakes her head. "Don't apologize. Family is important." She hesitates, then asks, "Is he going to be okay?"

"Eventually. David's always been resilient. But this injury has hit him hard. Football was his identity."

"That's tough," she says softly. "Losing the thing that defines you."

"Yeah." I take a sip of wine, thinking about my brother. "He'll need to reinvent himself. Find a new purpose."

"What was he like growing up?" Elena asks, genuine interest in her eyes. "Before the football career?"

The question catches me off guard. No one at the office ever asks about my family, my past. It's always about the next deal, the next acquisition. But the look on Elena's face is one of simple curiosity, not information gathering.

"David was always the athlete," I say, memories rising unbidden. "Natural talent for any sport he tried. But he was also the peacemaker in the family. When Ethan and I butted heads, which was often, David was the one who smoothed things over."

"And Jack? The rodeo rider?"

I smile despite myself. "Jack was a hell-raiser from day one. Fearless. Would try anything on a dare. Drove our mother crazy with worry, but she also admired his spirit."

"And Ethan is the oldest?"

"Yeah. Ex-military. Did a few tours before coming home." I don't elaborate on the PTSD, the isolation, the battles Ethan still fights daily. Some things aren't mine to share. "He's the protector. Always has been."

"And you're the businessman," Elena says. "The provider."

I look at her, struck by the insight. "Yes. I suppose I am."

"It makes sense," she says. "After your father died, you all found your roles."

I've never thought about it that way before, how each of us shaped ourselves to fill the gaps our father's death left.

"My mother worked multiple jobs after Dad died," I say, surprising myself. "I hated seeing how tired she was all the time. When I was fourteen, I promised her someday she wouldn't have to work anymore. That I'd take care of everything."

"And you did," Elena says softly.

"Eventually." I stare into my wine glass, remembering. "Not soon enough to give her the retirement she deserved."

"I'm sorry," Elena whispers.

"She saw the company succeed. Saw all her boys established in their paths. That mattered to her." I look up at Elena. "But sometimes I wonder if I spent so much time trying to secure our future that I missed too much of the present with her."

The admission costs me. It's a fear I've never voiced aloud, not even to my brothers. Yet here, in this moment with Elena, it feels right to share it.

"I think," Elena says, "that your mother was probably incredibly proud of you. Of all you've accomplished, yes, but more importantly, of the man you became."

"What man is that?" I ask, genuinely curious about how she sees me.

"A man who takes care of the people who matter to him," she says simply. "Your family. Your employees. Even if your methods are sometimes a bit... intense."

I laugh softly. "Intense. That's a diplomatic way of putting it."

"I'm good at diplomacy," she reminds me. "It's part of my job."

"Speaking of which," I say, "is this conversation crossing professional boundaries?"

She considers this, her head tilted slightly. "Probably. But I think we crossed those boundaries the moment we boarded the plane to this island. The question is whether that's a problem."

"Is it?" I ask, holding her gaze.

"Not for me," she says quietly. "Not tonight."

I should be concerned, should be weighing the professional risks and complications. Instead, I find myself simply grateful for this moment of connection.

"Tell me more about your brothers," Elena says, breaking the intensity of the moment. "I want to hear about this cookie empire you built at fifteen."

As the chef clears our plates and brings dessert, I find myself sharing stories I haven't told in years.

About David scoring the winning touchdown in his first high school game.

About Jack's first rodeo, where he stayed on a bucking bronco for all of three seconds before being thrown into the dirt, only to get up grinning.

About Ethan teaching us all to fish when he was seventeen.

Elena listens with genuine interest, asking questions, laughing at the right moments. I realize with a start that I'm enjoying myself—simply talking, sharing, connecting. No agenda, no strategic purpose. Just the pleasure of her company.

When we finally finish our dessert, some kind of coconut custard that Elena declares the best thing she's ever tasted, the night has grown late.

"I should probably call it a night," Elena says eventually, though she makes no move to stand. "It's been a long day."

"It has," I agree, equally reluctant to end the evening. "Thank you for listening. About David, about my family. All of it."

"Thank you for sharing," she says. "I enjoyed getting to know more about the man behind the CEO."

As she rises to leave, I find myself thinking about how different this dinner was from our countless working meals in New York. There, we discuss contracts and schedules, strategies and competitors. Here, we talked about things that matter. Family. Memories. Fears.

"Goodnight, Michael," she says, pausing at the door that leads to her wing of the villa.

"Goodnight, Elena," I reply, watching as she disappears down the hallway.

Alone on the terrace, I look out at the star-filled sky and realize something that should probably terrify me but somehow doesn't: I'm falling for my assistant. And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.