Page 8 of High Stakes (The Morrison Brothers #2)

I close my bedroom door and lean against it, heart pounding. What just happened?

The evening had started as a simple dinner and transformed into something far more intimate. Michael sharing stories about his family, about his childhood, about the weight of responsibility he's carried since he was barely a teenager. This wasn't my boss talking. This was Michael, the man.

And I'm falling for him.

The realization should alarm me. He's my employer. There are power dynamics, professional boundaries, all the things I've been trained to respect. But here, away from the steel and glass confines of our New York reality, those concerns feel distant, less relevant.

Tonight I saw beneath the armor. I glimpsed the man who promised his overworked mother he'd take care of everything, who still worries about his troubled brother, who built a cookie empire at fifteen because he couldn't stand seeing his family struggle.

The man who buys sea glass necklaces that match my eyes and actually apologizes when he's wrong.

I move to the bathroom and begin my nighttime routine, trying to process the evening. The way his eyes softened when he talked about his mother. The flash of genuine worry when he realized David was drinking again. The unguarded laughter when he recounted childhood escapades.

This isn't a schoolgirl crush or physical attraction, though God knows there's plenty of that too. This is something deeper, more dangerous. I'm falling for who he actually is, beneath all the trappings of wealth and power.

What happens when we return to New York? To our defined roles of CEO and assistant? Can we simply pack away these moments, these glimpses of connection?

Do I even want to?

I slip into bed, knowing sleep will be elusive. Through the open balcony doors, I can hear the waves against the shore, a sound both soothing and melancholy. Three more days in this paradise, and then reality reclaims us.

I touch the sea glass necklace on my bedside table, cool and smooth beneath my fingers.

Transformed by time and tide from something broken into something beautiful.

Perhaps some transformations can't be reversed.

Perhaps, when we return to New York, we'll find that we've both been changed by this island interlude in ways that can't be undone.

The thought should frighten me. Instead, as I finally drift toward sleep, I find myself hoping it's true.

Next Day

Morning arrives with brilliant sunshine and the scent of coffee.

I've slept later than usual, the emotional weight of last night's conversation leaving me more exhausted than I realized.

After a quick shower, I dress in a simple sundress and head to the terrace, where I find Michael already awake, reading something on a tablet.

"Morning," I say, helping myself to coffee. "Please tell me that's not work email."

He looks up with a smile. "Good morning. And no, it's not work. I'm researching snorkeling spots for today. There's supposed to be a cove on the north side of the island that has sea turtles."

"Sea turtles?" I can't hide my excitement. "I'd love to see more of those."

"I thought you might." He sets down the tablet. "How did you sleep?"

"Well," I lie, not about to admit I spent half the night thinking about him. "You?"

"Better than I have in years," he says, and I wonder if he's being honest or just polite. "Island air, I guess."

"Or doctor-mandated relaxation," I suggest, taking a seat across from him. "Your body probably went into shock from the lack of stress."

He laughs. "Probably. Though I should check in with David today. He sounded pretty rough last night."

"Of course," I say. "Family comes first."

"Thank you for being so understanding about that call. Most people would have been annoyed at the interruption."

"I'm not most people," I remind him.

"No," he agrees softly. "You're definitely not."

The chef appears with breakfast, tropical fruit, fresh pastries, some kind of egg dish with local vegetables, and the tension breaks.

"So, sea turtles today?" I ask, helping myself to pineapple and mango.

"If you're interested," Michael says. "The villa can arrange for a boat to take us to the cove. It's apparently quite secluded. Not accessible by road."

"Sounds perfect," I say, trying not to think about being alone with Michael on a secluded beach.

After breakfast, I change into my swimsuit and meet Michael at the villa's private dock, where a small motorboat waits. The captain is a friendly local man who points out landmarks as we make our way along the coast, explaining the island's history and natural features.

The ride takes about thirty minutes, the boat skimming over crystal-clear water that shifts from turquoise to deep blue and back again.

Michael sits beside me, occasionally pointing out interesting sights—a seabird diving for fish, a particularly beautiful stretch of coastline, an impressive yacht anchored in a distant bay.

"That's new money," he says of the yacht, with the faintest hint of disdain. "Too flashy."

I laugh. "As opposed to old money like yours?"

He looks slightly embarrassed. "I didn't mean it that way. And technically, I'm new money too. First generation."

"But with old money taste?" I tease.

"I prefer to think of it as understated elegance," he says with mock haughtiness.

"Says the man who lives in a Manhattan penthouse."

"A very tastefully appointed penthouse," he corrects, eyes twinkling. "No gold toilets, I promise."

This playful, teasing Michael is yet another side I rarely see at the office. I store away this moment, adding it to my growing collection of "real Michael" memories.

The cove, when we reach it, is even more beautiful than promised. A crescent of white sand bordered by volcanic rocks and lush vegetation, completely isolated from the rest of the island. The water is so clear that I can see fish swimming from the boat.

"It's breathtaking," I say as our captain skillfully brings the boat close to shore.

"Worth the trip?" Michael asks.

"Absolutely."

The captain helps us unload our gear—snorkels, masks, fins, plus a picnic lunch the villa prepared for us—then explains he'll return in four hours.

"Enjoy paradise," he says with a wink that makes me blush, as if he's made certain assumptions about why we want to be alone on a secluded beach.

As the boat pulls away, I'm suddenly very aware that we are completely alone. No staff, no other tourists, just us and the natural beauty surrounding us.

"Shall we get right to snorkeling?" Michael asks, seemingly unaffected by our isolation. "The turtles are supposed to be most active in the morning."

"Lead the way," I tell him.

We prepare our gear and wade into the crystal-clear water.

It's even more beautiful than the reef near our villa.

Untouched coral formations teeming with colorful fish, sea fans waving gently in the current, and yes, sea turtles.

We spot one almost immediately, a large specimen gliding effortlessly through the water with ancient grace.

Time loses meaning as we explore the underwater world together.

Michael occasionally touches my arm to direct my attention to something particularly interesting, a cleverly camouflaged octopus, a school of silvery fish moving in perfect unison, another turtle surfacing for air before diving back to the reef.

Each touch, even through the water, sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. It's becoming harder to pretend these reactions don't exist, that we're just boss and employee enjoying a recreational activity together.

Eventually, we return to shore, exhilarated and slightly exhausted from the extended swim. Michael spreads out a blanket from our gear and unpacks the picnic lunch—gourmet sandwiches, fresh fruit, chilled wine in an insulated container.

"The villa staff thinks of everything," I say, accepting a glass of wine. "This is perfect."

"They should, considering what this place costs," Michael replies dryly. Then he looks immediately chagrined. "Sorry. That sounded obnoxiously wealthy, didn't it?"

I laugh. "A little. But it's fine. I'm well aware of the financial disparity between us."

He frowns slightly. "Does that bother you?"

"What? That you're a billionaire and I'm decidedly not?" I consider the question seriously. "Not really. Money is just money. It's what people do with it that matters."

"And what do I do with it?" he asks, seeming genuinely curious about my perception.

I take a bite of my sandwich to buy time, organizing my thoughts.

"You use it as a tool," I say finally. "To build things, to solve problems, to create security.

For yourself, your family, your employees.

You're not flashy about it. You don't seem to care about the status symbols or the lifestyle so much as what the money allows you to accomplish. "

He looks surprised by my assessment. "That's... remarkably accurate."

"I pay attention," I say simply.

"What would you do?" he asks. "If you had that kind of wealth?"

It's not a question I've ever considered.

"I'd make sure my parents were taken care of, of course.

Maybe endow some academic chairs in their names.

They'd love that." I think further. "I'd travel more.

Not luxury hotels necessarily, but really experiencing places, cultures.

And I'd probably set up some kind of foundation for education.

Scholarships for students who have potential but lack resources. "

Michael nods approvingly. "Thoughtful. Not hedonistic."

"Did you expect me to say shopping sprees and private jets?" I tease.

"No," he says seriously. "I know you better than that."

He does know me. Not just as his efficient assistant who anticipates his professional needs, but as a person with values, dreams, a life outside the office.

We finish our lunch and stretch out on the blanket, the warm sun and gentle sound of waves lulling us into silence. I close my eyes, content to simply exist in this perfect moment.

"I called David while you were getting ready this morning," Michael says after a while. "He's doing better. Apologized for the drunk dial."

I open my eyes and turn my head to look at him. "That's good. Did you talk about what comes next for him?"

"A bit. He's going to meet with a new surgical team next week.

Get more details about the procedure and recovery timeline.

" Michael sighs. "The hardest part for him is the uncertainty.

Athletes are used to clear metrics—how fast, how strong, how many yards.

Now he's in this gray area where success isn't clearly defined. "

"That must be difficult," I say. "Especially for someone used to being at the top of his field."

Michael nods. "I suggested he consider sports broadcasting. He has the name recognition, the expertise, and he's always been good on camera. But he needs to get the drinking under control first."

"Is that a family issue?" I ask, not wanting to pry but genuinely concerned.

"Our father had problems with alcohol," Michael admits. "It contributed to his death, indirectly. He stares up at the sky. "David was always the most like him. Charming, athletic, the life of the party. I worry sometimes that he inherited more than just those positive traits."

Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand over his on the blanket between us. "You're a good brother, Michael."

He looks at our hands, then at me. "I try to be. Not always successfully."