Author's Preface
[Cont.]
[Annie]
The silk dress feels like a trap.
It drapes easily over my shoulders, muted blue and ridiculously soft against my skin.
Inside the climate-controlled resort, it's comfortable enough, but every time I glance in the full-length mirror, I have to fight down the urge to go back inside and change.
Sitting across from Kai while wearing an expensive dress he paid for—along with the lace underneath—feels like an absolute disaster waiting to happen.
My hands are tight on my bag strap as I force myself out of my Suite.
Every step down the carpeted hallway feels too loud.
When I step into the breakfast hall, Kai is already seated at a corner table, a laptop open and a cup of black coffee at his elbow.
He's in a light-grey sweater with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and a pair of thin silver glasses I've never seen him wear before.
The soft knit makes him look a little less rigid than usual, though there's a faint flush high on his cheekbones.
"Morning," I say, sliding into the chair opposite him.
Kai looks up, his eyes lingering on my dress for a second before meeting mine. "Morning. Did you sleep okay?"
"Yes. Good," I say, dropping my hands into my lap.
"Kai, about the clothes... and dinner last night. Thank you. Just let me know the total so I can transfer the money to you today."
He doesn't even look up from typing. "It's on the company tab."
"The clothes aren't on a company tab, Mr. Sterlings," I say, dropping my voice. "I'm paying you back."
He pauses, resting his chin on his knuckles, his expression unreadable behind those wire frames. "The shopkeeper packed it as a set. I didn't inspect the bag. Regardless, thankfully they fit. That's what matters. You don't owe me anything, Annie."
Before I can push it, he clears his throat, setting his coffee cup down without taking a sip. "John's waiting outside. We need to get back to the site before the weather turns again."
[ *** ]
The site is a mess of churned mud and cold wind when we arrive.
A heavy tow truck is already parked near the ditch, its winches groaning as the crew works to free the stuck SUV.
The cold cuts through my sleeves the second I step out of the car.
Kai doesn't say anything, but as he pulls a clipboard from the back seat, he reaches into the trunk and hands me his heavy work jacket.
We walk around the site to inspect the area where the mud slid yesterday.
The ground is slick, and as we reach the edge of the slope, my foot slips on a patch of wet clay.
But before I can lose my footing, Kai's hand catches my forearm, steadying me instantly.
Through the thick material of his sleeve, his grip feels surprisingly hot, almost burning against my skin.
"Watch the edge," he says, pulling his hand back as soon as I find my footing.
His voice is a little rougher than usual.
"Are you alright?" I ask, looking at him properly.
He seems slightly off-center, his movements measured, like he's forcing himself to stay focused.
"The soil here is still moving," he says, ignoring my question entirely and pointing his pen toward the exposed retaining wall.
"We need to log the erosion depth before the site supervisor gets here, or yesterday's report won't hold up."
I take the clipboard from him and start taking notes while he measures the clearance.
Working alongside him is straightforward—he's sharp, efficient, and direct.
But every so often, he steps back, rubbing the back of his neck or taking a slow, deep breath while my back is turned.
[ *** ]
By mid-afternoon, the paperwork is done, and John pulls the SUV onto the main road.
I figure we're heading straight back to the resort, but the car heads up the hill instead, pulling into the cobblestone driveway of a glass-walled courtyard restaurant overlooking the valley.
It's the kind of place with white tablecloths, a stone fireplace, and low piano music floating through the air.
John stays in the vehicle to park the car, while the hostess leads us to a quiet corner table.
I sit down, smoothing the dress over my knees.
The view, the fire, the dress—it all feels a little too much like a date.
I push the thought away.
It's not a date.
It's just lunch on a business trip.
Kai probably picked the first quiet spot on the route back.
He sits across from me, tossing his silver glasses onto the table.
He orders hot water with lemon, then pulls out his phone, checking and replying to emails between bites.
A cool breeze comes through the courtyard doors, and I pull my arms in slightly.
Kai doesn't look up from his screen, but his hand reaches over, grabs his heavy jacket off the spare chair, and pushes it across the white linen toward me.
"Put it on," he says softly.
"I'm fine," I say.
He looks at me then, his eyes tired, the flush in his face a little deeper. "Annie."
I don't argue further.
I take the jacket and drape it over my shoulders.
It completely buries my dress,heavy with the faint scent of rain and his cologne.
Kai goes right back to his phone, sipping his hot water, as if nothing about this is unusual.
I focus on my food, but the silence between us feels strange.
[ *** ]
We get back to the resort near four.
"Head up and pack," Kai says as we walk into the lobby. "Steven will pick you up at five to take you back to the city."
"Are you not coming?" I ask.
"I have things to clear up here first," he replies, heading toward the staff elevators before I can ask anything else.
I return to my own suite and pack my iPad and muddy clothes into my bag.
But the entire time, I'm annoyed with myself—for making a fuss over an outfit, for overthinking a simple lunch, for reading into things that clearly aren't there.
At five, I zip my bag and step out into the hallway, ready for checkout.
I find John standing right outside my door, holding a brown paper bag from a local pharmacy.
I slow down. "John? Where's Steven? And is Kai really not coming?"
John rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "Steven is downstairs loading the luggage, ma'am. Mr. Sterlings has a high fever. He's staying back at the resort for two days to rest under the doctor's orders. He specifically asked Steven to drop you off safely at your door first."
I stand there, looking at the top of the pharmacy bag—some fever medicine and a digital thermometer sticking out of the paper.
The pieces click together all at once.
The hot skin on my arm at the slope.
The hot water at lunch.
The way he'd been moving all day, slower and heavier than usual.
He probably came down with a fever after going out into the downpour yesterday to find help.
And while he was standing in the mud with a fever, running the inspection and looking out for me, I was sitting there worrying about a silk dress and picking apart every word he said.
A wave of frustration hits me.
Not just at myself, but at him.
Why didn't he say anything?
Why drag himself through a cold, muddy field all morning pretending he was fine?
Is he doing this because of what I said?
Because I asked him to keep things professional?
"Is he in his room?" I ask, my voice tight.
"Yes, he's resting, ma'am," John says gently. "He said you shouldn't worry."
I look down the long, carpeted corridor toward Room 208.
The quiet of the hotel feels suffocating.
I don't know whether I want to be angry with him or go check on him.