The rain came down in a fine mist, soaking into the warm sand beneath your feet. It was just enough to make the air thick and clingy, your hair sticking to your damp skin. Most of the resort’s guests had fled inside—couples retreating to their luxury suites, friend groups booking last-minute spa treatments. You were the only one left out here, reclined in a folding beach chair, a piña colada in one hand and a cigarette burning between your fingers.

You watched the waves roll in under the darkening sky. A week at this so-called exclusive wellness retreat, and you still felt just as restless as when you arrived. Maybe you had expected too much. You were raised on five-star vacations and last-minute getaways to private islands—your family never believed in doing things small. But even with all the luxury, none of it had managed to quiet your mind.

Not when thoughts of Luke still lingered.

Three years married to a man who turned out to be nothing but a parasite. The cheating, you could’ve expected—he always had wandering eyes. But the gambling? The empty bank account? The way he had the audacity to try and take your money when his ran out? Too bad for him, your family had insisted on an ironclad prenup. You walked away exactly as you came in—comfortable. Untouched. He walked away with nothing.

A shift in the air pulled you from your thoughts. Footsteps in the wet sand, slow and unhurried. You turned your head slightly, expecting to see one of the resort staff checking on you. Instead, you found yourself looking at a man who seemed entirely out of place here.

He was tall. Ridiculously so, built like a soldier, with broad shoulders and an unmistakable air of someone who didn’t want to be bothered. He wasn’t dressed for the beach—black t-shirt, dark jeans, heavy boots sinking slightly into the wet sand. His hands were shoved in his pockets, but his sharp gaze flicked over you, pausing on the cigarette between your fingers.

“You got another one?”

His voice was deep, rough, distinctly British.