The last person at the table is a man I haven't seen before, late forties, lean and weathered, who introduces himself as Pepe and says he manages the grounds with Miguel and has been on this island for eleven years, which he says the way people say things they are proud of without wanting to appear proud of them.
"Jennifer," Elara says, pulling out the chair beside her. "She's our new chef."
"We know," Bea says, with the particular tone of someone who has already formed an opinion. "The Italian couple asked about the lamb. That hasn't happened since the season before last."
I sit down.
"What are we playing?" I ask.
"Rummy," Miguel says, already dealing. "Elara cheats at poker."
"I don't cheat," Elara says. "I play intuitively."
"She cheats," Dario confirms, in the solemn tone of someone who has lost money to this.
I pick up my cards.
For the next two hours I don’t think about Santos or Matteo or Tomas or Vegas or any of it. I think about my hand and whether Bea is bluffing and whether Pepe's tell is the thing he does with his left shoulder when he has a good card, which it is, and I drink the cold beer that appears at my elbow courtesy of Elara who has clearly decided we are already friends, and I laugh at something Dario says about the supply boat captain that is apparently an ongoing island joke with considerable history behind it.
Bea wins two of the four rounds, which she accepts with the composure of someone who expected this outcome.
I come second in the last round, which earns me a nod from Miguel that I understand to be high praise.
"Same time next week?" Elara says, when the cards are put away and people are finding their feet.
“For sure,” I say.
I walk back to my room through the warm dark with my strawberry scent soft in the night air and something loosened in my chest that I did not realize was held.
Not everything about this island is complicated.
If anything, talking and thinking about other things made a nice welcome change.
17
MATTEO
The news arrives at eight in the morning via a two-line email from Nakamura-san's assistant, and it is good news.
The delegation is delayed by one day, maybe two. Scheduling conflict, Tokyo side, sincere apologies, all relevant parties remain committed to the meeting and look forward to our hospitality. Please confirm receipt.
I confirm receipt.
I set my phone face-down on the desk, then pick it up again and read the email a second time, making sure I read it correctly. I'm distracted, spending my nights like a freaking stalker outside her room. The first night, she drew the curtains. I know she knew I was there, then again what did I expect, her to say, "Come in! Got another five thousand you can leave on the nightstand to make me feel worse?"
Shoot, I went there to apologize. Why didn't I do it, either time? Because I never apologize. I never admit I'm wrong. Which is why I'm acting like a fool in love, or is it a fool in lust. Or just a damn fool.
Santos appears in the doorway of the main study at eight seventeen with coffee.
"Nakamura pushed back a day," I say.
"I know. I got the email." He crosses to the chair across from my desk and drops into it with the contained energy of someone running on too much adrenaline and not enough sleep. His scent is off. Saffron under pressure, the particular spike of it that means he is thinking about something his alpha has decided is a priority regardless of what his brain wants.
He has been getting that spike every time he passes the kitchen path.
I have noticed this, but been quiet, because I'm dealing with my own shit at the moment.
Tomas comes in a minute later with the folder he was reading when I found him in the corridor at seven this morning. He sits on the sofa. He looks at the folder, but doesn't open it.