I stand at the door, frozen. While my heart still races in my chest, my worry stays pinned on what to do about Paige—my bad day trudges on. Since 5:00 a.m., my phone has been vibrating with incoming calls and texts, all of which pertain to issues with the preppers. Each year, we hike up the price of the hotel rooms during their convention in an attempt to deter them once and for all, and each year, they still flock to the resort like flies on shit.

  I scroll through incoming texts.

  . . . unruly guest in the buffet, trying to load a canteen with lobster tails . . .

  . . . guy trying to siphon gas from the grounds crew’s truck . . .

  . . . trying to steal and hoard antibiotics from Dr. Missick . . .

  My morning continues like this, nose-diving from bad to worse as I respond to text messages and calls and try to tune out Todd’s incessant chatter about who else he wants to fire. I think I’m sitting at rock bottom, but then I realize I’m only on a shitty plateau. Rock bottom comes when a weather alert pings like a ringing alarm, hitting me right in the solar plexus.

  The storm Todd was referring to earlier, a run-of-the-mill tropical storm brewing in the Atlantic, has now been officially bumped up to a Category One hurricane.

  “Goddamn it!”

  The words explode out of me before I can help it.

  I never lose my temper, never raise my voice. I just . . . don’t.

  But everyone has their breaking point. And apparently, I’ve found mine.

  I quickly scroll through the details of the alert, trying to get the gist as I read it aloud to myself.

  “Meteorologists suspect it will strengthen . . . potentially turning into a Category Two or Three before it makes landfall in less than forty-eight hours.”

  That would be early Wednesday morning. Fortunately, it doesn’t look like we’re in the hurricane’s direct path. The Dominican Republic will bear the brunt of it, but we aren’t in the clear. The proposed path puts us on the east side of the hurricane; rainfall estimates are already worrisome. There’s only one course of action. I look up to see that Todd’s on his phone as well, though when I look down to see if he’s reading the weather alert like I was—no. He’s placing an Uber Eats order. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  “The tropical storm got bumped up to a hurricane . . .”

  He keeps his focus down on his screen, trying to decide between waffle fries or curly fries before caving and adding both to his order. “What?”

  I grit my teeth, surprised they can withstand the pressure.

  I’m going to kill him. I will.

  It’s only through a herculean effort that I manage to keep my tone nonthreatening as I continue. “They’re already expecting a lot of rainfall, and the hurricane will only strengthen. We should suspend check-ins and suggest that current resort guests search for earlier flights back to the mainland.”

  It’s actually a win-win. We keep the guests safe, and we get the preppers out of here.

  Todd laughs off my concern, and once he’s finished placing his order—which, for the record, is either a second breakfast (he ate the first in my office; the fast-food wrappers are still on my desk) or a very early lunch—he tucks his phone away and gives me a pitying look. “How long have you lived on the island, Cole?”

  “Five years,” I say with a tired voice. I know where this is heading . . .

  “Right. Well, I’ve lived here half my life. Practically an islander by birth,” he says with a little self-righteous chuckle.

  Visions of propelling him off a cliff keep me from losing it altogether as he continues. “Let me tell you something, Cole. This hotel has continued to operate through countless storms and even a few hurricanes while I’ve been in charge.” He says hurricanes like he’s a punk-ass teenager confronted by a perceived scaredy-cat, wiggling his fingers and adding a condescending tone. “I won’t close down operations because you’re worried about a little rainfall.”

  My jaw clenches so tight, I can barely force my next words out. “I’m not worried about a little rainfall, sir. I just think it’s worth—”

  His eyes darken with annoyance. He’s not used to having to deal with my insubordination, but that’s only because he’s so far removed from the actual day-to-day operations of this place, he doesn’t realize how often I totally ignore his orders and do what I want. Now here we are with an actual emergency on our hands, and he’s fumbling the ball. “We aren’t closing, and that’s final. Have you forgotten who’s in charge here?”

  As he asks this, he’s forced to retrieve a small handkerchief from his pocket so he can dab it across his sweaty forehead.

  I ignore his taunt and, in a tired tone, confirm: “So we’ll continue as normal? No evacuation orders? No gentle suggestion for guests to get back to the mainland?”

  He scoffs and shakes his head as he stands. When he walks out of my office, he taps on his phone—presumably so he can refresh Uber Eats ad infinitum, just for the pleasure of watching that little animated car drawing closer with his food. I wait until he’s down the hall, until I hear his office door close, and then I head straight for the maintenance and grounds crew office.

  They operate out of a building just behind the main hotel. The group of guys, many of whom are actually native to this island, are clustered around a TV propped up on a desk, watching the news about the weather with bleak expressions.

  “Not good,” their manager says with a foreboding shake of his head.

  They agree with me that it’d be prudent to take precautions. Behind Todd’s back, I put in orders to prepare the resort for the hurricane. We have everything we need on site, like sandbags to contend with rising waters and plywood to reinforce weak points on resort buildings. Most of the main hotel complex is equipped with storm shutters, but not auxiliary buildings like staff housing. Todd will lose his mind if I start hammering windows shut, though, so I tell them to be strategic about it, to keep the guests calm and do what they can behind the scenes.

  Next item on my ever-growing to-do list?

  Find Paige.

  Chapter Fourteen

  PAIGE

  I’m in a walk-in supply closet inside the main hotel. I don’t have to be here. I’m technically on break until 11:00 a.m., when I have to be down on the beach for surf lessons, but I’m taking one for the team and restocking the shelves in here, cleaning up the space, getting my anger out in the healthiest way possible.

  I’ve already been in here for over an hour, but it’s not enough. I can’t be in polite company right now. I’ll scream. If I looked in a mirror, my eyes would probably be two red flames. My blonde hair will have turned into furious little snakes. I’m Medusa without the magical stone-making abilities.

  So here I am, in a moderately dark, stuffy closet, organizing shelves and talking to myself while I do it. More specifically, I’m role-playing what I would say to Cole if he were the dumbass mop tilted haphazardly against the far corner. I even put a bucket on top of the handle and everything. If I squint, it kind of looks like him.

  “And you know what else?” I say, pointing to Mop-Cole with so much conviction I could be a lawyer giving my closing arguments in a crowded courtroom. “I regret that time I told Théo and Oscar that you aren’t ‘that bad’! Yeah, I should have just let them keep tearing you apart. They were going on and on about what an asshole you are, and I felt bad for you. Can you IMAGINE THAT?! I felt BAD for YOU! The literal devil!”

  “Everything okay in here, sweetie?”

  I scream at the top of my lungs and whirl around to find a member of housekeeping poking her head in the closet.

  I clap a hand against my chest. “Shit. You scared me.”

  She smiles. “Sorry about that. I just thought . . .” She lets her attention stray from me over to the mop, and her eyes narrow. I grow impatient.

  I don’t have time for this. I have a monologue I need to get through.

  “What do you need?” I sigh.

  She points to the bottom shelf behind me. “Toilet paper. Two dozen rolls.”

  I top off her cart in the hall and then watch her wheel away. The moment she turns the corner, I whip back around to face Mop-Cole with a lifetime’s worth of anger.

  “Another thing, you—you, you JERK!” It’s not good enough. The word doesn’t sting like I want it to, so I try again, with more conviction the second time. “You arrogant, no-good scum of the earth.” Now we’re getting somewhere. “I hate you. I really, truly hate you. I wouldn’t talk to you again if you were the last man on earth. The last man in the entire fucking universe!”

  “Tell me more.”

  Jesus! I shriek and turn around to find the man of the hour leaning in the doorway, as confident and smug as ever. It’s like, for him, the game is on. All is well. There’s no panic, no apology, no sign at all that he was just casually discussing my inevitable layoff with Todd.

  I can’t take it. Something in me snaps. Maybe my last shred of sanity. There it goes, drifting slowly to the ground, only to be crushed under the soles of my sandals.

  I don’t even think before I act. I look back down at the remaining row of toilet paper, and I start to load up. I’ve got a whole arsenal here, and an arm that’s begging to be let loose. Without warning, I fire roll after roll of three-ply at him, satisfied when one roll pings off his elbow as he tries to deflect it, then his hip, his hand, and finally the side of his head. Sweet, sweet victory.

  “Would you knock it off?” he asks, only mildly annoyed.

  How dare he manage to keep his composure at a time like this? I want us on an even playing field. I want a proper drag-out fight, an even match at the very least.

  I’m about to bend down for more rolls, but Cole’s too quick. He comes into the closet and wraps his arms around my forearms, pinning them down at my sides.

  My fury explodes. “Let me go. LET ME GO this instant or I’ll scream. I will.”

  “Stop thrashing around.”

  I try to stomp on his foot, but Cole’s one step ahead of me. He keeps a tight hold on me as he kicks back with one foot, using it to slam the closet door closed. We’re thrown into darkness.

  My attempts to get away from him ratchet up tenfold.

  “Paige,” he growls. “Stop.”

  “I swear to god.” I say it twice. “I swear to god.”

  I hear my voice breaking, the anger slowly being consumed by something heavier as he clutches me tight against his chest. Emotion squeezes my throat. Tears threaten the corners of my eyes, and I’m so sad. I’m so sad, and now so drained.

  Left with no other option, I give up, all at once. I go limp in Cole’s arms, and at first, he doesn’t believe it. He keeps his hold on me just as tight as ever, like he’s worried I’m trying to fake him out. He thinks I’ll ramp it up any second now and start round two. In reality, I’m defeated. A sad little fish dwindling on the end of his line.

  “You win.”

  I say it so quietly he doesn’t hear it the first time.

  “What?” he asks sadly.

  I say it again, enunciating the words slowly, wearily. “You. Win.”

  Suddenly, he lets go of me and steps back so he can pull the string for the overhead light, the one I couldn’t reach earlier. A shallow glow penetrates the space enough that, if I turn, he’ll see my tears. Cole’s done a lot of things to me—testing every boundary humanly possible—but he’s never made me cry before today.

  I hug myself and stay facing the supply shelves, wishing he would just leave already.

  “Is that what you think I want? To upset you like this? Paige.”

  “Oh sure, it’s what you want. Gloating rights. The ability to send me packing once and for all. I’m sure you and Todd had a good laugh about it at my expense after I left. I can’t even look at you. You’re just like him.”

  His shadow steps closer, and I brace myself, eyes closed, but he doesn’t touch me.

  “I’m not firing you, Paige. No one is firing you.”

  God, he sounds like he means it with every fiber of his being. I don’t hear any sarcasm, only conviction. But what does it matter? He could stare me right in the eyes and tell me whatever he wants. I won’t believe him; I know he’s a liar.

  “The thing with Todd—” he continues.

  The fact that he’s going to try to do this, talk me out of hearing what I heard, is enough to reignite my anger. “Please, for the love of god, just go away.”

  His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s something of dire importance, I suppose, because the second he silences it, it starts ringing again.

  “This day,” he growls under his breath. “This fucking day.”

  I heave a shuddery sigh and realize how close I am to crying harder. I’m balancing on a precipice, trying to keep my composure in front of him. Quiet tears slip down my cheeks, but so far, that’s all. I’d like to keep it that way.

  The door to the supply closet opens suddenly. Light from the hall pours in, but I don’t turn around.

  “Oh! I’m sorry—” It’s the housekeeper who needed the toilet paper for her cart. She’s back, apparently. “I just . . . I forgot to get some coffee refills a second ago, but I’ll—”

  The door slams closed again. I have no doubt Cole gave her a withering look that sent her running for the hills.

  “Paige,” he tries again.

  But I don’t look at him, and he goes silent. Maybe his lies are all used up. Maybe he realizes that I’m at my limit for today. Evil tendencies aside, even Cole must recognize that at a certain point enough is enough. I’m a dead horse.

  His phone rings again, and with a curse, he turns for the door, whips it open, and walks out.

  The only thing on anyone’s mind the rest of the afternoon and evening is the hurricane barreling our way—dubbed Hurricane Dominic by the people who get that privilege. Too bad they didn’t name it Cole. A missed opportunity, if you ask me.

  While the sky is still sunny and cloudless, the impending drop in atmospheric pressure has already started to make people loopy. I lead a sunset yoga class after more surf lessons, and the guests whisper among themselves the whole time.

  “Should we leave?”

  “The resort would let us know if it was really that bad, right?”

  “I’ve been looking forward to this trip for the last six months. It’s going to take a little more than hurricane winds to get me off this island.”

  It’s actually nice that everyone’s so preoccupied. No one pays any attention to my puffy face or bloodshot eyes. I’m nothing but background noise. The fact that my voice breaks every now and then as I lead the guests from one pose to another is completely overlooked.

  Even the staff members are in a tizzy. Worry over the storm has surpassed the rumors about the layoffs. Annabelle is old news. Every group I pass in the hall, in the break room, outside on the beach—they’re all speculating on how bad it’s going to get and what Todd’s going to do about it.

  I’ve skirted around these conversations easily enough. I’ve kept to myself, skipping lunch in favor of wallowing for thirty minutes alone in my dorm. I almost called in sick the remainder of the afternoon, but I didn’t want to give Cole the satisfaction. Instead, I peeled myself off my bed, avoided looking in any mirrors or shiny objects, and forced myself back out into the ugly world.

  As if everything isn’t bad enough, all day I’ve been bracing myself for what to say to Camila and Lara once I bump into them. I know they were counting on me to gather intel from Cole about the layoffs, but I can’t tell them the truth. I can’t. It’s too nasty and gnarly to bring back to the surface. My emotions are so raw, my feelings so hurt, I don’t even think I could get the full story out without crumbling into a sobbing mess.

  Fortunately, when they find me eating dinner alone outside the cafeteria, purposely away from the crowds, they assume I look so haggard and unkept because I’m upset about the weather.

  Camila hurries over and wraps her arms around me. “No! Have you been crying? Don’t be worried, Paige. We’re really protected here, and I don’t even think we’re in the direct path or anything.”

  Camila squeezes me tighter, and I almost shatter into heavy sobs.

  Lara shakes her head. “I’ve been checking the projections all day, and there’s a slight chance it could veer—”

  “Lara,” Camila cuts her off sharply. “Not now.”

  She nods in my direction, as if to say, Clearly she can’t handle the truth.

  I can’t. Baby me. Wrap me in a swaddle and rock me to sleep because this day has got to end.

  “You want my dessert from dinner? I got a strawberry mousse. Here.”

  They end up tugging out the chairs on either side of me at the table and keeping me company while I pick at the mousse. It’s easy to be with them because they’re a self-sustaining duo. I’m really only a seat filler, and while that might sound overly critical, it’s actually nice for someone like me, who enjoys the company without having to actively be in the spotlight. The two of them talk so fast, about so much, that oftentimes I feel like a spectator at a tennis match, my head on a constant swivel. Once they’ve exhausted all speculations about the storm, Camila brings up Blaze.

  “How is that all going, by the way?” Camila asks me. “You told us that you had fun, but has Blaze reached out again? Tried to get something going for date number two?”

  My date with Blaze feels like a million lifetimes ago. I’ve aged ten years since Friday. My faith in humanity, in men, has dwindled down to nothing.

  Still, I shake my head. “No word yet. I haven’t seen him since Friday, but I think everyone’s been busy . . .”

  “Yeah, this place has been insane the last few days.”

  It only now occurs to me that I should probably be anxiously awaiting contact from Blaze. A phone call or text would be nice, though difficult, considering he doesn’t have my phone number. But he could get it from someone if he asked around. It’s also not that hard to find people around here, between staff housing, the cafeteria, and the break room. To his credit, I’ve been out on excursions the last few days, and then I spent a good deal of today talking to a mop in a storage closet, so how was he going to find me?