The group was mid-laughter—Harper reenacting Ashcroft’s dramatic drunken fall from the night before, complete with flailing arms and exaggerated sound effects—when the sound of footsteps cut through the morning buzz. Confident. Steady. A little too polished for island air.
Then came the voice.
Maya?
Clear. Familiar. Just loud enough to slice through the low hum of conversation, commanding attention like it belonged there.
Maya froze, a piece of fresh mango skewered on her fork.
That voice.
It tugged at something buried—something she hadn’t thought about in a long time.
She blinked, slowly turning toward the sound.
And there he was.
A tall man in a crisp resort polo and perfectly tailored linen pants, striding toward their table like he owned the view. Dark blonde hair swept back j
