She took in the pillows spread out on the couch and the blanket rolled into a ball and shoved into the corner. That’s where he’d been sitting when she . . . well, she didn’t want to dwell on her bad choices and picked the ottoman instead.

Sitting there, her mind turned to the other night. The smell of pine and the light buzzing sound from the old refrigerator. Memories slammed into her, one after another. When he’d walked in, her heart pounded and her insides shook. Common sense ran out of her and she moved on surging emotion. Stupid, irrational panic.

She looked at the bandage on his head now and regretted every minute and every decision she’d made from flipping the switch to cut the power to hitting him.

“But the more I think about it, I’m convinced the whispered warning wasn’t meant for me.” He came around to the front of the island and leaned against it. “I think you want someone else—not sure who—to leave the island and leave you alone.”

He was a lot cuter when he wasn’t trying to analyze her. “Are you always difficult?”

“You think I’m the problem here?” He folded his arms in front of him. “Interesting.”

He was and she hated that. She’d spent every minute of the last two years of her life trying to separate from other people. Not get involved or care. Not take a minute to stop and assess all she’d lost.

Something about him made her rethink everything from her need to be alone to the belief she could live without any sort of intimacy. Turned out that was a miscalculation. The more the days passed without touching or feeling anything, the more she yearned for both.

An hour after she learned his name, she researched him. Conducted her usual litany of online searches and collected information. Assembled a little file on him and everything. The next step usually involved categorizing him as a nonthreat, then forgetting him. But with him, she’d kept searching.

Finding photos of him proved easy. He was a big-time engineer turned businessman in Washington, D.C. Ran a family operation and won some sort of award last year for innovative thinking. Not bad for thirty-three.

But none of that explained why he popped up on an island where people went to start over or disappear completely. “Why are you on Whitaker?”

“I needed a break.”

That seemed legitimate, but it didn’t tell her much. “From what?”

“My life.”

She stared at him, looking for any sign that he was messing with her. She recognized other tells. The little things that reached through that firm outer shell of confidence. A hint of exhaustion around his eyes. The subtle slump of his shoulders. The way he watched her with a mix of wariness and interest.

He lifted his chin in her direction. “Why are you on Whitaker?”