Page 91 of Sinners Retreat

His shoulder lifts in a nonchalant shrug, and he reaches for the door again. “I don’t know, man. She was out of it, and I was just muttering to myself about how fucking dumb this entire debacle has turned out to be. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“No, I won’t excuse you.” I step closer, putting myself directly into his personal space—which my brother can’t fucking stand. “You hurt Kindra, Bennett.”

Bennett slowly turns to face me, a look of exaggerated indignation on his face. “Me? I hurt her?”

His hand shoots forward and wraps around my arm. In the time it takes to blink, he’s dragged me inside and straight toward the large mirror taking up a wide stretch of the wall between the double staircases. His grip shifts from my arm to my chin as he faces me toward my reflection.

“If you want to know who’s hurting that girl, you only need to look straight ahead. If you want to hate someone, hate yourself.” Looking in the mirror, he straightens his tie. “Now, if you’ll leave me the fuck alone, I’d like to have some dinner.”

I hate that he’s right, but he is. I’m hurting her.

I turn back for the door. The only place I can think of going is Kindra’s villa. She’s just had one blow for the evening, since her friend chose to escape in the dark of night, and I want to be there for her one last time. I want to comfort her and hold her until morning comes.

And then I have to break her heart all over again.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ezra

By the time I reach Kindra’s villa, she’s already changed into sweatpants and a large t-shirt. Through the window, I watch as she swipes her eyes and paces circles around the couch with her phone held toward the ceiling. She is the picture of a panicked woman.

Without knocking, I ease open the door. She stops pacing and sucks in a breath when she sees me, then bolts for my arms. I hold them wide, encircling her within them when she reaches me.

“This is such a fucking mess,” she cries against my chest. “This is why I don’t make friends. I suck at it.”

I brush my hand over her hair, comforting her in a way I’ve never comforted a woman before—in a way I have no right to comfort this one.

“If it weren’t for you, I’d want to leave right away,” she adds.

The sentence twists the knife in my gut, but it also sparks an idea. I could take her to the airstrip when the pilot returns and see her off the island. I could tell her I’ll contact her as soon asI’m back from the retreat. Then I could hop across the pond and make a life for myself in the UK.

I never have to tell her the truth and break her heart.

Or mine.

Instead of being a regret, I could be a fond memory. She might grow to hate me, but that’s okay. It sure as hell beats her feeling something much stronger than hate for me.

But then she leans back and looks into my eyes, and I know what it means to love a woman completely. It means being honest, even to my detriment.

“I don’t like to see you hurt,” I whisper as I brush a tear from her cheek. “What can I do to help you?”

She lets out a humorless laugh and rests her head against my chest again. “Unless you have a time machine that can take me back a few hours, I don’t think anythingcanbe done.”

A time machine would solve so many problems.

I lead her to the couch and guide her onto my lap as I sit. She nestles against me and lets out a contented sigh. Her hair smells like a Tahitian sunrise with a hint of sunscreen. I breathe it in and commit the scent to memory. These are our final hours, and I’ll need these memories to get me through.

“It’s hard to even stay in this villa,” she says. “I keep seeing things that remind me of her. Why does this feel like a fucking breakup?”

“In a way, losing a friend is like experiencing a breakup. But I don’t think she’s gone for good. Maybe she just needed a little space.”

“I still don’t know how I’ll sleep tonight, even if you’re with me. I can see her villa from my bed.”

“Why not stay at my villa tonight?” I suggest.

My reasoning is twofold. Yes, I want to help her, but I’ve also seen the vast repertoire of weaponry she brought along. I don’tfancy getting gored by a longsword when I tell her the truth, even though I deserve it.

“A sleepover would be nice,” she says. “It’ll take my mind off of everything, and I won’t have to see a constant reminder of my fuck up.”

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