Page 47 of These Summer Storms

That wasn’t why, though. She liked it because the helicopter pad, the trio of cedar-shingled staff cottages, and the service buildings that housed the water pumps and generators that kept Storm Island running were the most private spots on the island—specifically built out of view from the main house, designed to give the appearance that the whole of the estate ran by magic.

Of course, it wasn’t magic. It was hard work, keeping the island running. The kind that was underappreciated.

Greta could relate.

Past the helicopter pad and down a set of slate steps, she approached one of the tiny, two-room cottages. Slipping inside, she kicked off her shoes and crossed the barely there space, appointed with a full-sized bed, a serviceable table for two, mini fridge, and hot plate, and exited to the back porch, tiny and perfect, with views of the water…and Tony.

He looked up from his book as she stepped out onto the cedar planks, worn gray from storms and salt, taking his reading glasses off to meet her eyes.

Everything loosened as she went to him; the spring that seemed ever-tightening while she was with her family disappeared with Tony, easy and comfortable andhers. She tucked in beside him on the wicker love seat, his heavy arm wrapping around her, pulling her close.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Reacher.”

She deliberately misunderstood. “Research, huh?”

He smiled into her hair, and she reveled in his warmth, in the smell of him—salty from his morning swim—in the sound of his voice, rumbling in his chest. “It’ll be useful when I have to strong-arm someone to keep you safe.”

The words were silly, meant to be a minuscule lifting of her spirits. His spirits, too, as they were both in mourning, weren’t they? And for what Tony believed was the same thing—the same man.

Tony didn’t know that Greta was mourning their entire future, instead.

She wasn’t going to tell him. Not yet. Not when she could stay here for a bit longer, keeping her secrets.

But she didn’t laugh at the joke. Instead she pressed closer, leaning in to the words and their fantasy of them, together, on the run. Him, big and strong, olive-skinned and square-jawed and Roman-nosed, all vigilante justice like in the books. And her, at his side. Nameless.

Of course, it was impossible. Greta Storm would always be a Storm. And that meant loyalty to family, first and foremost. No matter what Alice might think.

Alice thought she was making a mistake. She’d always thought that, though, hadn’t she? She’d never understood how difficult it was to be the oldest, to set the standard, to bear the weight of maternal expectation. Of paternal disapproval. To do better, think faster, and always, always put family first.

Alice couldn’t see it. The burden Greta bore. Sam had never been expected to take on an ounce of responsibility, and Emily was the baby of the family—full of charm and healthy boundaries, but Alice was something else entirely. Alice had always been bright resistance, flying in the face of expectation and refusing to budge.

Not even for her sister.

They’d never been close. For all the ways Greta belonged to Elisabeth, Alice had belonged to Franklin—and while she told herself that it hadn’t mattered that Franklin had clearly loved Alice best, even after she’d flitted off to start a new life, far from the rest of them, if Greta hadstayed in therapy, she would have found a word to describe her feelings about it.

Resentment,probably. Maybejealousy—for the ways Franklin loved Alice without her having todoanything. Not envy. Belonging to Franklin wasn’t easy. Greta should know—she loved someone who belonged to him.

Tony Balestreri didn’t belong to him anymore, though. And Franklin would break his toy before he’d let anyone else claim it.

Chest tight, she turned her face into his warmth and pushed the thought away as Tony asked, “Tough morning, hmm?” He waited for her nod. “You okay?”

When was the last time someone had asked her that? When was the last time she’d told the truth? “You should come up to the house,” she replied, because she knew he wouldn’t.

“I don’t think your mom would like that.”

“I don’t care,” she lied, softly, knowing he wouldn’t believe her.

“I talked to Jack this morning.”

Greta stiffened.Did he know what her father had asked her to do? Had Jack told him?“What did you—”

She cut herself off and he reached for her, his fingers tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Hey. Not about you.”

Of course they hadn’t talked about her. Tony’s loyalty was never in question; he’d seen more than anyone else in Franklin’s orbit and never breathed a word of it. And still, it felt dangerous that Jack had spoken to him. It was dangerous. A move she couldn’t counter. “What did you talk about?”

One big shoulder shrugged. “Company stuff. He wanted to know if I was heading back to the city anytime soon.” He was so casual. He didn’t see that it wasn’t a message for Tony, but a message for Greta. A question. Had she done as her father commanded?

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