Page 40 of Heat Island
I rummage through my toiletry bag, pulling out concealer, powder, and lip gloss. My hands shake as I dab at the dark circles under my eyes. Lucas’s rich laugh filters through the door, followed by what sounds like Cash’s moremeasured tones. They’re discussing whether to grab a late lunch.
I spritz some water and plop way too much curl creme on my hair, wincing when the curls in the front hang weird. Should I shower? No time. I spritz dry shampoo at my roots and fluff frantically, trying to create some semblance of volume.
“Trinity? You in there?” Matheo’s voice calls from just outside the bathroom.
“Just a minute!” I squeak, voice embarrassingly high.
I swipe on lip gloss, blot my face with powder, and pinch my cheeks for color. It’s not great, but it’s better than looking like I’ve been working in a sauna for five hours straight.
“I brought back a glass of rosé from the pool bar. Thought you might want to relax before dinner,” Lucas announces through the door. His voice lowers, but is still clearly audible. “She must like rosé, right? All girls like pink wine. Maybe I should run back to the lobby and get a glass of white. What do you think, Cash?”
Cash’s amusement is obvious without me even seeing his face. “I think it’s fine, baby.”
How thoughtful. My fake pack is thoughtful. I feel a strange flutter in my chest that I immediately try to suppress.
I stare at my reflection one last time. This is as good as it’s going to get. If I stay in here any longer, they’re going to think I’m having some sort of intestinal problem.
Though something tells me that an assumed bathroom emergency is not the most embarrassing thing I need to worry about happening this week.
THIRTEEN
MATHEO
I knockon the bathroom door again, balancing the glass of rosé Lucas insisted on bringing back from the pool bar. “Trinity? Everything okay in there?”
“I’ll be right out!” Her voice sounds strained, higher than normal.
I’d chased the others back into the living room because I thought it would be weird for all of us to be crowding around the bathroom door. Lucas had wanted to be the one, but a quick game of rock, paper, scissors settled that debate.
I might have cheated a bit by suggesting that game, to be honest. But it’s not my fault that the guy always throws paper.
The bathroom door swings open, and there she stands. Her dark hair forms a wild nimbus around her face, the humidity bringing out natural curls I hadn’t noticed before. There’s something raw and unguarded about her now—a stark contrast to the polished professional I’d met previously.
I thought I’d prepared myself for seeing Trinity again. At the gallery and then at my mother’s agency, I’d beenstruck by her beauty, but I convinced myself that the third time would be different. That I’d built her too high in my mind and the real woman could never live up to the memory. That her scent wouldn’t affect me as strongly.
I was wrong.
“Hi,” she says, smoothing down her sundress. There’s a smudge of concealer not quite blended at her jawline, and the simple imperfection makes me bite back a smile.
“May I? You just have something there.” I ask, raising my hand high enough that she gets my meaning before I touch her. At her wide-eyed nod, I gently swipe at the bit of concealer with my thumb before showing her the streak of dark honey color. “Got it.”
I swear I see the hint of a dark blush on her cheeks if just because I’m hoping it’s there.
She clears her throat. “That’s embarrassing.”
“Not really. I’m the jerk who was rushing you by banging on the door. Makeup is nice, but you don’t need it to be beautiful.” I hand her the rosé, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a jolt through that is impossible to ignore. “Lucas thought you might need it.”
“Thank you.” She takes a sip, leaving a faint gloss mark on the rim. I track the movement of her throat as she swallows.
She’s exhausted. I can see it in the slight shadows beneath her eyes that makeup can’t quite hide, in the tension she carries in her shoulders. Yet there’s something compelling about seeing her this way—not the perfect event planner, but a woman holding herself together through sheer determination.
“You’ve been working all day?” I ask, as if it isn’t obvious.
“Since we landed.” She gestures vaguely toward theliving room. “The welcome dinner got moved up. Tonight instead of tomorrow.”
I notice a small freckle near her collarbone that wasn’t visible beneath the high neckline she wore at the agency. Her sundress reveals the gentle slope of her shoulders, skin golden in the room’s warm light.
“We’ll be ready,” I assure her. “Whatever you need us to do. Move chairs. Escort old ladies to their seats. Whatever.”
