2

CHAPTER TWO

CRACKS

All the years I've known Camille, she has adored her father, unlike most daughters. I heard him in almost every conversation, and among the list of the people she loved, he was number one.

But I had never met him until that moment he drove into the beach house.

Twenty-four hours in this house, and Alexander Moreau existed only in fragments, annoyingly so. A closed door at the end of a hallway, a car that appeared and disappeared, and Camille's casual mentions.

Dad's in Nice today.

Dad's flying back late.

Dad's already left for his run; you just missed him.

Just missed him. Like I was keeping track when I wasn't keeping track.

Except I absolutely was.

Lying in bed at midnight, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't stop my brain from wandering.

Did he always look that sinful, or was yesterday a special occasion? Are his eyes that blue, or was he wearing contact lenses? What's the size of his palm compared to mine? What would those lips taste like?

Stop it.

I grabbed my phone, scrolled to Julien's contact, and pressed call before I could think better of it.

He answered on the fourth ring. "Isabella? It's midnight."

"I know, I couldn't sleep."

There was a pause, and I could picture him frowning at his watch, calculating lost sleep hours.

"Everything okay?"

"Just wanted to hear your voice."

A longer pause. "I have an early presentation. Can we talk tomorrow?"

My chest tightened. "Sure. Go back to sleep."

"I'll call you tomorrow." A beat. "Love you."

"Love you too."

Forty-three seconds. That's how long my boyfriend of two years had for me. I stared at my phone until the screen went dark. Then I grabbed my robe and stormed to Camille's room.

She was awake, of course she was, scrolling through her phone in the dark, and took one look at my face before patting the bed.

"You okay?" She asked, popping a grape into her mouth from the bowl on her nightstand. "You look like a train ran right through you."

"Just tired."

"Bullshit." She sat up fully, pulling her knees to her chest. "This is me, Izzy. Talk."

I wanted to. God, part of me wanted to spill everything. The way I keep replaying his voice, the way my skin prickled every time I saw him, and the fact that I'd dreamed about him and woken up feeling guilty and hungry all at once.

But what was I supposed to say? Hey, I think I'm weirdly attracted to your forty-seven-year-old father? No big deal, right?

"I think Julien's mad at me," I said instead.

It wasn't even a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Camille snorted. "He's an asshole."

"You don't even know what happened."

"Don't need to." She popped another grape into her mouth. "With Julien, it's always the same thing. You reach out, and he pulls back. You need warmth; he gives you spreadsheets. The man has the emotional temperature of a houseplant."

I laughed despite myself. "You've called him that before."

"Because it's true." She tossed a grape at me. I caught it. "What did he do this time?"

"Nothing. That's the problem. I called because I couldn't sleep, and he made me feel like an inconvenience for existing."

"Mmm." She chewed thoughtfully. "You know what your problem is?"

"Enlighten me."

"You're too loyal. You've been with him since college, so you think you have to stay. But babe-" she grabbed my hand-"staying somewhere just because you've been there a long time? That's not love. That's a lease agreement."

What the hell is she saying?

"Also," she added, grinning now, "you need to meet the guys in this town. Julien won't stand a chance."

"Are you teaching me how to cheat?" I asked with raised eyebrows.

She ticked, raising her index finger and moving it sideways. "I'm teaching you how to be free. There's a difference."

My stomach flipped. "Camille-"

"I'm just saying. Ninety days of sun, champagne, and zero emotional constipation. It's going to recalibrate your standards." She squeezed my hand. "Just go to sleep, and tomorrow we can go men-hunting."

I went back to my room and lay there, closing my eyes and trying to sleep. Closing my eyes didn't work, so I opened them and stared at the ceiling.

At 2:47 AM, I gave up. I need a drink or something.

The hallway was dark and silent. Camille's door stayed shut as I walked past it, tiptoeing not to wake her light-sleeping head. I needed to move, to shake whatever this was crawling under my skin. Maybe I could do that with a cup of coffee.

The kitchen was dark when I pushed through the door. I felt for the light switch and found it. But when I turned it on, I froze.

The man that had taken over my thoughts like it was his birthright was standing at the counter, glass in hand and backlit by the moon through the window.

Alexander Moreau was in pajama pants, barefoot, and bare-chested. Silver at his temples catching the faint glow. And his eyes-God, his eyes-were exactly as blue as I first saw. It wasn't a lens, and it was even... Bluer.

Winter sky and midnight and something else, something that locked onto me the second I walked in.

The light was on now. We both knew I couldn't pretend I hadn't seen him. He didn't move, and neither did I. The silence stretched between us like we both knew something we weren't ready to say or admit.

Then his lips curved slightly into something that looked like a smile and a smirk mixed together.

And I knew I was already in trouble.

Eighty-eight more days, and I'd just walk into his kitchen at 3 AM looking like this.

His eyes dropped to my robe, paused, and lifted back to mine.

"Isabella," he said quietly, my name rolling off his tongue like a practiced music note.

I forgot how to breathe.