Chapter 6: Wires and Heat

The storm showed no mercy. By late afternoon, it had dug in its claws, the wind a constant scream that battered the resort like a living thing. Zara had spent the morning in her suite, pacing between bouts of restless sketching, her notebook filling with half-formed ideas and Rylan's name scratched out more times than she'd admit. The almost-kiss from last night clung to her like the sand outside—gritty, inescapable, stirring a heat she couldn't shake. She'd avoided him since, staying upstairs, but the walls were closing in, and her stomach growled with a hunger that coffee couldn't fix.

She grabbed the flashlight, its beam a steady companion now, and headed downstairs, determined to scrounge something from the dining area. The lobby was a ghost town, the guests either hiding in their rooms or too shell-shocked to move. Sand crunched under her boots, a thin layer coating the floor despite the staff's efforts, and the air smelled of dust and stale coffee. She was halfway to the bar when a voice cut through the gloom—shrill, insistent, and unmistakably pissed.

"This is unacceptable! We paid for luxury, not a blackout in a sandbox!" A woman stood by the reception desk, her arms flailing, a silk scarf slipping from her shoulders. She was older, maybe fifty, with a face pinched tight by indignation. Rylan was in front of her, hands raised in a calming gesture, but his jaw was set, tension radiating off him like heat off the dunes.

"Mrs. Hargrove, I get it," he said, voice steady but strained. "We're doing everything we can. Power's out because of the storm—nothing we can fix till it passes."

"That's not good enough!" she snapped, jabbing a finger at him. "The heat's unbearable, my husband's asthma's acting up, and we haven't had a proper meal since yesterday!"

Zara slowed, hovering near the bar, caught between curiosity and the urge to bolt. Rylan's eyes flicked to her, a brief flash of recognition—or relief—before he turned back to the woman. "I'll check the backup system again," he said. "We've got portable fans and food coming. Just give us a minute."

"A minute?" Mrs. Hargrove's voice climbed an octave. "We've been waiting hours!"

He didn't flinch, but his shoulders tightened, and Zara felt a flicker of sympathy—or maybe just restlessness. She stepped forward, flashlight swinging. "Need a hand?" she asked, loud enough to cut through the tirade.

Mrs. Hargrove whirled on her, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

"Zara Kade," she said, unfazed. "Photographer. I'm stuck here too, so I might as well help."

Rylan shot her a look—half surprise, half gratitude—and nodded. "Control room's this way," he said, already moving toward a side hall. "Let's see if we can get the vents going."

Mrs. Hargrove huffed but didn't follow, muttering something about lawsuits as Zara fell into step beside Rylan. The hall was narrow, the storm's roar a dull pulse through the walls, and she kept her flashlight trained ahead, avoiding his gaze. "Didn't take you for the customer service type," she said, keeping it light.

"Comes with the gig," he replied, his tone dry. "Most days it's fine. Today's not most days."

"No kidding." She smirked, but it faded as they reached a door marked Control. He swiped a keycard, and it swung open into a cramped, windowless room stuffed with blinking panels, tangled wires, and a single chair shoved against a desk. The air was stale, thick with the hum of machinery, and a faint red glow pulsed from a screen in the corner.

"Cozy," she said, stepping inside. The space was barely big enough for one, let alone two, and she felt the walls press in as Rylan followed, shutting the door behind him. The storm's noise dulled to a low growl, leaving the hum of the room and the sound of their breathing.

"Functional," he corrected, squeezing past her to the desk. His arm brushed hers, a fleeting contact that sent a jolt through her, and she stepped back, bumping into a panel. A beep sounded, sharp and accusing, and he glanced over with a raised brow.

"Watch it," he said, but there was a tease in his voice. "Don't break anything we can't fix."

"Wouldn't dream of it." She crossed her arms, leaning against the wall to give him space—or herself some. He bent over the desk, flipping switches and tapping at the screen, his fingers moving with a precision that drew her eye despite her best efforts. His shirt stretched across his back, sand-dusted and clinging where sweat had darkened it, and she swallowed, forcing her focus to the room.

"What's the plan?" she asked, shining the flashlight on the panel to help.

"Backup generator's running the basics—lights, water pumps—but the vents are offline," he said, not looking up. "If I can reroute power, we might get air moving. Keep Hargrove from suing me into next year."

She snorted. "Good luck with that. She looks like she's got lawyers on speed dial."

"Probably does." He straightened, reaching for a bundle of wires above the desk, and his shirt rode up, flashing a strip of tanned skin at his waist. Zara's mouth went dry, and she flicked the flashlight away, pretending to study the ceiling.

"Hold this," he said, nodding to the wires. She stepped closer, too close, and took the bundle, her fingers brushing his. The jolt was back, sharper now, and she saw it hit him too—a quick hitch in his breath, a pause in his hands. Their eyes met, and the room shrank further, the air thick with more than just dust.

"Keep it steady," he said, voice lower, rougher, and she nodded, gripping the wires like a lifeline. He worked fast, stripping one and twisting it into a port, but his elbow grazed her side, and she shifted, her hip bumping his. The space was a trap—too small, too warm, every move a collision waiting to happen.

"Tight fit," she muttered, trying to lighten it, but it came out breathy, and his lips twitched.

"Could say that." He glanced at her, eyes dark, and the double meaning hung there, deliberate and heavy. Her pulse thudded, loud in her ears, and she tightened her grip on the wires, focusing on the task instead of the heat pooling low in her belly.

They worked in silence for a minute, the only sounds the hum of the panel and the faint rasp of their breathing. He reached across her to grab a tool, his chest brushing her shoulder, and she froze, the contact lingering a beat too long. "Sorry," he said, but he didn't sound it, and when she looked up, his face was inches from hers—close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes, the faint scar above his brow.

"Don't be," she said, the words slipping out, and his hand stilled, hovering near her arm. The air crackled, the storm outside a distant echo to the one building here. Her flashlight slipped, clattering to the floor, and the beam spun wild, throwing shadows across his face. Neither moved to pick it up.

"Zara," he said, her name a quiet growl, and it was last night all over again—his voice pulling her in, unraveling her. She tilted her head, lips parting, and he leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. Her hand slid from the wires to his arm, fingers curling into the muscle there, and he tensed, a low sound catching in his throat.

The panel beeped—loud, insistent—and they jerked apart, the spell snapping like a taut wire. He cursed, turning to the screen, and she stepped back, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Got it," he said, voice tight, as the hum shifted, a faint breeze kicking up from a vent overhead.

"Good," she managed, bending to grab the flashlight. Her hands shook, and she hid it by shining the beam on the desk, away from him. "Air's moving."

"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck, not looking at her. "Should keep Hargrove quiet for a while."

She nodded, the silence awkward now, heavy with what hadn't happened. "I'll… let you finish up," she said, stepping toward the door. "Need to eat something anyway."

"Zara—" He stopped her, his voice softer, and she turned, caught by the intensity in his eyes. "Thanks. For the help."

"Anytime," she said, echoing his words from last night, and slipped out before he could say more. The hall was a shock of cold, the storm's growl rushing back, and she leaned against the wall, catching her breath. Her skin burned where he'd touched her, her lips aching for what they'd almost claimed, and she cursed herself again—cursed him, this place, the way he made her want things she'd sworn off.

Back in the lobby, Mrs. Hargrove was gone, the air slightly cooler with the vents humming. Zara grabbed a granola bar from a tray, tearing into it as she climbed the stairs, the flashlight beam bouncing with every step. In her suite, she sank onto the bed, the storm's roar a steady pulse against the chaos inside her. Rylan was a problem—a big, messy, irresistible problem—and she didn't know how much longer she could keep dodging the heat between them.