Chapter 11: Ghosts and Glances

Flashback: Three Years Ago

Rylan Voss stood in the hangar, the hum of jet engines a steady pulse against the chaos in his head. The air smelled of fuel and metal, sharp and familiar, and he wiped his hands on a rag, staring at the Cessna he'd just tuned. It was his—his plane, his company, a scrappy little charter outfit he'd built from nothing. Five years of sixteen-hour days, of begging loans and charming clients, and it was finally breaking even. He should've been proud, but the knot in his gut wouldn't loosen.

Jenna leaned against the workbench, her blonde hair catching the hangar lights, a clipboard in her hands. She was all sharp edges—tailored blazer, red lipstick, a smile that could cut glass. His fiancée, his partner, the one who'd kept the books while he kept the planes in the air. "Numbers look good," she said, tapping the clipboard. "We're in the black this quarter."

"About damn time," he said, tossing the rag aside. He crossed to her, sliding an arm around her waist, and she tilted her head, letting him kiss her cheek. She smelled of jasmine and ambition, and he ignored the flicker of unease—same as he'd ignored it for months.

"Celebrating tonight?" she asked, her voice light, but her eyes didn't meet his, fixed on the clipboard instead.

"Thought we could." He grinned, brushing her hair back. "Dinner, maybe that spot by the pier. Been too long since we took a night."

She nodded, a quick, distracted jerk. "Sure. I've got some calls to make first—investors. I'll meet you there."

"Jenna—" He tightened his grip, sensing the distance she'd been building, brick by brick. "Everything okay?"

"Perfect," she said, flashing that smile, and pulled away, heading for the office. "See you at eight."

He watched her go, the knot twisting harder. Perfect. It didn't feel perfect—not the late nights she'd been working, not the way she'd dodged his questions about the new pilot, Cole, a cocky kid with a smirk Rylan didn't trust. But he let it slide, told himself it was stress, that they'd sort it out over wine and a view.

Eight came and went. The pier restaurant was quiet, the ocean lapping at the pilings, and his phone stayed dark—no texts, no calls. By nine, he drove back to the hangar, the knot a fist now, and found it empty—lights off, planes silent. The office door was locked, but the window showed her desk: papers gone, laptop missing, a single Post-it stuck to the screen. Sorry, Ry. It's better this way.

He broke the lock with a wrench, hands shaking, and tore through the files. Bank statements, contracts—half were missing, the rest a mess of red ink. She'd drained the accounts, funneled cash to a shell company, and signed over two planes to Cole. His planes. His life. By morning, he'd confirmed it—she was gone, Cole with her, and the airline was a husk, creditors already circling. He stood in the wreckage, the rag still crumpled on the floor, and swore he'd never trust like that again.

Present Day

Rylan snapped back to the desert, the memory fading into the hum of the resort's generator. He stood in the lobby, a broom in his hands, sweeping sand into piles as the afternoon sun slanted through the windows. Three years since Jenna, and the sting still lingered, a ghost he couldn't bury—not with that photo Zara had found, not with the way she'd pried it out of him. He'd cleaned the office after their fight, shoved the frame into a box, but the past clung like dust, and Zara was stirring it up.

She was in the dining area now, her laugh cutting through the murmur of guests—a sound that hit him low, unexpected. He leaned the broom against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow, and watched her. She sat at a table with a guy—mid-thirties, tan, too polished in his pressed shirt and easy grin. One of the guests, probably, chatting her up over coffee and a plate of fruit. Zara leaned forward, her camera on the table, showing him something on the screen—her shots, maybe, those sharp, beautiful frames she'd pulled from the storm.

The guy laughed, loud and bright, and touched her arm—a quick, casual brush that made Rylan's grip tighten on the broom handle. She didn't pull away, just smirked and kept talking, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. He knew it wasn't serious—knew she wasn't flirting, not really—but the sight of it lit a possessive heat in his chest, raw and unbidden. She wasn't his, not by any claim he could make, but the cellar last night—her lips, her hands, that groan he'd pulled from her—had shifted something. He didn't want anyone else near her, not like that.

"Easy," he muttered to himself, forcing his eyes to the sand. She'd hate it if he stormed over, all caveman and glare—she'd already called him out for less. But the heat stayed, coiling tight, and he swept harder, the bristles scraping the floor.

She stood, slinging her camera over her shoulder, and the guy followed, still talking, his hand hovering near her back. Rylan's jaw clenched, and he turned away, heading for the bar to grab a water—anything to cool the burn. He downed half the bottle in one go, the cold a shock against the fire, and heard her boots behind him, steady and sure.

"Voss," she said, and he turned, schooling his face into calm. She stood there, alone now, the guy gone, her eyes sharp with that mix of challenge and warmth he couldn't read. "You look like you're about to break that broom."

"Sand's stubborn," he said, setting the bottle down. "Takes a lot to move it."

"Uh-huh." She smirked, leaning a hip against the bar, and the way her shorts hugged her legs didn't help the heat in his gut. "Saw you watching. What's up?"

"Nothing," he lied, too fast, and her smirk widened, catching it.

"Liar." She stepped closer, voice dropping. "You jealous?"

He froze, caught, and rubbed a hand over his jaw, stalling. "Maybe," he admitted, low and rough, and her eyes flickered, surprised but not displeased. "Didn't like him touching you."

She laughed, soft and sharp. "He's a guest, Rylan. Showing me his kid's pictures. Hardly a threat."

"Didn't look like kid pictures from here." He held her gaze, the possessiveness slipping out despite himself, and she tilted her head, studying him.

"You're ridiculous," she said, but there was heat in it, a spark that matched his own. "What's next—marking your territory?"

"Tempting," he murmured, stepping into her space, and her breath hitched, the air between them thickening. His hand brushed her hip, a ghost of a touch, and she didn't pull away, her lips parting slightly.

"Don't start something you won't finish," she warned, echoing the oasis, and he grinned, slow and dangerous.

"Learned my lesson last night," he said, his fingers lingering, pressing just enough to feel her warmth. "Next time, I won't stop."

Her eyes darkened, a flush creeping up her neck, and she leaned in, close enough that he could smell her—sand, coffee, something wild. "Promises, promises," she whispered, then stepped back, breaking the spell with a smirk. "Fix your generator, Voss. I've got shots to edit."

She turned, heading for the stairs, and he watched her go, the sway of her hips a taunt he felt in his bones. The heat didn't fade, pooling low, and he grabbed the broom again, sweeping with a force that sent sand flying. Jenna had taken everything once, but Zara—she was giving him something back, piece by jagged piece, and he didn't know how to hold it without burning.