Page 169 of Reckless Obsession

“I know he works for them.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is when I’m being irrational.” I snap quietly.

That earns me the smallest twitch of a smile.

I don’t like the Wesleys. I do not like how easily Jake Wesley still seems to take up space around Tristan, no matter how often Tristan insists it is work and nothing more. I do not like that their family has access to him whenever they want, that they can summon him to dinner celebrations, project launches, and whatever rich-people ritual they have invented this week.

But I’m trying.

I really am.

Tonight, I am choosing not to think about Jake. I am choosing not to think about the fact that Tristan has been quiet all week, or that each unanswered message makes my heart ache a little more.

He said he would be busy.

That is all this is.

Busy.

Not distant. Not cold. Not him regretting us. Not him deciding that three months of secrecy, arguments, shared space, and pretending he does not love waking up beside me have finally become too much.

Busy.

I repeat the word in my head until it begins to sound stupid.

The truth is, I’m excited.

Embarrassingly excited.

I have never looked forward to anything the way I’m looking forward to Italy. I keep pretending it is because of the island—the villa, the beach, the pool, the food, the undeniable fact that I deserve to be spoiled after surviving this deeply exhausting summer.

But it is Tristan.

It is two weeks with him where I don’t have to count who is watching, where I don’t have to leave separately or wait an hour before going somewhere because being seen together is a risk neither of us can afford yet.

Lucas and Tyler are already tired of hearing about this trip. To be fair, I have not made it easy for them. Yesterday, I sent them pictures of different types of swimsuits and asked whether they thought I should buy seven or ten with mixed colors.

Tyler replied: I think you should just die.

Lucas replied: I was also confused about what to pack for Alex’s and I vacation… Just take as much as your bag lets you for sure!

God, those two can be so useless sometimes.

We are not even leaving together. My flight is tomorrow night. Tristan’s is Sunday morning. Separate arrivals, separate bookings, separate stories if anybody asks.

Then, somehow, we will end up on a private island off the coast of Sardinia. Tristan booked it last week. The island belongs to the Moretti family—old money, old name, apparently old enough to own part of the coastline without anyone questioning it. They rent the place to a very limited number of people each year, and even then, only to a very select group. Which, apparently, means people with obscene amounts of money and influence.

The villa we’ll be staying in is built into the cliffs, with a private beach tucked away from the open water, an infinity pool facing the Mediterranean, and a small dock with a boat available whenever we want it. There will be a few staff members, discreet enough to be ghosts, and no tourists. No crowds. No strangers with phones. No one who knows our names.

Just Tristan and me.

A whole island where I can be as clingy and annoying as I want without anyone asking why the Petrov heir is following his family’s lawyer around like a lovesick idiot.

The thought makes me smile before I can stop it.

“Maksim.”