After the Storm Read online

  After the Storm

  Seven Winds Series: Three

  Katy Ames

  Jenkins Hill Press

  Contents

  After the Storm

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Exclusive Excerpt: After the Island

  Keep Reading

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Exclusive Excerpt: After The Fall

  Keep Reading

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Thank You

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  After the Storm

  Copyright Katy Ames, Jenkins Hill Press, 2018

  ISBN: 9780999105535

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarities to real persons or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Editing by Aquila Editing

  Proof Editing by Laura Hull,

  the Red Pen Princess (Indies Ink)

  Cover Design by Michelle Lana

  Sign-up for Katy’s newsletter to receive insider updates, exclusive news, and free bonus content.

  For

  all who are scarred but strong,

  who are lost but will be found.

  Prologue

  Twenty years ago

  You’re gonna be fine. Think about something else. Anything else. You need a distraction, something to keep your mind off it….

  “Son. You okay?”

  Tristan barely turned to glance at the man in the aisle, but even that was too much. Pain radiated across his back and ricocheted down his spine. He closed his eyes, digging his fingers into his knees. Nausea swept through him and he had to force air through his nose until he could haul back the urge to vomit.

  Nope, wasn’t going to happen. After everything, there was no fucking way he was going to hurl on the bus.

  Someone jostled the seat next to him. On his next inhale, Tristan registered smoke and mint and mothballs. His stomach protested and Tristan felt sweat slick his shirt to his skin. Shit, that wasn’t helping.

  “Son?”

  Something tapped his knee. Tristan pried his lids open and, vision still hazy, spotted a gnarled finger hovering over his leg. “Yeah?” he groaned. Fuck, even talking hurt. When the hell were those painkillers going to kick in?

  “You sure you’re doin’ okay? You look greener than a baby bird that just fell outta the nest. And I don’t want vomit all over my shoes. Three hours is a helluva long time to smell like sick, and you know you can never get the stink out.”

  “I’m, uh, fine. Yeah.” Tristan shifted, wincing when the rough fabric of the seat caught the bandage sticking up from the back of his shirt. He sucked in a sharp breath. The old man narrowed his eyes.

  “You’re lyin’, son. You’re nowhere close to fine. Don’t let this”—he swept his hand across his weathered face and well-worn shirt and mis-buttoned sweater—“fool you. I got eyes in my head, same as anybody else. And I’ve seen a lot in my time. I know what a broken man looks like. And you are falling apart right in front me. Literally.” The stranger pointed at the dressing on his neck. It was stiff and Tristan guessed the once-white bandage was stained dark red.

  The old man’s eyes swept across him and Tristan vaguely wondered if he should be nervous. His head wobbled and he shook the thought away. No. This guy couldn’t hurt him. Not when the damage had already been done.

  “Son, how old are you?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Just answer an old man. You don’t want me dyin’ of curiosity, do you?”

  “Sixteen,” Tristan muttered, his tongue starting to feel swollen and heavy.

  “You had me fooled. You got the height of a man, kid. But you’re still a boy.”

  “Hmmm,” was his only answer. A pleasant sort of numbness was creeping across his skin. Finally. Tristan tracked it, his unfocused eyes scanning the almost-empty bus as his brain catalogued the loss of feeling in his back, his shoulders, his neck. Then his arms, and fingers. His legs, too. Thank god, they finally stopped shaking. Then his feet slowed, his toes giving up the uneven rhythm they’d been tapping out on the sticky metal floor.

  When the man poked him again, Tristan saw his leg sway but didn’t feel a thing.

  “Someone gave you the good stuff, huh? You’re gonna be dead to the world before we’re outta the city.”

  Fuck, yes. That’s what I want. To close my eyes and forget it ever happened. To forget that she sent me away, and that it hurts to breathe, and that I can’t go home….

  “Well,” the old man said, settling in. “You sleep. I’ll be here. Riding this baby all the way to the end. I’ll keep my eye on you, kid. Don’t you worry.”

  Tristan curled into the seat, his head sliding towards the old man’s shoulder as he pulled his knees into his chest. He didn’t fit and he’d hurt like hell when he woke up, but what did it matter? Everything was different now. He needed to learn to live with the pain, to find a way to cope. To survive.

  This was the first step. She’d told him where to go, what to do. How to hide. She’d insisted he stay away until it was safe. He had a bag of clothes, cash for food, instructions from the doctor, a bottle of pills and a stack of clean bandages.

  Tristan drifted towards sleep and was grateful to the stranger sitting next to him. The old man’s sweater was scratchy against his cheek and Tristan would probably smell of smoke by the end of the trip, but the other man’s warmth was a comfort. His company a solace. And there, on that bus, almost entirely alone, in the middle of the night, that’s what he needed. So desperately.

  He was a child. And unprepared, regardless of the supplies hastily packed in his bag. There was no way Tristan could’ve known it would be years before he’d feel those things again.

  Years before he’d feel anything at all.

  1

  “You’re leaving so soon?” Tessa watched Grace hand her bag to Mark. The owner of the Seven Winds Resort gave his general manager a besotted smile before putting it in the trunk of the waiting car.

  “I wish I wasn’t.” Grace cocked her head in Mark’s direction. “But he’s insistent. And so ridiculously stubborn. At this point it’s just easier to go along with him than waste any more time arguing.”

  “I’ll remember you said that,” Mark muttered, coming up behind Grace and banding a strong arm around her waist. Grace rolled her eyes and Mark pulled her tighter against his chest. He gave Tessa a smile over Grace’s shoulder. “We know the timing is all wrong, Tessa, but it can’t be helped. After what happened…” Mark trailed off and Tessa saw his fingers reflexively tighten against Grace’s hip, his knuckles whitening to match the bandage on his hand.

  Her friend
stroked Mark’s arm, relaxing him with the simple gesture.

  “What he’s trying to explain,” Grace continued, “is that after Marcus attacked us in the villa, Mark insists on taking me with him wherever he goes. Unnecessarily, I might add.”

  “It is absolutely necessary,” Mark overruled. “As much as we’d both love to be here while you get settled into your new position, Tessa, I have to go up to D.C. to meet with Jack, and I’m not leaving Grace behind. Not now that it’s likely my uncle considers her as much of a target as he does me.”

  “He’s being melodramatic,” Grace interjected, her irritation in no way dimming the warmth in her eyes.

  “I think you’ll find, Ms. Fitzgerald,” Mark retorted, “I’m just keeping my promise.”

  “Oh?” Grace looked skeptical until Mark whispered something in her ear. Tessa bit back a grin as a blush spread across the other woman’s face.

  Grace blinked once, twice, before the color receded and she smiled at Tessa. “You know it pains me to agree with him, especially on this, but Mark’s right. This is something we have to do together. Which means I’ll be missing your first few weeks as executive pastry chef. I’m so sorry.”

  Tessa swallowed her disappointment before returning Grace’s smile. “I understand, really. Please don’t stress about it. I know you’d stay if you could. Besides, I was able to get my bearings when I was here three weeks ago for the tasting.”

  “You mean our almost food fight?” Mark joked. Grace jabbed him with an elbow. Tessa laughed.

  “I was going to pretend that part didn’t happen.”

  “Me too,” Grace agreed.

  “But why?” Mark chuckled into Grace’s ear. “We have such fun with Tessa’s desserts.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Grace’s entire upper torso was beet red as she pulled away from Mark. Grace drew Tessa to the side of the driveway. “Sorry about that. He can be very—”

  “Charming?” Tessa supplied.

  “Huh? No, I was going to say irritating.”

  “I don’t believe that for one second,” Tessa said with a laugh.

  “Fine.” Grace crossed her arms in exaggerated protest as her lips quirked. The GM considered her friend before continuing. “This isn’t how I wanted your first weeks here to go, but as I said, it can’t be avoided. At least the restaurant is still closed for renovation, so you won’t be dealing with dinner service while you’re getting settled. Chef doesn’t come in until later in the day, so you’ll have the kitchen all to yourself in the mornings.”

  Tessa nodded, excitement building as she thought of the glorious kitchen she’d be working in day after day. Of the sleek steel and smooth counters and limitless possibilities that filled her new sanctuary. “I’ve already been. Last night.” And that morning, but Grace didn’t need to know how eager she was.

  “Didn’t you get in on the late flight?”

  Tessa shrugged. “I wanted to make sure it was as beautiful as I remembered.”

  “And?”

  Tessa grinned. “It’s even better, actually.”

  Grace’s smile was just as bright. “I’m so glad. Hopefully that helps you forgive me for abandoning you.”

  “Hmmm, we’ll see…” Tessa teased before catching the crease forming between Grace’s eyes. “Stop worrying, Grace. I’ve run the gauntlet of temperamental chefs and gluten-averse customers from the Upper West Side all the way down to TriBeCa. A kitchen all to myself every morning for weeks, without a guest in sight, at a luxury resort on a tropical island? I’ll survive. Promise.”

  “Okay, okay.” Grace sighed, her brows still tight. “But if anything comes up and Chef isn’t able to point you in the right direction, ask Peter, our head concierge. He’s been here way longer than any of us and he knows this place inside and out. He’ll be happy to help.”

  “Peter. Gotcha.” Tessa nodded. From the corner of her eye she could see Mark studying them, his fingers strumming the roof of the car. “I think your boss is getting antsy.”

  “For the love of God, don’t call him that,” Grace choked out.

  “Isn’t he?” Tessa laughed as Grace glared.

  “Only in the technical sense. Besides, he’s dictatorial enough. He doesn’t need any encouragement.”

  Tessa watched Mark watch Grace, his eyes tracking every step she took towards the car, his fingers restless until she was within reach. As his hand slid to Grace’s lower back, Tessa thought “dictatorial” wasn’t the right description at all.

  “Oh, and of course, Tristan.” Grace was halfway into the car, one foot still touching the driveway, preventing Mark from closing the door. “Tristan Hurst, Mark’s cousin. He was supposed to be here so I could introduce you, but he hasn’t returned to the island yet. He got delayed handling some business back home. But he should be here soon.”

  Tessa shook her head, confused.

  “Tristan,” Mark explained, “will be overseeing things while we’re away. He’s still relatively new to the hotel world, but he’s run his fair share of companies and has undergone Grace’s crash course in hotel management. I have no doubt he’ll be getting calls from our fearless leader morning, noon, and night. But I also don’t have any concerns about leaving you in his capable hands.”

  “Leaving me?”

  “He means the hotel,” Grace amended. “Tristan will come find you when he’s back, make sure you’re settling in okay.”

  “I look forward to meeting him,” Tessa answered, her mind already focused on her kitchen, itching to get started.

  “And don’t worry,” Grace said, lowering the window as Mark shut the car door. “You’ll get used to him.”

  Get used to him? Tessa was about to ask what she meant, but Mark was tugging her towards him in the back seat and the driver was pulling away.

  Tessa’s question went unspoken, the tips of Grace’s fingers visible as her friend waved and the car disappeared down the drive.

  * * *

  Tessa held her hand an inch above the pan, keeping it there a second longer than necessary. Her palm crackled before she pulled it away.

  It wouldn’t work if the pan wasn’t hot enough.

  She moved quickly, pouring a thin layer of batter and watching the edges turn crisp before carefully flipping it with the wooden spatula.

  Minutes passed, her attention fixed on the butter, the heat, the turn. Batter in, crêpe out. It was repetitive, calming. Her hands took over, the movement practiced, while her mind jumped ahead, envisioning the finished cake. She could see the layers stacked one on top of another. Crêpe, then cream, then crêpe—over and over until she’d constructed a delicate tower entirely out of flour and eggs, sugar and cocoa.

  Tessa was so focused she didn’t realize someone else was in the kitchen. Not until she heard the fridge open and glimpsed legs sticking out below the stainless steel door.

  “Hi.” With a crêpe finishing in the pan, she didn’t have time to step away. But she was new, on the island less than twenty-four hours, and didn’t want her colleagues thinking she was in the habit of ignoring people.

  The legs on the other side of the door didn’t move, their owner oblivious. Or deaf.

  “Umm, hello?”

  Still nothing. Tessa heard the contents of the fridge shift around.

  Flipping the final crêpe out of the pan, Tessa flicked off the burner just as the door shut.

  Tessa stepped back in surprise. She’d expected Chef, or another member of the kitchen staff. She’d met most of them on her first visit. This man wasn’t one of them.

  Tall, his head coming close to the top of the industrial-sized fridge, he looked around the room while rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. His jet-black hair shielded most of his face, but Tessa could see the furrow forming between his eyes. Despite standing only feet from each other, the unexpected visitor didn’t look her way.

  Tessa covered her stack of crêpes with a kitchen towel then waved. “Hey. Looking for something?”

  He turn
ed towards her, hand still on his neck. His eyes hit her face.

  They were wary, almost hesitant. But oh, so blue. Not deep and dark, but bright and icy. And watchful.

  “Yes.” His voice came out scratchy. Unused.

  “Okay….” She scanned the kitchen, checking to see if there was anything out of place. Or something that could possibly belong to him.

  Tessa was about to ask what he was looking for when his eyes landed on something behind her. He came forward and, without thought, she stepped out of his way. “Did you find what—” Tessa turned and stopped. And watched in horror as he stuck one long finger into the bowl of whipped cream.

  Her cream. For her cake.

  “Excuse me!” She yanked the bowl away and hugged it to her chest. And told herself not to stare when he casually pushed that finger into his mouth and sucked it clean, his eyes narrowing as he watched her hands flex.

  “Give it back.”

  Tessa turned, shielding it from him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Those black brows dropped, the line between them deepening. “Eating.”

  “Not this, you’re not.” Tessa swallowed back a crazy laugh. This guy was nuts. Coming into her kitchen, taking her food. Sucking on his finger while looking at her like that.