My cheeks flushed. “Oh, it’s not finished.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eric said. “Two years of dedication? That’s amazing. I’d love to hear about it.”

Lana smirked and backed away. “You two talk. I’ll find more margaritas!”

I glared after her. But, inexplicably, Eric’s easy charm or the ocean breeze lured me in, and I found myself agreeing to a walk.

In my room, I changed into my most flattering sundress. Why not? If I’m going to be dragged into this, I might as well look good doing it.

When I stepped out, Eric was waiting. “Ready?”

“Lead the way,” I said, masking the flutter in my stomach.

Eric took me to hidden corners of the island—a secluded beach with a rope swing, a cliff with a breathtaking view.

“You’re good at this,” I said.

“At what?” he asked.

“Making someone forget they’re wildly out of place.”

He grinned. “Maybe you’re not as out of place as you think.”

We laughed, shared stories, and for the first time in years, I felt seen. But even as the evening ended on a high, an inexplicable unease lingered in the back of my mind.

The next morning began with optimism. Inspired, I reached for my laptop, ready to write. But when the screen lit up, my heart sank.

The folder holding my novel—two years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights—was gone.

“No, no, no,” I whispered, frantically searching. It was nowhere to be found.

Panicked, I ran to find Lana. Passing a partially open door, muffled voices stopped me in my tracks.

“We just need to pitch it to the right publisher,” Eric’s voice said.

My stomach dropped. Peeking in, I saw him and Lana.

“Her manuscript is brilliant,” Lana said. “We’ll position it as mine. She’ll never know.”

I backed away, rage and betrayal bubbling up. Eric—the man I’d begun to trust—was in on it.

I packed my things, left the island without looking back, and vowed never to let anyone get that close again.

Months later, I stood at a bookstore podium, holding a freshly published copy of my novel.

“This book represents years of work,” I said to the audience, “and a journey I never expected.”

After the event ended, I found a note waiting for me:

You owe me an autograph. Café around the corner.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Eric.

Curiosity and irritation battled within me. Against my better judgment, I went.

“You’re bold,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Bold or desperate?” he replied.

Eric explained how he’d realized Lana’s deception too late, how he’d stolen the flash drive and sent it to me.

“I chose you the moment I understood the truth,” he said.

His sincerity thawed some of my anger. “One date,” I said, raising a finger. “Don’t mess it up.”

That one date turned into more. What began with betrayal became something unexpected—a relationship built on trust, forgiveness, and love.