Misbooked for Love

Chapter 17

17

CLARA

The villa feels different today, like it’s holding its breath. There’s a stillness in the air, a heaviness that settles in my chest every time I catch Tom’s gaze. We’ve been dancing around this inevitable goodbye for days, pretending it’s not right around the corner, but now it’s here, staring us in the face. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone before the sun is up, and I’ll be left with nothing but memories of these strange, wonderful twelve days.

I try to push the thought away as I step out of the shower, the steam clinging to the bathroom mirror, blurring my reflection. I wrap myself in a towel and pause, staring at the foggy glass. My heart feels like it’s caught between two worlds—one where I’m with Tom, and another where he’s just another chapter in my story, one that ends tomorrow morning.

I pull on a sweater and some leggings, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut. When I walk into the living room, Tom is already there, sprawled out on the couch with his laptop open, probably checking emails or catching up on work. He looks up when he sees me, his eyes lighting up with that soft smile that’s become so familiar.

“Hey,” he says, closing his laptop and pushing it slightly off his lap. “I was thinking we could go into town. There’s this little bakery I read about that’s supposed to have the best croissants.”

I smile, even though it feels bittersweet. Tom has been packing every last minute with something special, unforgettable, as if we can fit a lifetime into a few short days. And part of me wants to keep doing that, to keep pretending like this doesn’t have an expiration date mere hours away.

“Or,” I say, lifting one shoulder casually, like I wasn’t up half the night going on about this in my head, “we can stay in and…just be us.”

Tom raises an eyebrow, his smile widening as he sets his laptop on the coffee table. There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by something warmer, something softer. “Just us,” he repeats, like he’s testing the idea on his tongue. He leans back against the couch, watching me closely, and I can see the wheels turning in his head, the way he’s weighing this unexpected shift in our plans.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, even though my heart is thumping wildly in my chest. “I don’t want to go anywhere. Not today. I just want…this. Us. Here.”

It’s the truth I’ve been dancing around since I woke up this morning, since I rolled over and found him there beside me, his hair tousled and his breathing even, and it hit me all over again that he’s leaving. I’m leaving, too. There’s no use pretending that another coffee shop or a stroll through town is going to make this any easier. I don’t want to waste the last hours we have left pretending like we’re just passing the time.

Tom sits up, his expression softening as he reaches out and tugs me down onto the couch beside him. His fingers brush against mine, tentative but reassuring, like he’s saying he gets it without needing to say anything at all. “Okay,” he says, his voice low and warm. “Just us.”

There’s something about Tom that feels so easy, so natural, and I don’t know how to reconcile that with the fact that this is ending.

“I got you something,” Tom says, grabbing a gift box from the side table. It’s wrapped in Valentine’s Day paper, different heart-shaped drawings covering the red background and glitter adorning some of them. It’s obnoxious and unnecessary, and I feel like I’m about to cry. I look up at him and he’s staring at me, his eyes searching my face for my reaction. “It’s nothing, just?—”

“Thank you,” I whisper, trying to contain my tears. I slowly unwrap the box and open it carefully, unpacking whatever is inside with the utmost care, as if moving in slow motion would delay the inevitable. “You didn’t have to.”

He clears his throat and gives me a small smile. “It’s nothing,” he says casually, almost uncomfortably.

I gasp when I see he bought the mug I had eyed at the small market days ago, that day we ran into each other and he was on that call with his daughter. “Oh my god,” I say, and I’m rendered speechless. The simple act of him buying me something feels strangely intimate, like he’s trying to leave a piece of himself with me. “I went back to look for it the next day and they had sold it.”

Tom chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I knew you liked it, so I called the store and he found one hidden somewhere. I hope?—”

“I—I don’t know what to say,” I stutter. I look up and see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he’s looking at me as if I’m his entire world. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice shaking.

Tom gently places the mug on the side table and cups my face in his warm hands. His thumbs brush lightly against my cheekbones, and I lean into the touch, closing my eyes as memories of our time together flood my mind.

He leans in, his lips brushing against mine tentatively, as if asking for permission. I close my eyes, savoring the feel of him, committing every sensation, every detail to memory. The way his stubble feels against my skin, the scent of his cologne, the way his hands cup my face as if I’m the most precious item he owns.

The fire is still crackling in the hearth, casting a soft glow over the room, and Tom pulls me closer to him, holding me like he’s also trying to memorize the feel of me.

“I don’t want this to end,” he whispers against my hair, his voice cracking, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him sound unsure, vulnerable.

I pull back just enough to look at him, my hands cupping his face. “I know.”

We move together, finding our way to the bedroom, and it’s slow, almost reverent, like we’re both trying to make every second count. Tom’s hands are gentle as they slide under my sweater, his touch sending shivers down my spine, and I lose myself in him, in the feel of his skin against mine, in the way he kisses me like he’s never going to get another chance.

We undress each other in a slow, deliberate dance, shedding layers until there’s nothing left between us but skin and heat and the undeniable pull that’s been there since the start. Tom guides me onto his lap, his hands steadying me.

“I want to see you,” he says, and I sink onto him, the feeling of him filling me up so completely that I forget how to breathe.

He moves beneath me, his hands gripping my hips, and it’s not just about the physical—it’s about everything we’ve been trying not to say, everything we’ve been trying to avoid. It’s raw and unfiltered, the kind of intimacy that leaves you exposed, and I cling to him, my fingers digging into his shoulders as we lose ourselves in each other.

“Clara,” he groans, his voice rough, and I kiss him, swallowing the sound because I don’t want him to finish that thought, whatever it is. I don’t want to hear the goodbye that’s hanging on his lips.

We stay like that for what feels like hours, tangled up in each other, and when it’s over, we collapse onto the bed, our bodies spent and my heart too full. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and I try to ignore the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

“What happens now?” I whisper, my voice barely audible, and Tom’s arms tighten around me, his chin resting on the top of my head.

“We figure it out, if you want to,” he says, and I can hear the determination in his voice, even though neither of us has any idea what that means. “We keep in touch, we…try.”

I nod, but it feels like a promise I’m not sure we can keep. Still, I want to believe him. I want to believe that maybe this doesn’t have to be the end.