Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
ZALEA | AMALFI COAST
My jaw is on the floor as we drive along the winding narrow cliffside road. It’s just as beautiful as the pictures, if not better, with rows of colourful homes littered along the cliffs, and blue water so bright it almost hurts to look at.
Gabriel slows the car and turns toward what looks to be a discreet entrance of some sort. There’s a sign that says we’re at the Il San Pietro di Positano, and before he’s even turned the engine off, attendants appear beside us, opening my door.
“Buon pomeriggio,”* one of them greets, already reaching for our two small bags as we climb out. Gabriel hands over the keys without hesitation, as if this is a regular routine, and the car is whisked away before I even register where it’s going.
I glance toward Gabriel. “So much for a spontaneous adventure,” I mumble. “You planned this, didn’t you?”
His smile is pure trouble. “You’re catching on.”
Inside, the air turns cool against my skin, and stone floors swallow the sound of our steps. I look around while Gabriel checks us in, sunlight spilling through open terraces that frame the Mediterranean sea.
“Zalea,” Gabriel calls out to me when I’ve wandered too far.
I join him at the desk where we’re both offered glasses of chilled limoncello while we wait for the staff to check on our room.
“Where are we?” I ask quietly, still taking everything in.
“This is Il San Pietro di Positano,” he says calmly. “One of the best resorts in all of Positano.”
I turn back to him, searching his face like this might be some elaborate exaggeration, but it isn’t.
“Oh,” I breathe. “So…casual.”
His mouth curves. “You deserve exceptional.”
Before I can respond, a staff member approaches, greeting us warmly and gesturing for us to follow. We’re guided through corridors and open-air passages before we descend by elevator, stepping out onto a terrace lined with greenery and stone.
The attendant stops outside a door set slightly apart from the others. “Your Premier Room,” he says, opening the door.
My breath catches in my lungs as I walk into the room. Light pours in from the large windows of the private terrace, spilling over the large linen bed. I pass the bathroom on my way to the terrace balcony, and brace my hands on the railings as the breeze lifts my dress.
“This is ours?” I ask, still not turning around, hypnotized by the stretching sea beneath us.
“For the weekend,” Gabriel says behind me.
I glance back, my heart doing something reckless in my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me we were going somewhere like this? I thought we were going to just find a random Airbnb when we got here.”
He shrugs lightly. “Would you have still come if I had told you I’d planned it all?”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it and I shake my head, turning back toward the water. “This place is…” I pause, searching for a word that doesn’t feel so small. “...ridiculous. In the best possible way.”
He steps beside me, close enough that I’m aware of him. His sleeve brushes mine when he rests his hand on the railing. The contact is brief and probably accidental, but I notice anyway.
“You deserved something unforgettable,” he says.
I glance sideways. “You do realize this is going to raise my expectations for the rest of this getaway, right?”
His eyes shift to mine, amused. “I like a challenge.”
My pulse stutters and I look away before he can catch it. The breeze carries the scent of citrus blossoms from somewhere below us, and I inhale slowly, grounding myself in the moment, in the view, in anything other than how close he’s standing.
I’m still too sore from last night to go again, but try telling that to the slow, needy ache building between my thighs.
“So,” I say, “what’s first?”
His gaze lingers on my lips a fraction too long before returning to the view.
“Let’s get lunch.”
Gabriel leads me to a restaurant on the property that overlooks the water, and we’re seated near the edge of the cliffside. I glance around, then back at him.
“Did you make reservations at restaurants for this entire weekend, too?” I ask. “Because I’m pretty sure this is the best seat here.”
He watches me for a moment, studying my expression.
“Eat first,” he finally says. “Interrogate me later.”
I lean back in my chair, watching him over the rim of the menu. “Oh, I will.”
When the waiter arrives, we order and the quiet settles in again. My fingers trace the stem of my glass while I look out at the water, and when I sneak a glance at him, I find his eyes already trained on me, a subtle smile on his lips.
“You’re staring.”
He doesn’t look away. “I know.”
Heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it, but thankfully our starter arrives, saving me from responding. I reach for my fork, pretending composure, and take a bite, hyperaware of everything now.
He brushes his foot against mine under the table, and I meet his eyes again.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, taking a slow sip of wine.
Honestly, I’m thinking about how badly I want to go back to our room and spend the rest of the night worshiping each other's bodies. But there’s no way in hell I’m admitting that to him.
“Reid,” I reply, and he chokes on his sip.
I try my hardest to hide my smirk as he wipes at his mouth with a napkin, eyes burning into mine, but it slips out.
“Why exactly are you thinking about my assistant?”
“I just can’t stop trying to figure out why you have him looking into fertility clinics.” I pick up my glass, holding his gaze over the rim as I take a sip.
He sighs, placing his fork down and resting his forearms on the table edge. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
I shake my head. “Probably not.”
“Okay, how about we make a deal then,” he says, leaning forward with a sparkle in his eye.
“What kind of deal?” I ask suspiciously.
He shrugs. “A mutually beneficial one.”
I take another sip of my wine, narrowing my eyes at him. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“If I answer your question, then I want you to answer mine.” He sits back in his seat, waiting for my answer.
I pause. If I agree, there’s a high chance he’ll ask me the same question he asked me yesterday. The same one that ruined our date. But if he’s willing to answer my question, doesn’t he deserve to have his answered too?
“Fine.” I place my glass on the table and take another bite of food before sitting back against the chair, staring at him expectantly.
He sighs, clenching and unclenching his fist on the table. “I…” he pauses, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been researching all there is to know about PCOS.”
“What?” I ask quietly, thinking I must be hearing him wrong.
He clears his throat and looks out at the ocean with a frown. “I don’t like seeing you so upset about anything,” he says. “It makes me feel physically sick to know you feel so hopeless and that there’s nothing I can do to make it better.”
“Gabriel…”
“So,” he continues, meeting my gaze. “I started to research, and all the studies I went through say there’s still a chance for someone with PCOS to get pregnant one day.
I figured you probably won’t take my words as much consolation, so I asked Reid to find the best fertility clinic so that they can tell you themselves. ”
I swallow against the tightness in my throat at his admission, but there’s something I want to confirm. “But you don’t want children.”
It’s not a question. Gabriel made it clear many years ago he didn’t want any.
“That’s correct,” he replies slowly.
“So, you want me to know that I can probably have a child one day…” I pause, holding his gaze. “With someone else?”
His eyes darken, nostrils flaring, fists tightening, and lips flattening into a displeased line.
“Absolutely not,” he growls.
I frown in confusion. “Well then…what are you expecting? You hate kids, so you’re out of the equation, but me having one with someone else is also out of the question?” I scoff. “Did you think I could somehow impregnate myself?”
His brows furrow. “I don’t…hate kids.”
I’m caught so off guard that my brows shoot up to my hairline, lips parting. “Yes, you do. Anytime anyone has asked you if you want kids one day, you make a face and say no as quickly as you can,” I argue. “You even dissolved the youth team in Saltwater Springs.”
“I didn’t dissolve it, I just paused it. It’s back up and running right now with Griffin as coach,” he says.
What?
How come no one told me that?
How come he never told me that?
“And,” he continues. “I don’t say no to having kids because I hate them, I say no because I don’t think I’m cut out to be a dad.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my appetite ebbing away.
“I like my life the way it is.” He shrugs. “I get to go where I want, when I want, without having to worry about anyone.”
“You worry about me,” I point out.
He’s quiet for a moment, a line forming between his brows, as if I’ve just handed him some big revelation. “That’s different. Plus, you know my dad wasn’t the best guy out there. I don’t have an example to go off of. I’d be completely unprepared to handle a child.”
I force out a laugh and shake my head in disappointment as I look out at the water, trying to string together the words for what I want to say.
“Gabriel, you’d be an amazing dad,” I say softly. “You love taking care of people, not just me. Have you forgotten you’re the reason Griffin, Koa, and Colton have the futures that they have?”
He stays quiet, so I keep going.
“I think you’re just scared of becoming the kind of father that your dad was.” I can tell I’ve hit the nail on the head, his eyes widening slightly. “But you’re going to look back one day and regret that you let that fear stop you from having a family and proving yourself wrong.”
He doesn’t answer for a long while, and just when the silence starts to become unbearable, he speaks.
“Maybe you’re right.”
* “Buon pomeriggio” = Good afternoon.