Chapter 24
Lucy
If my phone worked right now, I would use it to send a million pictures of this place to Julian and Mary. I have a feeling Aunt Ruby wouldn’t actually be that impressed with it, but I’d probably still send them to her, too.
My cottage isn’t a big place, and it’s clearly designed for a single person to stay in—but it’s gorgeous. Somehow modern and classic at once, combining comfort with sleek, light wood.
When you walk through the front door, which is tucked away in foliage and bright, luscious island flowers, the first thing you see is the far wall, made entirely of glass and offering a view of cascading nature, short fat palm trees, tall sprouts with vibrant red fruit, and scrubby bushes, giving way to a smear of sapphire blue.
The ocean, right here in front of me.
Maybe for some people like Nico, who grew up near the shore, the sight of it isn’t miraculous.
But for me, living in landlocked Missouri, looking out at the ocean feels like a major event.
I always feel it in my heart—the kind of joyous weightlessness you feel at a concert, or running track, breaking ahead of the pack and crossing the finish line first.
“Wow,” I actually whisper out loud, dropping my bag and crossing through the living room as the door shuts behind me.
I pass tasteful, plush couches, a low birch coffee table carved with rounded edges, and a tall fireplace on the far wall, with shiny glass pebbles glimmering at its base. Beautiful water-themed art hangs on the walls.
Touching my hand to the window as I stare out at the view, I’m reminded, once again, of how different this life looks from the one I was living just a few months ago. Lost in my grief, I spent most of my time in bed or at work, going through the motions.
Now I’m staring at the ocean, wearing designer clothes, standing beside a painting of this island that was probably commissioned, and most likely cost more than my parents’ entire home.
And I know that Frankie would be proud of the changes I’ve gone through. Spending all my time grieving her didn’t make me miss her any less. If anything, I feel closer to her now than I did while fixating on her absence.
Pulling back from the windows, I turn and take in the rest of the space.
Essentially, my little cottage is just a square, the living room across from the front door, the kitchen beside it. The countertops are a cool, creamy marble, with shining appliances and a large, curved brass faucet that glints in the light.
Beyond general beach smells—the ocean and the plants outside—the cottage smells faintly of paint. I know a cleaning crew came in before we arrived—I’d hired them after all—but I didn’t realize painters were hired as well.
In the back corner is the bedroom and en suite.
I slide the pocket door to the side and find the bedroom has a similar breathtaking view of the ocean, albeit a little more crowded by the plants lining the building's exterior.
Vines climb up one side, sprouting little purple flowers that dance in the breeze.
The bed is situated in the middle of the windows, and even though the cottage is small, it's a king with plush white and sky-blue bedding and enough pillows that I could make a second bed on the floor with them alone.
In here, it smells like sea salt and bergamot, fresh and light, and I can’t help it—I giggle before jumping onto the bed and rolling around like a kid.
My family didn’t really go on vacations when I was growing up. This feels like a first time.
I’ve had a lot of firsts since starting this job.
On instinct, while lying in the huge, fluffy bed, I pull my phone out to check it. The last thing I managed to send was a text to Aunt Ruby, letting her know we were about to land. It went through, but if she’s responded, I can’t get it.
We’re cut off from the world.
On one hand, it feels liberating to know I can’t Google something I’m curious about. To think of a text and not be able to send it.
But on the other hand, I’m hyper-aware of the fact that this is exactly the set-up for a deserted island thriller. Strangely, I can’t muster up the appropriate amount of unease. I trust the guys more than I should, given how short a time I've known them.
The flight was a little uncomfortable at first. I’d hoped to distract myself with work, but the in-flight wi-fi was disabled. Instead, I’d pulled out my e-reader and made progress on a juicy new romance. That is, until I got to a spicy scene and realized I was blushing, my entire body heating up.
“What are you reading?” Nico asked, leaning in over his armrest so the scent of his cologne floated around me.
I’d jerked, nearly throwing the e-reader, and coughed out, without thinking, “Dane’s book.”
Nico laughed, quick and surprised, as I picked up the reader and stuffed it back in my bag. “Is that so?” he asked, as I felt the weight of Dane’s stare on me. “Which one?”
There was no point in trying to stay composed at this point. “It was in the suggestions for the new assistant, to read all your stuff.”
“Is that so?” Nico mused, a knowing glint in his eye. I hadn’t really answered his question.
After that, I’d stuck to looking out the window, awestruck at the sight of the ocean sprawling out around us.
I’d find myself staring at the areas where deep, baby blue shifted to cerulean, then to cobalt, and back.
My fingers itched to tug out my sketchbook, draft a painting that could focus in on the hues and shifting, reflecting light, but the last thing I wanted was for Nico to start poking fun at that, too.
So I avoided the urge as we landed, unloaded, and made our way down the winding, solar-light-studded paths toward the cottages. Cole, Nico, and Dane walked toward the large one on the left, and I headed for the smaller one just to the right.
With all the landscaping, by the time I got to the front door of my cottage, I could only see a sliver of theirs. Dane told me, curtly, that they wouldn’t need me again until tomorrow, at breakfast.
I’m not cooking or anything, but I am responsible for making sure they don’t skip meals. Apparently, when they really get into their meetings, they can forget about staying hydrated and fueled.
Each of them takes a turn preparing dinners. Lunches and breakfasts are all prepped and ready—fresh fruit and granola, sandwiches and salads in little compostable containers. I know because my fridge is stocked with this same food.
Now, I force myself off the comfortable bed. I should take advantage of my free time while I have it, take a crack at that ocean painting. So I stretch and walk back out to the living room. I’m rifling around, trying to find my sketch book, when there’s a knock on the door.
My heart jumps.
My first thought is that it's Dane.
Pulse accelerating, I move to the door, not bothering to look through the peephole before I open it.
“I—”
But it’s not Dane. It’s Cole, his hair mussed, his headphones dropped down around his neck, resting on his shoulders.
He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a simple, snug t-shirt.
It shows off the impressive—and almost surprising—curves of the muscles beneath.
He has what Julian would call a “sleeper build.”
Behind him, the sun hangs low in the sky, threatening to set within the next hour. It casts the island in a brilliant, golden light and brings out the metallic glints in his dark brown curls.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Cole admits immediately. I stare at him, slack-jawed, as he goes on, an intent look in his eye. “This never happens to me, Lucy.”
People in my hometown might call me a slut. Julian might call me a hero. For once, I’m not thinking about what people are going to call me.
I’m just reaching out, fisting my hand in Cole’s shirt, and dragging him over the threshold and into my cottage, toward me, where I can press my mouth to his.