Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Milo
The villa feels unnaturally quiet tonight. Every tiny sound is magnified in the silence: the soft hush of waves brushing the sand below, the faint metallic creak of the ceiling fan spinning overhead, and the occasional scrape of a palm frond against the window.
I’ve been staring at the same pale rectangle of moonlight on the sheets for hours. My eyes sting, yet I can’t look away. My mind keeps circling back to Sienna.
With a frustrated sigh, I roll onto my back and drag both hands down my face.
I’m thirty-three, for fuck’s sake. I built a company from nothing. I survived boardroom bloodbaths and merger negotiations that broke grown men. And one woman who can’t sit still for five consecutive minutes has me lying awake at 2 a.m. like a goddamn teenager.
Kicking the tangled sheets off me, I stand and pull on the loose gray sweatpants draped over the chair.
I need to move. Need air. Need to stop thinking about her for five goddamn seconds.
Padding barefoot through the darkness, I notice the deck doors are slid halfway open. My feet move before my brain catches up, and I’m already walking down the staircase and onto the beach before I can stop myself. The sand is still warm from the day’s sun.
As I approach the loungers, I realize the closest one isn’t empty.
Sienna is sitting there with her knees drawn up, her oversized white shirt slipping off one shoulder.
She wears bright pink sleep shorts that have ridden up her thighs, and a paperback lies open across her stomach, its pages fluttering in the breeze.
I stand there for a long moment, watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing and the way moonlight glides over the bare curve of her legs. She’s gazing up at the stars, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other dangling off the edge of the lounger so her fingertips brush the sand.
Every instinct tells me to turn around and go back inside.
Instead, I walk toward her.
She doesn’t startle when I approach. Her head tilts lazily, and she offers me a slow, sleepy half-smile that tightens in my chest.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asks, tilting her head back toward the stars.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Too much scotch. And someone’s knee kept brushing mine under the table for three straight hours.”
She laughs softly, and the sound sinks straight into my ribs. “My knee has commitment issues. It wanders.”
“Tell it to wander somewhere else next time.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she shifts on the lounger, and the collar of her shirt slips lower, revealing the soft swell of her cleavage. My gaze drops for half a second. Of course, she catches it. “Hey. Eyes up here, Mr. Wet-Pants-Wonder.”
“They were up there,” I lie. “Then they got distracted by… astronomy.”
She snorts. “Astronomy? Is that what we’re calling my tits now?”
I nearly choke. “Jesus, Sienna.”
“What?” she props herself up on one elbow. The book slides off her stomach and lands in the sand with a soft thump. “They’re magnificent. They deserve a name. Call them ‘the Sienna constellation’ or something.”
I drag a hand down my face, trying to smother the grin that keeps pulling at my mouth. “You’re going to kill me before the wedding.”
“Only if you keep looking at me like you want to lick the stars from my skin.”
I hold her gaze, pulse kicking hard. “I’m not looking at you like that.”
“Liar.”
The word slips out softly, almost a caress, and settles between us like a challenge. I don’t deny it. I can’t. Instead, I push off the sand and lower myself onto the lounger beside hers, so close our arms nearly brush. The heat of her skin radiates against mine, pulling at every inch of me.
She doesn’t move away. If anything, she shifts a fraction closer. Her fingers graze the cushion’s edge near my thigh, and the slight movement sends a low current through my body.
We fall silent. The ocean breathes in the background, slow and rhythmic. I’m also acutely aware of the warm hush of her breathing beside me.
“You ever think about what you’d do if you only had a year left?” she asks, her voice low and her gaze on the stars above.
I turn my head toward her. “Where’d that come from?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I was reading, and it made me think. So… what would you do?”
“Honestly?” I say quietly. “I’d push my company even harder than I already do.
Take it from where it is now and turn it into something that redefines the industry.
After that… I don’t know. Maybe step back just enough to watch it run without me micromanaging everything.
Then travel. My parents always dreamed of visiting Iceland, so maybe I’ll start there. ”
This vacation is the first time since I started Reyes Tech that I’ve taken off more than two weeks at a time.
The thought feels heavier out here under the open sky.
I was planning to only come for three days—the day before the wedding, the wedding itself, then fly home the next morning. That was it.
But after months of Ethan emphasizing the importance of taking time off so I don’t burn out and explaining that the company would suffer more if I never learned to step away and take time for myself, I finally agreed to these two weeks…
even if I’m still sneaking in quick emails and checking dashboards every morning. Old habits die hard, I guess.
Sienna sits up suddenly and turns to face me. “Shit,” she breathes. “I completely forgot. You own Reyes Tech, right?”
I nod, eyes still on the sky. “Yeah. You know about it?”
I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. Of course, she knows. Ethan’s her future brother-in-law, and I’m his best friend. Reyes Tech has probably come up in their conversations more than once.
“Know about it?” she says with a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Everyone in New York knows about Reyes Tech, especially after that merger announcement last month. I work one block away—at Preston Elite. The building with the ridiculous fountain out front.”
I turn my head to face her. “You live in New York? I thought you were in Miami—at least, that’s what I remember Aria mentioning once?”
She pulls her knees up and rests her chin on them. “I was. I’m allergic to putting down roots, or at least I used to be. But New York… It’s different. It’s loud and exhausting, and somehow it feels like the first place that ever matched my pace.”
I watch her for a moment, considering her words. The breeze moves softly between us.
“I can see that,” I say at last. “New York has a way of attracting people who think fast. It doesn’t apologize for the pressure. It just expects you to keep up.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “And you? Does it match your pace too?”
I nod once. “It does. I’ve built my entire life around that rhythm. The city rarely feels too fast for me—if anything, it’s the only place that doesn’t feel slow.”
It’s silent for a beat, then she leans in close, her expression softening as the moonlight catches her eyes, turning them silver.
“If I only had a year left, I’d open a tiny bookstore on a beach somewhere,” she smiles, looking out at the horizon. “Sell coffee during the day and serve fun cocktails in the evening. I’d travel whenever I feel like it and never own anything I couldn’t fit in one suitcase.”
I smile despite myself. “That tracks.”
“I want to go to Iceland too, to see the Northern lights,” she says with a soft smile. “And climb a mountain just to scream at the top of my lungs because I can. And maybe… find one place that feels like home enough to return to.”
I watch her side profile in the moonlight—the soft curve of her cheek, the faint shimmer on her lashes, the way her lips part with a quiet breath.
“Do you think you’ll ever stop moving long enough to find that place?” I ask, my voice lower than I meant.
She doesn’t answer right away. Her chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm that pulls at something in mine. I see her throat work as she swallows.
“I don’t know,” she whispers, so softly that the wind almost carries it away. “Sometimes I think that if I stop, I’ll just… vanish. Like, staying still would make me fade, and motion is the only thing keeping me solid, you know?”
The raw honesty lands like a weight in my chest. In three days, I’ve seen her wild energy, but hearing the fear beneath it feels like being handed something delicate and fragile.
“Maybe the right person doesn’t ask you to stop,” I murmur. “Maybe they just… come with you.”
She turns then, and our eyes meet. For a heartbeat, her eyes are wide open, unguarded, reflecting every star above us. My pulse stumbles.
“You really believe that?” she breathes. “That there’s a right person?”
“I believe the right person could make love feel extraordinary,” I say, my voice roughening. “Not just a fleeting spark. Something real. Something that lasts. The kind that turns all the chaos into home rather than another reason to run.”
The silence that follows is heavy. My heart hammers so loudly I’m sure she can hear it.
She stays quiet so long that I start doubting every word I just said.
Then her gaze drifts to my hand resting between us.
Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, she reaches over and traces a single fingertip along the inside of my wrist.
The touch is barely there, yet it jolts through me like lightning. A shiver rolls down my spine. A small, genuine smile touches her lips, dimples flashing. Then her fingers slide higher, weaving through mine. Our palms press together, and she gives a gentle, certain squeeze.
I stare at our joined hands as my thumb begins to glide across her knuckles. Hers mirrors the motion, tracing slow circles in return.
“You know, I used to think love was just dopamine,” she says softly, still watching our joined hands. “Some clever trick the brain plays to keep the species going. But I don’t know… maybe you’re right. Maybe with the right person, it really could be extraordinary.”
I squeeze her hand in return. “Maybe.”
She lifts her eyes to mine, searching. “You’re dangerous when you’re honest, Milo Reyes.”
The sound of my full name on her lips sends a warm flip through my stomach.
“So are you, Sienna Harlow.”
That dimpled smile blooms across her face. She leans in until her warm breath brushes my cheek and jaw, every nerve in my body lighting up.
“We still have rules…” she reminds me, her voice low and husky.
Rules that already feel like they’re dissolving.
“I know,” I say, though the words come out strained.
“But maybe…” she hesitates, her gaze dropping to my mouth before flicking back to my eyes. “Maybe we could bend them. Just a little.”
My heart pounds against my ribs. “How little?”
She pulls back slowly, letting our fingers slip apart. The absence of her touch hits me like a quiet ache. She rolls onto her back, arms stretched wide, gazing up at the stars. My hand lingers where it was, still warm from her touch.
“Maybe enough to see what happens,” she whispers. She swings her legs off the lounger and stands. Moonlight traces the line of her silhouette, making it nearly impossible to look away. “I’m going to bed. Good night, Milo.”
“Goodnight, Sienna.” My voice comes out rough, wrecked.
She walks up the stairs, then pauses at the threshold, one hand resting on the sheer curtains that dance in the breeze. She glances back—eyes soft, uncertain, carrying the same quiet storm I feel inside—before slipping inside and vanishing into the shadows.
I stay there, skin still buzzing, pulse roaring in my ears, staring at the empty space where she disappeared, and release a heavy breath as I try to remember how to breathe again.