Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Sienna
When I wake the following morning, my lips still feel the ghost of Milo’s kiss, but everything else feels strangely normal—just the soft sound of the ocean and the faint clink of dishes coming from the kitchenette.
The oversized shirt I threw on sometime during the night rides up my thighs as I walk out of my room. Milo is standing at the counter wearing nothing but gray sweatpants while be plates scrambled eggs.
I have to tell my brain not to stare because holy fucking shit, how can one man be that attractive?
The soft morning light is doing unfair things to the ridges of his abs and the sharp cut of his hips where the sweatpants sit dangerously low. My mouth goes dry. And for one terrifying second, I forget how to walk like a normal human.
He looks up when I enter, that almost-smile curving his mouth. “Morning,” he says, sliding the plate onto the table like he’s been expecting me. “Figured you’d be up soon.”
I slide into the chair, trying not to stare at his forearms as he pours a mug of coffee and sets it in front of me. He made me breakfast… again. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and it makes something in my chest tighten.
“Smells amazing,” I smile, picking up the fork. “You’re spoiling me. I might start expecting this every morning—even when we’re back in New York.”
He leans against the counter opposite me, sipping his coffee. “And I might start expecting you to say, ‘thank you’ every morning.”
I take a bite of the fluffy eggs. “Thank you. There, happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
My eyes roll, but I’m smiling. The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s… easy. Comfortable. Like the kiss shifted something without needing to be named. Like we both decided, without speaking, to let it breathe.
Milo sets his coffee down and slides a small notepad and pencil across the table toward me. “I booked the couple’s massage for eleven, by the way. It’s the only spot they had available today.”
I raise an eyebrow, fork paused mid-air, voice teasing. “You booked it? That’s very domestic of you.”
His eyes roll. “You were asleep. And I know how much you love being told what to do.”
I snort. “That almost sounded like flirting, Milo.”
The faintest blush blooms across his cheeks, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he taps the notepad. “Also… the next square. Write a poem about your partner. Thought we could do it now, while we eat. Get it over with before the massage.”
I stare at the notepad like it might bite me. “You want me to write a poem about you before coffee has fully hit my bloodstream?”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, sipping his coffee. “That way, there will be no overthinking.”
Picking up the pencil, I swirl it between my fingers. “Are you saying I’m an overthinker?”
“No, quite the opposite, actually. You never think before blurting something out. That’s what I like about you. You’re… you.”
“You’re definitely flirting with me,” I smirk, even as my stomach does a little flip.
Again, he doesn’t answer.
Tapping the pencil against the paper, I stare at the blank page. A poem about Milo… what the hell do I even say?
Mr. Wet-Pants-Wonder, your forearms make me feel stupid.
I cross it out immediately, then scribble a few more lines. They get scratched out too, so hard that the paper almost tears.
Milo watches me, amused, one brow arched. “Struggling?”
“Shut up,” I snap back. “This is harder than it looks.”
I try again, something softer.
Your quiet steadiness makes the chaos feel safe.
I stare at the words, then cross them out hard, nearly tearing the paper. No way am I admitting I want him. Not like this. Not this fucking soon.
The attraction is ridiculous. I’ve known him for five days. That’s it. Yet every time Milo looks at me, heat curls low in my stomach, and my pulse kicks up as if I’ve been running, even though I’ve been standing still the whole time.
I keep writing. Crossing shit out. Rewriting.
The page is a disaster of half-finished lines and tiny hearts I keep scribbling over like they’ll expose me.
My knee bounces faster under the table, a restless energy buzzing through my thighs.
I try to play it cool, but my fingers grip the pencil tighter, tapping quicker, and the chair creaks under the constant jitter of my leg.
There’s got to be some kind of drug in the air, because I don’t get this worked up over a guy. Ever. But Milo? He’s making me wet just thinking about what those hands could do.
Milo’s eyes drop to my bouncing knee, lingering for a second before sliding back to my face. “You okay?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, way too fast. I force my leg to stop moving. It lasts maybe three seconds before it starts again. “Just… thinking about the massage. And the poem. And everything else on that ridiculous bingo card. Busy day ahead, you know?”
He doesn’t look convinced. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts in that quietly amused way that makes my stomach flip. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim like he’s enjoying the show.
A few minutes later, I finish writing. I fold the paper once and slide it across the table toward him, careful not to let him see what I wrote. “There. Done. And before you ask, no, you can’t read it. The card only said we had to write something, not share it.”
Milo picks up the folded note, turning it over between his fingers. “You’re nervous.” He says, matter-of-factly.
“I’m not nervous.” I roll my eyes, even as my pulse kicks harder.
“You are,” he smirks. “It’s cute.”
“And you’re annoying,” I mutter, pushing the notepad and pencil toward him. “Your turn. Write something about me so I don’t feel like the only one exposed here. Make it flattering. And funny. And don’t mention the knee bouncing or the inability to sit still or how I talk too much or—”
“So… lie?” He raises an eyebrow.
I kick his shin under the table. “Asshole.”
He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through me. “Careful there, Sienna. I might write about that violent streak of yours.”
I give him a blank look.
While he starts writing, I can’t stop watching his hands—strong, steady, veins faintly visible as the pencil moves across the page. The quiet scratch of lead is weirdly intimate in the space between us.
I clear my throat, needing to fill the silence before I overthink everything. “So… after the massage, want to hit the pool? Aria texted me this morning and told me she and Ethan were going to be there all day.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He murmurs without looking up.
He finishes writing, folds the paper with deliberate care, and slides it back to me. For a moment, we sit there in silence with two folded secrets between us, plates half-finished, morning light spilling across the table and catching in his eyes.
I grab my phone and hold it up. “Say cheesy cat!”
He leans in close, holding my folded poem like it’s something valuable, while I clutch his. We both grin at the camera. The picture snaps, and I set my phone down, suddenly hyper-aware of how close our hands are.
“I should go get ready for the massage, I guess,” I say, starting to stand.
Milo’s hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist gently but firmly. His thumb strokes slowly along the sensitive skin on the inside, sending little sparks racing up my arm.
“What’s the rush?” he asks, his voice dropping lower. “You haven’t even finished your breakfast yet.”
I glance down at where he’s holding me, then back up to his face. “There’s no rush,” I murmur.
“Good,” his smirk deepens, eyes darkening just a fraction. “Then sit down, Sienna.”
I slowly lower myself back onto the chair, my cheeks burning. He doesn’t let go of my wrist right away. Instead, his thumb keeps tracing lazy circles, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to me.
I stab a piece of pineapple and pop it into my mouth, trying to play it cool even as heat pools low in my belly. Milo watches me with that knowing look before he finally releases my wrist. He leans back in his chair and slowly lifts his mug to his mouth, his lip tilting up in a wicked smirk.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m not in a rush to run from the day… I’m living in the moment and enjoying it.