Chapter 20
Twenty
Liz
On the morning of our last day, Ric stands by the window in our room, one hand resting on the curtain. The light catches the edge of his jaw, dark with stubble. I lie back against the pillows and watch him pretend to study the view.
Neither of us says what we’re thinking. The conference is ending. Our bubble of whatever this has been is going to pop. We’re taking a red-eye home tonight. Back to the same city, the same people, the same complicated mess that waits for us there. And we’ll be sleeping at our own places.
“Beautiful morning,” he notes.
“It is.” My voice sounds lighter than I feel.
He turns toward me. “You slept okay?”
“Better than I thought I would after all those orgasms you’ve given me.” I smile a little. “You?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to waste it.”
I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest, trying not to think about how good it feels to have him this close. We talk about small things—how the ocean looks different here, what time the shuttle leaves, how the air smells like plumeria even inside the room. Anything but what happens next.
Eventually, he sits down beside me on the bed. I can feel the heat of him through the thin sheet, that familiar warmth that shouldn’t still make me nervous.
“Feels strange,” I say. “Like we’ve been living in a bubble.”
“Maybe that’s what we needed.” His hand finds the edge of the blanket, tracing it with his thumb. “A place where no one expects anything from us.”
I look at him, and he looks back, and for a second, the whole world narrows to that line between his mouth and mine.
“Liz,” he says, voice quiet.
“I don’t know what we should expect from each other either.”
We both know we’re on borrowed time. This kind of peace never holds for long.
He leans back on his palms, eyes on the ceiling. “It’s easier here.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It’s not real.”
The clock ticks softly on the nightstand, and the breeze lifts the curtains. For a heartbeat, it feels like we could stay. As if the real world won’t find us if we just keep pretending.
I glance toward him, catching the way his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “We still have a few hours before checkout.”
His eyes meet mine, and something flickers there. A decision, maybe. Or a goodbye we’re not ready to say.
He pushes off the bed and stands by the dresser, pretending to check his phone. The light hits his shoulders, turning the thin cotton of his shirt almost sheer. I can’t look away.
“We should probably get ready for the flight,” he says without turning around.
“Probably,” I answer, though neither of us moves.
He sets his phone down and exhales, slow and uneven. Then he faces me, and the careful distance he’s been keeping all morning is gone. “Liz.”
Just my name. Nothing more. But it lands like a touch.
I rise from the bed before I can think about it and cross to him. He doesn’t reach for me right away. He waits, giving me the chance to step back. I don’t. “I don’t know what this means,” I whisper.
“Maybe we don’t need to know right now.” He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers trembling slightly. The scent of him—soap, salt, something warm and clean—wraps around me.
When his thumb grazes my jaw, I close my eyes. The touch is careful, almost reverent. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, and the careful part disappears.
The kiss starts slow. Soft. Questioning. Then it deepens, breaking past everything we’ve been trying to hold together. I taste the salt from his skin. His hand fists gently in my hair, and I forget why we ever stopped touching each other.
He presses me against the dresser, his breath rough against my mouth. Every inhale feels like it might undo me.
I break the kiss first, just enough to breathe. “This is crazy.”
He smiles, eyes dark and unsteady. “It’s us. It’s always been crazy.”
I laugh softly, and he kisses me again, harder this time. There’s no logic left in it, no caution. Just the familiar rhythm of something that never really ended. Though I know how easily it could end again, I remind myself.
When we finally pull apart, I rest my forehead against his chest. His heart beats fast beneath my hand, matching mine. “I missed this,” I say quietly.
He whispers against my hair, “Me too.”
The world outside keeps moving—waves, wind, the faint sound of doors closing down the hall—but in here, it’s just us, caught between the past we can’t change and the future we haven’t decided on yet.
Then a sound drifts in from the room next door. Soft. Indistinct. A low moan that makes the air between us go tight all over again.
I pull back just enough to blink at him. “Was that—”
He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think it was.”
Heat creeps up my neck, equal parts mortified and amused. I press my forehead back to his chest, laughing under my breath because it’s either that or do something reckless.
“Of course,” I mutter. “Last day in Hawaii.”
He laughs too—low, breathless—his hand sliding to my waist like it knows exactly what it’s doing even when he’s pretending he doesn’t.
But then he brushes his thumb over my lower lip, eyes still tracing me like he can’t quite believe I’m real. “We should probably eat,” he says.
“Now you think about food,” I tease.
His mouth curves. “I’m starving.”
He picks up the phone and calls room service, eyes locked on me. “Coffee and a pot of tea—orange pekoe,” he says, “and something sweet.”
When he hangs up, he crosses the room and pulls me back into him. I melt into the touch, the warmth of his skin against mine. His hands skim my back, slow and steady, grounding me before he steps away.
We don’t talk anymore, just move around the room gathering our things and packing our bags.
Room service arrives twenty minutes later—fresh fruit, croissants, a pot of dark coffee, and a kettle of hot water and several tea bags.
The server’s polite enough not to look at us too closely.
When the door shuts again, Ric pours my coffee and passes it over.
His hand brushes mine, causing a familiar spark.
He then pours hot water into his mug and adds a tea bag. “To not thinking too much,” he says.
I lift my cup. “To bad decisions that feel good.”
He laughs, the sound deep and soft, even as he winces.
We sit on the bed, sharing bites of flaky pastry and bits of fruit off the same plate. Every small thing—his smile, the warmth of his knee against mine—feels sharper, more dangerous.
He watches me for a long time. “I do think this is what we needed.”
I set down my cup. “A vacation.”
“A reminder,” he says. “That we still fit. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”
I want to believe him. I want to hold on to this feeling and pretend it’s enough to carry us home. But wanting isn’t the same as keeping.
“Maybe we’re only possible when the world’s far away,” I suggest.
He reaches for my hand. “Maybe we could work again if we try.”
His thumb strokes over my knuckles, slow and thoughtful. I lean against him, letting the quiet settle around us. I consider what it would look like for us to actually make it.
By the time the coffee pot and tea kettle are empty, the sun is higher, and the spell of the morning starts to thin. Ric checks his watch and sighs. “We should probably finish packing.”
I nod but don’t move right away. He folds his clothes, methodical as always. Eventually, I do the same, but my hands keep pausing over each piece, as if touching fabric could slow time.
“Do you ever wish we could just stay?” I ask quietly.
He looks up. “Yeah. But we both know we wouldn’t.”
I put a shirt into my suitcase and smooth it flat. “We’re terrible at pretending.”
He closes his bag halfway, then crosses to me. His hand settles over mine. “Then let’s not pretend anymore.”
I meet his eyes. There’s no hesitation there, just a steady resolve. “What do you mean?”
“When we get home,” he says, “let’s start over. No rules. No walls. Whatever this is, we see where it goes.”
My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously like hope. “A clean slate.”
He nods. “If you want one.”
I let out a slow breath. “I do.” But then I add, “When we get home, though, I need this to stay ours. At work. In public. I’m not ready for anyone else weighing in.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Professional,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “Private.”
He leans down and kisses me, like sealing an agreement neither of us fully understands yet. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. “Maybe we’ll finally get it right.”
“Maybe,” I say, but I’m still not sure how.