Chapter 36
S CARLETT
The following day
The weather is perfect. The air is dry, the breeze is nice, and bright sunlight makes the ocean sparkle.
We woke up early.
Frankly, we didn’t sleep much.
After having sex in the bedroom, we ended up in the pool, naked, which only made it difficult to keep our hands off each other.
We fucked on the pool steps, in the water, in the shower, and then in the bedroom again before we slept for a few hours.
I woke to the smell of breakfast. Coffee, toast, and fried eggs.
His side of the bed was empty, so I imagined he was in the kitchen, cooking.
After a quick shower, I entered the kitchen wearing shorts and a T-shirt, my hair pulled up into a ponytail.
He was sliding the scrambled eggs onto the plates when he stopped for a moment and searched my eyes.
I liked that a lot.
He looked amazing in the morning light, his eyes holding the power of the ocean, his bronze darker against his white T-shirt and blue shorts, his muscular legs on display.
We both sat at the table after he made sure I had everything I needed.
Food, coffee, water, silverware, and napkins.
After breakfast, we went to the beach, and in one swipe, I was no longer the New York teacher and became this Florida girl rocking a polka dot summer dress and having my feet kissed by the sand.
On our way over, we stopped at a store to buy a wide-brim hat, shades, and a swimsuit for me.
He selected the swimsuit.
A red bikini bathing suit with gold metal hardware that looks great against my hair and skin.
The beach was, for the most part, empty.
Most people were still at home, unwrapping gifts and spending time with their families.
We kissed on the beach and watched the water ripple nearby and the lazy waves break into shallow puddles as the birds dove into the ocean.
I hadn’t felt so at peace in a decade. Literally.
With that being said, Ewan was sunk in thought, his stare blank, pinned on the water, his fingers moving absently through my hair as I had the back of my head propped against his abdomen.
We sat like that, him staring at the water while I was studying the sky. Doing nothing, enjoying the silence interrupted only by the whispering breeze, the small waves, and the noise of the seagulls.
Later, we went snorkeling, which was an amazing experience, and then we drove around the island.
Eventually, we found this place, a nice restaurant with a shady terrace and a fantastic ocean view.
We were lucky to find it open as most places are closed today. The owner, Martha, knows Ewan and his family, which doesn’t surprise me.
They speak about Ewan’s brother before she goes inside, and soon after, our food arrives.
Everything is fresh and tasty. Enchilada, quesadilla, salsa, guacamole, refried beans, and tacos. It seems like a lot, but we’re hungry, and we devour it within minutes.
Our desserts arrive, churros and homemade flan. And we pace ourselves this time, getting the chance to chat again.
“This was fantastic,” I say, smiling, full.
“It’s one of the best restaurants in the neighborhood.”
He orders coffee for both of us and soon we sip Mexican spiced coffee.
The breeze threads its fingers through my hair, pushing it over my face.
I pull it all up and tie it into a loose bun at the top of my head, and his stare stalls on me a little.
“What?” I ask, smiling. “It doesn’t look good?”
What does, really?
My skin is dry and salty. A bit red from the sun.
I have no makeup on my face, and my hair is matted and smells like the ocean.
I have sand in my flip-flops, and my dress is damp from my wet bra.
He has his elbows on the table when he brings his coffee to his mouth and looks in the distance.
“You are beautiful. That’s all,” he says in a clipped voice, and my eyes stay on his face before dropping to his lips as he runs the tip of his tongue over them to collect a drop of coffee.
I can say the same thing about him.
It’s the second time I have had this thought about him, and this is more than about his physical features. His strong jawline, kissable lips, high cheekbones, and eyes made of moonstone. The soft lines forming around the corners of his eyes when he smiles.
There’s a quiet beauty in the way he breathes and lives, a nostalgic blend of self-assuredness, sadness, and simmering passion for all the things pulsing with life.
And I am one of those things.
The way he always drives me to the edge yet never makes me doubt him.
What a phenomenal concept.
His eyes stay on the water while I study his face, trying to see beyond the man with broad shoulders and a body made of iron.
“What is your story, Ewan?” I ask quietly, and his lips move into a pensive smile before he brings his stare to me.
He seems to weigh his answer, although no words come to his lips.
“There must be a reason for all this…” I say quietly. “This is more than sex for us. Prove me wrong.”
A tender look slides over his face while he drinks me in.
I continue.
“You brought me to your brother’s place.
The restaurant owner knows you. There must be more to the story.
This…” I gesture around. “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.
For a moment, I considered that you were doing all of this for me because you wanted to have a nice memory of me before all was over.
I was cynical in my thinking because I met a few very cynical assholes in my life.
But now I think less and less that it’s a possible explanation for all of this.
So, please don’t mind me asking you that. I’d love to know more.”
His smile deepens.
“Are you sure?” he says.
“I don’t have a choice.”
His grin fades.
“I don’t think I can tell you… yet ,” he says, and I look at him, taken aback.
“It has nothing to do with you,” he goes on.
“It must or you wouldn’t have said that.”
He sighs and looks away again, and I get this feeling that he doesn’t have much to lose. So whatever it is, I have no leverage over him.
He’s made up his mind.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he says in a monotone voice, his focus on the seagulls hovering over the water.
“You know most of it,” I say, not feeling generous enough to share more than I already have.
He flicks his eyes to me.
“Tell me, Scarlett.”
His voice is demanding this time, so reluctantly, I give him more information. It’s nothing exciting or stuff that I should keep secret.
It’s just that it bores me to tears to talk about it. I can’t imagine he is entertained by this. But he listens attentively while I talk about my childhood. Growing up with a mother who has always been stressed out.
And marrying because I wanted to start a family.
I cringe as I go over this with him, but no reaction shows on his face.
It wasn’t only that I wanted to start a family. I thought it would be nice to share my life with someone, do things together, and grow old without growing apart.
Was I misled by all this?
Marriage was nothing I had imagined, and I blamed myself for not reading more and learning about it before committing myself to a life of drudgery.
What else was there to do?
Ask my coworkers about their personal lives to garner insight into this?
Some are happily married. Some are struggling. And some have already filed for divorce.
“You, now,” I say, relieved that I have finished my story.
“I was married,” he says, his eyes connected with mine as I stifle my reaction but can’t fool him.
Slowly, my lips part.
Have I truly never thought about it?
The way he behaved, went after he wanted it, knew how to share his space with me beyond getting his way into my pants.
It’s funny how my mind works.
And how I liked to ignore the signs.
Somewhere at the edge of my awareness floated this idea, but I always stopped myself from going there and analyzing it to death.
I didn’t want to muddy my lust for him and question every step I made. I did it anyway but didn’t want to force myself into asking some uncomfortable questions.
Why didn’t I want to do it?
Because divorced men are a different breed.
Anyone who thinks Joachim is the best thing since sliced bread should contact me because I have a bridge to sell.
For sure, he’s already found someone who liked to believe I was too stupid to see what a nice guy he was.
I’m sure his story about our story was different than what I would’ve had to say about it.
In Ewan’s case, I’m sure his wife had a reason to leave him. Am I subjective? I totally am. I know it takes two to tango, and men are not always the only ones to blame.
“For how long?” I shoot my mouth, not knowing any better.
“For long enough,” he says, smiling, and for some reason, him being married scares me as much as it makes me even more drawn to him.
He must’ve felt the same about me.
“When did you two sign the divorce papers?” I continue, not giving much thought to my question.
“We didn’t.”
I stiffen in my seat.
Oh… Please don’t tell me he’s still married, doing one of those separation trials things, and he's having some fun with me before his wife takes him back.
Of course he didn’t want to sleep with me in the beginning.
He probably had second thoughts.
Perhaps he thought it would jeopardize his chances of reunifying with his wife.
My eyes inadvertently dip to his ring finger, looking for a sign that he wore a wedding band at some point.
“Are you still married?” I ask, my voice strangled.
The answer comes promptly.
“No, I’m not.”
It takes about two seconds for the meaning of his words to sink in before embarrassment drapes over me.
It’s never good to assume things.
Never.
I always teach my students not to do that.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I murmur.
He nods his head in acceptance, his grin translucent, almost gone.
“Thank you,” he quietly says.
I don’t feel like moving away from the topic, although I know I should, but the emotions inside me make my heart spin in turmoil.
Why do I have to feel this way?
Because the new information puts things in perspective, and I’m already caught in our little story of lust and something else.
I don’t want to be the rebound woman, and yet, I don’t want to pull away from him.
I don’t know how much he’s still affected by his wife’s passing and whether he’s made peace with it––he probably has––or if he still feels unmoored.
People process these things differently, and even people like my ex, who has the emotional intelligence of a rock, can still surprise you. Hint at his latest meltdown.
Ewan seems all right, so this must not be a recent story.
“You married young?” I ask.
“Yes. Very young. How about you?”
“Not so young. I mean… We’d been only married for a couple of years when I got divorced last year.”
I go quiet, and my silence quickly becomes awkward, so my gaze trails away from him when his hand finds mine, and I move my focus back to him.
“Scarlett…” he says in a low nasal voice that makes me quiver inside. His eyes drill deep into mine. “You have nothing to worry about when it comes to my past. I made peace with it a long time ago.”
I look at him, frozen.
What do I have to worry about then?
“You wanted to know more about me, and I told you. I didn’t want you to think I’m not a free man.”
A few moments pass while his grip slackens.
“On the same note, I wouldn’t have considered messing with you if I felt you were still attached to the idea of your ex- husband.
So chill. Everything is in the past now.
I had a good marriage, and it ended in tragedy.
Life has our stories written beforehand, and there is nothing we can do about it. So, rest easy.”
I try to.
His eyes hold mine while I struggle to control my fears. Despite everything he’s said, something makes me weary about all this, and I can’t tell what it is. And I won’t find out by staring into his blue-green eyes.
“Do you want to go? I’m finished,” I say.
“Yes, sure.”
A few moments later, he pays for our food and drinks, and we return to our ride.