12. Clive
Clive
I stand in the kitchen, still damp from the shower, slicing poblano peppers as the scent of cumin and lime fills the air. The rhythmic sound of my knife against the cutting board is oddly soothing as I try to process everything that happened today.
Becca was in the water, her slender body cutting through the turquoise waves with unexpected grace. The sunlight dappled her wet skin, and she was enthusiastic when that school of bright fish surrounded us. The moment our legs brushed beneath the surface, I felt a jolt of electricity I had no business feeling.
The memory of her in that white swimsuit makes my hands falter. I nearly slice my finger instead of the pepper and curse under my breath. I need to focus. This dinner isn’t going to cook itself, and I want it to be perfect for her.
I toss the peppers into the sizzling pan, listening to the satisfying hiss as they hit the hot oil. Outside the kitchen window, the Cozumel sunset paints the sky in impossible shades of orange and pink. The villa feels different now—lighter somehow, despite the weight of what I’m feeling.
When I suggested snorkeling, I didn’t realize how it would only solidify my obsession. One moment, we were floating above a rainbow of coral, schools of fish darting between us, and the next moment, I was reaching for her hand underwater. The way she looked at me, those brown eyes wide with surprise and something else—something that made my chest tighten.
“Slow,” I mutter to myself, stirring the simmering sauce. “You need to go slow.”
She’s twenty-eight. I’m forty-six. What would she want with an old man?
The sound of footsteps makes me turn, wooden spoon still in hand.
And there she is.
Becca stands in the doorway wearing a white sundress that clings to her curves before flaring just above her knees. Her dark hair falls in damp waves around her shoulders, and her skin glows golden in the kitchen light. She’s barefoot, her toenails painted a soft pink that matches the flush in her cheeks.
“Something smells amazing,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
My carefully constructed resolve crumbles like sand between my fingers. All my internal lectures about going slow and respecting this vulnerable time evaporate like morning mist.
“You look beautiful,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
She steps into the kitchen, and I can smell her coconut shampoo mixing with the spices in the air. My grip tightens on the wooden spoon.
“Can I help with anything?” she asks, coming closer. Her fingertips brush the countertop as she approaches, and I follow the movement like a man hypnotized.
“Just sit,” I manage to say, nodding toward the barstools on the kitchen island. “Wine?”
She slides onto a stool, crossing those legs I can’t forget. “Please.”
I turn to grab a bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc, grateful for the momentary reprieve from her gaze. My hands aren’t entirely steady as I pour two glasses.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” she says, accepting the wine with a smile that makes my stomach flip like a teenager.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” The words come out more intimate than I intended, hanging between us in the spice-scented air.
Becca takes a sip of wine, her eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. “I’m starting to realize that.”
I force myself to return to the stove, stirring the simmering mixture with unnecessary focus. The peppers and onions have softened perfectly, releasing their sweet aroma into the kitchen. I add the shrimp, watching them curl and turn pink.
“Today was...” she begins, then pauses.
I glance over my shoulder. “Fun?”
She shakes her head slowly, and the relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. “Yes,” she whispers. “I enjoyed every minute. I don’t remember when I had so much fun.”
The wooden spoon clatters against the side of the pan. I take a deep breath and steady myself against the counter.
“Becca,” I say her name like a prayer, a warning, a plea. “I want you to know that I respect what you’re going through, and I’m not the type of man who takes advantage of someone’s vulnerability.”
She gracefully slides off the stool and moves toward me, her white dress glowing under the warm kitchen light. As she reaches me, she gently takes the spoon from my hand and places it aside. “I know you’re a good man,” she says, tilting her face to mine. “And I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I’m more than capable of controlling my attraction to you. I’m enjoying your friendship.”
Attraction? Friendship? The logical part of my brain—the part that remembers she’s Jack’s ex-girlfriend, that this whole situation is complicated beyond measure—makes one last desperate attempt to maintain control.
But logic is no match for the pull between us. Not when Rebecca is standing this close, her eyes reflecting the golden light from above. Not when I can see the pulse in her throat quickening.
“Then let’s just have a nice, friendly dinner,” I agree, my voice a low rumble. “Though I should warn you, I’m easily distracted.”
She smiles, not backing away. “Sounds perfect.”
I force myself to return to the stove, but I’m acutely aware of her presence behind me, the soft sound of her breathing, the rustle of that white dress as she moves to set the table. Every few seconds, our eyes meet across the kitchen, and each time, the temperature seems to rise another degree.
I plate the shrimp with rice and mango salsa I prepared earlier, garnishing with fresh cilantro and lime wedges. When I turn, she’s already seated at the small table on the terrace, the ocean breeze gently lifting her hair. The sun has almost completely set, leaving the sky deep indigo scattered with early stars.
“This looks incredible,” she says as I place her plate before her.
“A simple dish,” I reply, sitting across from her. “But the ingredients here are exceptional.”
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes––the only sounds are the distant waves, the clink of silverware, and the occasional appreciative murmur from Becca. I watch her savor each bite, how her lips close around her fork, and struggle to remember what we were discussing.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” she asks, breaking the silence.
“I traveled a lot in my twenties. Spent time in kitchens whenever I could.” I take a sip of wine. “Before the company took over my life.”
“Hard to imagine you before the success,” she says, her eyes curious. “What were you like?”
I consider this, leaning back in my chair. “Hungry. Determined. Not so different, just with less gray hair.”
Her laugh is like music. “The gray suits you.”
“Does it?” I can’t help but smile.
“You know it does.” She holds my gaze boldly, and I see the woman beneath the polite exterior—confident, perceptive, strong in ways she doesn’t even recognize.
“Tell me something real about you, Becca,” I say suddenly. “Something most people don’t know.”
She blinks, surprised by the shift. Then, she contemplates, twirling her wine glass between slender fingers.
“I’ve never felt good enough,” she says, voice soft but steady. “For my parents, for Jack... I’ve spent my whole life trying to be perfect, to check all the right boxes.”
“And today?” I ask, heart hammering. “Out on the reef?”
Her eyes meet mine, dark and honest. “Today, I wasn’t trying to be anything. I was just... being.”
I reach across the table, my hand covering hers. Becca's skin is warm under my touch, and I feel her fingers instinctively curl around mine.
“That’s who I want to see,” I say. “Just you. Not the perfect daughter or the ideal girlfriend. Just Becca.”
She bites her lower lip, a gesture I’m finding increasingly distracting. “It’s scary,” she admits. “I don’t know if I remember how to be just me anymore.”
“I think you do,” I say, running my thumb across her knuckles. “I caught glimpses today.”
The ocean breeze picks up, making the candle between us flicker. Her white dress ripples like water, and I’m transfixed by how the fabric moves against her skin.
“Why are you so nice to me?” she asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard. I consider deflecting with humor but decide she deserves honesty.
“Because you see things others don’t,” I say. “Because you’re kind without being weak. Because when you laugh, it’s real.” I pause, gathering courage. “And because I couldn't look away from the moment I met you.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t break eye contact. “I thought I was imagining it,” she whispers. “The way you looked at me sometimes.”
“You weren’t,” I admit. “I tried not to stare. God knows I tried.”
She stands suddenly, still holding my hand, and pulls me gently to my feet. We’re inches apart now, the dinner forgotten, the night air wrapping around us like silk.
“I don’t want to be the reason things are complicated with Jack,” she says, but there’s uncertainty in her voice.
“Jack and I were complicated long before you,” I tell her. “And whatever happens between us has nothing to do with him.”
Her hands rest against my chest, and my heartbeat accelerates. I reach up to cup her face, my thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, giving her one last chance to pull away.
Instead, she rises on her tiptoes, bringing her lips closer to mine. “I don’t want you to stop,” she breathes.
The last thread of my restraint snaps. I close the distance between us, capturing Becca's mouth with mine. My lips caress hers with indulgence as if I’m consuming a rare delicacy I want to savor slowly. My hands slide down to her waist, feeling the delicate fabric of her dress and the warmth of her body beneath it. Her arms wind around my neck, pulling me closer. I taste the wine on her tongue and feel the soft moan that vibrates through her chest. The world narrows to just this—her body against mine, the sounds she makes when I trail kisses down her neck, the way her fingers tangle in my hair. When we finally pull apart, our breaths are ragged, and my body burns with desire.
“Wow,” A deep, throaty chuckle vibrates through my body.
“My thoughts exactly,” she murmurs, her forehead pressed against my chest.
“Becca,” I whisper against her skin. “As much as I want this, we should slow down.”
She pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, her pupils dilated with desire. “Should we?”
My hands tighten on her waist involuntarily. “I don’t want you to regret anything.”
“I’ve spent too long doing what I’m supposed to do instead of what I want,” she says, and the new confidence in her voice makes my blood surge.
“What is it that you desire?” I inquire softly.
“I’m still working on figuring that out, I guess.”