Chapter 8
EIGHT
TAY
I woke up to an empty bed.
The sheets beside me were slightly rumpled but folded back, as if Dean had made a polite exit. But, oh. I smelled coffee. It was subtle but there, a faint, delicious whiff that invited me to rise and shine. Or at least look marginally human.
So… where? I sat up, a tad groggy in a way that felt earned—like my body had carried me all the way to paradise but was now settling the tab in muscle aches and jet lag.
The terrace doors were open, ocean sounds filtering in, a breeze stirring the curtains just enough to reveal Dean sitting out on the deck.
He’d probably finished a pushy treadmill run already or hand-washed his socks or something equally disciplined that made my sleeping in look damn near criminal. Fine. I grabbed a clean pair of swim shorts, pulled them on, and padded barefoot onto the terrace.
The world sparkled, awash in sunlight. Shaded by a massive umbrella, Dean was seated at the table in nothing but swim trunks and a faint sheen of sunscreen, the edge of his shoulder catching the light.
Pretty, my sleep-slow brain supplied, and yeah, he was.
In, like, a sharp and mature kind of way.
But soft, too, like the curve of his thigh or the easy lift of his mouth when he glanced up.
I blinked the thought away. “Morning. You been up long?”
“Little while.” He set his phone aside and nudged a bowl of fruit salad in my direction. “Here you go. Perfect day, right?”
Perfect…? Oh. One of my earliest voice messages, possibly even the first—what would my perfect day look like? No pagers, sunshine, a fruit salad I didn’t have to make. Possibly a hookup. Not that I was holding my breath for that part.
This fruit salad, though—frankly absurd. Papaya, mango, and watermelon cut into perfect little cubes, a sprig of mint, even a little flower perched on the rim. All that effort for one little voice note.
“You remembered that?” I asked.
“Of course.” He said it like it wasn’t a big deal, like anyone would have recalled that detail. My surprise must have been obvious because he shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just a fruit salad, Tay. I didn’t personally cut stuff up or anything, just ordered it.”
“But you remembered.”
“I made it through med school, didn’t I? Remembering tiny, sometimes pointless details comes with the territory.”
Not the same.
Something told me to drop it, so I did. Sliding into the chair across from him, I accepted the coffee he handed me and watched as he picked apart a papaya slice with the tip of his fork. Something like awareness stretched between my ribs.
We’d made a deal—friends, kind of, with benefits that included a luxury vacation and a bit of acting. It wasn’t meant to feel this warm and familiar, this bright.
So I sipped my coffee, which was excellent and probably imported from some faraway mountain, cultivated by monks with calm minds and clean hands.
Across the table, Dean took mercy on the poor papaya and finally ate it.
I assessed the selection of pastries, yogurt, and cheeses, then served myself a generous amount of fruit while trying to be subtle about the glances I sneaked at him.
Just—ugh. The dip between his collarbones was a lot to handle.
Down, boy.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said, mostly to distract myself. “Something the questions didn’t cover.”
He raised an eyebrow and set down his fork. “Why?”
“Because I’m interested.” I smiled like the swimwear edition of trust-me-I’m-a-doctor. Time to grab the sunscreen. “Most people love talking about themselves.”
“I’m not most people.”
“That’s what most people say.”
His mouth twitched, gaze fully focused on me. Then it drifted to the water, squinting a little against its reflected brightness, yet he didn’t reach for the sunglasses he’d pushed up into his hair. “All right, I guess. So what do you want—childhood trauma, dark secrets, or embarrassing facts?”
I smiled around the sweet burst of a mango cube. “Dealer’s choice.”
He paused. Then: “When I was fourteen, I used to imagine I was Dean from that monster-hunter show.”
It took me a moment to place it. “Supernatural?”
“Yeah.” His voice dipped. “It had just started airing, and I’d picture myself like that—cool, sarcastic, competent. Protects his family, protects strangers, keeps it all together even when things get tough.”
My smile faded, something heavy settling around my shoulders. I didn’t need him to spell it out for me, but in case he wanted to, I offered a soft comment that didn’t demand a reply. “That was after your mom filed for divorce, right? When you were up against your biological dad in court.”
“Yeah.” After a beat, Dean continued, a touch rough.
“Guess he was my monster of the week, you know. And I wasn’t the strongest, not really—got a bit more muscle now, but not then.
I watched monster-hunter Dean, though, and with the same name and how it felt like he could handle anything… I wanted to borrow that.”
I grasped for something to say and couldn’t settle on anything, instead reached over to lightly touch the back of his hand. He glanced at me, then offered a half shrug.
“Maybe it stuck, you know? The keeping-it-together part. Took me a while to realize that’s not the same as being fine.”
“Very understandable,” I said quietly.
For a minute, we let the wash of the waves settle between us. Then he picked up his fork again and poked at a pineapple chunk as though it had personally slighted him. “Okay,” he said. “My turn. You mentioned something about dating and then sort of giving up on it. What happened?”
Well. Only fair given what he’d volunteered.
“No trauma or anything.” I leaned back, sipping my coffee. “Just, there was a guy in med school. I wasn’t in love with him, not quite, but maybe on my way? Thing is, he thought I was more fun than I actually am.”
Dean made a small, disgruntled noise. “He sounds like a dick.”
The utter conviction in his tone made me grin into my cup.
“He wasn’t, no. Just mismatched expectations, you know?
Like—what we talked about last night. I learned to be charming, but it’s curated, takes a bit of effort.
And once that wore off…” I lifted a shoulder.
“He wanted someone exciting. That someone wasn’t me. ”
“He still sounds like a dick.” If anything, Dean sounded more convinced, and it startled me into a laugh.
“Nah, not really. Although he did have a particularly nice one.”
Dean snorted. “Been conducting some comparative studies, have you?”
“I’m a firm believer in empirical evidence. Aren’t you?”
“Empirically speaking, I think sex is kind of overrated.” His deadpan delivery made it hard to tell whether he was joking. I didn’t think so, though.
“So, what, you just don’t have it?” I replayed my words and winced—they might’ve sounded judgmental. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that! Just curious.”
“No, I do. Sometimes.” He pressed his lips together, eyes startlingly blue in the morning light. “I just think there’s far too much fuss about it. You find someone, you get off, you move along.”
“That’s a rather… clinical way of looking at it.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “I am a doctor.”
“Yeah.” Maybe I should drop it. “But what about, like, the emotional part?” Apparently, I wasn’t dropping it.
He raised an eyebrow. “They’re just hookups.”
“I mean, yeah. True. But even with strangers, there can be this emotional connection.” I raised a hand, palm up, to illustrate… something. “Temporary, sure. But still more meaningful than getting off to porn.”
Dean tilted his head, watching me for a weighted second. “Maybe, yes. But as we’ve established, I’m not really good at opening up. Especially not with strangers.”
“You’ve been doing okay with me.”
“I guess so, yeah.” He left it at that, voice more thoughtful than dismissive, and changed tracks. “What’s your MO, then? Apps, clubs?”
“Not much of a swiper, not much of a dancer.” I speared another piece of mango. “More like grab a drink at one of the usual bars, turn to face the room, and just, you know—wait.”
“So you basically just stand there until someone reasonably hot comes up to you?”
“Pretty much, yeah.” I tipped up my chin, smiling, and he gave me a long, speculative look.
“Yeah.” It was slow, quiet. “If I’d seen you at a bar? I probably would’ve crossed the room to talk to you.”
Oh.
It snagged somewhere lower than expected, deep but not heavy.
If we had met that way—at a bar, gazes catching across the crowd—it would have been brief.
Hot, probably—yes. But fleeting and forgettable.
I wouldn’t have learned much beyond his taste and smell, wouldn’t know he loved his family, how his voice deepened when he was tired, that his walls hid a core of kindness.
“I’m glad I got to know you instead,” I said, delayed by a second or two.
He studied me like I was a riddle he had yet to solve, then nodded. “Me too,” he said, pitched so low it barely translated above the waves and the gentle breeze fluttering along the edges of the umbrella.
We sipped our coffees, silent for a minute.
“Best fruit?” he asked then, almost deliberately light.
“Mango,” I said instantly. “Hands down.”
“Mango is a diva.”
I widened my eyes. “You take that back.”
“It’s overhyped,” he said. “Looks good, sure, but makes a mess and turns squishy and disgusting the second it’s past its prime.”
“Don’t listen to the mean man, darlings,” I told the pile of yellow-golden cubes on my plate. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“I hope you’re not expecting an answer.” Sprawled in his chair, swim trunks riding low, he looked like something out of a glossy brochure.
“I hope you have a convincing answer to the best-fruit question.”
“Apple,” he said.
“Wrong.”
“Excuse me?”