Chapter 9 #2
I pulled the blanket over her shoulders, forcing myself to step away, every muscle fighting me.
Walking out of that room, leaving her warm and soft and wanting me there beside her, was the hardest damn thing I’d ever done in my life.
I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her, barefoot in that robe, sleepy smile, hands tugging at my shirt. I felt her pressed against me. I tasted her on my lips.
Half of me was glad I hadn’t stayed. The other half hated me for it.
By the time the morning sunlight filtered weakly through my curtains, I’d already showered, shaved, and dressed.
I even drank one of those tiny, overpriced bottles of coffee concentrate they stocked in the suite’s kitchen, because apparently I’m the kind of guy who needed caffeine to face breakfast with the woman he’d been in love with for the better part of his life.
Missy emerged from her room right when I set my empty cup down.
Her hair was brushed and her eyes were bright, as if she’d just had one of the best nights of sleep in her life. She was wearing a soft pale-yellow sundress with thin straps and cream-colored sandals. Her skin looked warm in the morning light, and her smile hit me square in the chest.
“Morning,” she said cheerfully.
I cleared my throat. “Morning. You, uh… sleep okay?”
She nodded, then winced faintly in confusion. “I think I fell asleep reading. Did you carry me into my room? I don’t remember getting to bed.”
My pulse skipped.
“Yeah,” I said lightly, as if I hadn’t spent half the night replaying it in my head. “I found you in the chair.” I motioned to the spot. “I didn’t want you waking up with a kink in your neck.”
She smiled, warm and grateful, and I forced myself not to stare too long.
“Thanks.” She stretched and walked over to the window. “It’s raining a little.” She turned and shrugged. “Maybe it will let up after breakfast?”
We headed downstairs, where the dining room was already buzzing with the quiet luxury of people who didn’t worry about credit card limits.
There were fresh pastries, fruit, eggs, bacon, the whole spread.
She filled her plate modestly. I did not.
Working late and sleeping badly meant hunger in the morning.
We chatted lightly about safe topics. The work I was doing on the new homes, her business booming. The kind of conversations that skimmed the surface but avoided the deep water we both kept steering around.
After breakfast, she glanced at the hallway that led to the indoor pool.
“Want to go for a swim?” she asked.
Her voice was hopeful, not flirty, not teasing. Just wanting to do something normal with me. Like we used to.
And hell if I could say no.
“Sure, why not,” I said. “Let’s go up and change.”
The rain hadn’t let up, so thirty minutes later we headed to the indoor pool area.
A handful of other guests were there already.
There were massive skylights that let us watch the storm clouds drift overhead as we enjoyed the warm water.
The air smelled like chlorine and eucalyptus from the nearby spa rooms.
Missy was wearing an elegant deep blue swimsuit that hugged her in a way that made my brain short-circuit. I forced my face into something that wasn’t awe and followed her into the water.
It was… easy.
Laughing as she splashed me.
We’d done this a hundred times over our lives. Pools in all the exotic places our parents used to take us on joint vacations. Italy, France, the Bahamas, India, and so many other wonderful trips.
Floating on our backs, we talked about random things like what we should order for lunch or how many cupcakes she sold in a week.
Her wet hair kept sticking to her cheeks, and every time she smiled, that knot in my chest unraveled just a little.
An hour slipped by before we noticed the rain had stopped.
“You want to go for a walk?” she asked as we got out of the hot tub. “We can go see the beach area.”
“Yeah,” I said without hesitation.
I slipped on my shirt and shoes while she wrapped herself in a cover-up. She tied her wet hair up in a messy bun before putting on a pair of sandals.
The path to the private beach wound through a garden that smelled like jasmine and wet stone. The island looked completely different after the rain—cleaner, sharper, quieter—as if it was holding its breath.
Most of the guests were still inside, either unaware the rain had let up or not willing to chance it starting up again.
When we reached the wet sand, the Atlantic Ocean stretched out before us, dark blue and gray with waves rolling in rhythmic lines. The resort’s private cabanas, lined with white curtains and soft lounge chairs, sat empty.
“Pick one,” I said, motioning.
She chose a cabana at the very end of a secluded stretch that overlooked a curve in the shoreline where the water glimmered like glass.
A server wandered down with a polite smile, and we ordered drinks. Missy got something tropical and pink with fruit on the rim. I stuck with a simple beer.
She curled her legs under her as she faced the water. She had kicked her sandals aside and her dress fluttered in the salty breeze. She looked like a sun goddess, meant to spend all her days soaking up the rays and enjoying the ocean view.
“This,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “feels like something out of a dream. I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed.”
I watched her profile, the soft curve of her cheek, the way her eyes reflected the pale light.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s nice.”
And for a moment, just one, I let myself imagine reaching over, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, and kissing her while the waves whispered against the shore.
But I kept my hands wrapped around my beer instead.
Because she deserved steadiness.
And I wasn’t sure I trusted myself not to fall apart completely if she kissed me sober and wide awake.