Chapter 8
Olivia
T he sheer curtains allow the first rays of sunlight to filter into the room, bathing it in a warm, golden glow.
I stretch under soft Egyptian cotton sheets and wince—every muscle in my body protests, a delicious ache that brings back flashes of last night.
Blinking at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me, I can’t help but smile.
I’ve never felt so thoroughly claimed, so completely undone.
Propping myself up on one elbow, I survey my surroundings.
The room looks like a perfect beach getaway—pale blue walls decorated with a watercolor painting of a boat on calm waters, a black-and-white photograph of a couple mid-twirl, and an old clock that ticks in time with the waves outside.
Shells collected from morning walks line the nightstand.
A forgotten beach novel sits beside them.
I slip out of bed and throw on Alex’s crisp white shirt from yesterday. Barefoot, I tiptoe across cool wooden floors, following the alluring scent of coffee drifting down the hall.
In the kitchen, Alex stands shirtless at the stove, his tan back flexing as he flips a pancake with surprising skill. The scratch marks I left across his shoulders are still visible.
The sight of those muscles working brings back memories of how they felt under my fingertips just hours ago—easily the most mind-blowing night I’ve ever experienced.
Sunlight catches in his tousled hair. He looks like he belongs on a vacation commercial—carefree and perfectly at home.
“Morning,” I say, my voice still thick with sleep.
He turns, smiling bright enough to rival the sunrise. “Hey, beautiful. Sleep well?”
“Like a log,” I admit, watching him flip another pancake onto a plate. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Well, after last night, I thought you could use some energy.” He shoots me a cheeky wink and sends another pancake skyward before catching it with the pan.
A blush blooms across my cheeks. “Is that so?”
“Mhmm.” He strides over, tugs my chin up with one finger. “Sit. I got this.”
My Type-A self waivers. I’m usually the one in charge, always with a plan. But here, in this cozy sunlit kitchen with Alex humming under his breath, I want to hand over the reins if only for a little while.
“Okay,” I whisper, letting him steer me to a stool at the island. He flits around the kitchen with ease. I savor this moment of domestic bliss.
“What’s your drink of choice? Coffee or juice?” Alex asks over his shoulder.
“Coffee. Black, like my soul.”
He laughs and pours me a cup from the French press. “One dark and mysterious brew coming right up.”
I accept the mug, cradling the warmth in my hands, and take a sip. The liquid is balanced, nutty, with a hint of bitterness—exactly how I like it. My eyes flutter closed. Heaven. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Don’t get your expectations too high. I’ll be honest, it’s been a while since I’ve attempted cooking anything beyond a fried egg, so fingers crossed.”
“You’re doing better than I would.” I lean my elbows on the counter to watch as he piles pancakes onto a plate. “I’m pretty sure the last time I tried to cook breakfast, I burned the toast and set off the smoke alarm.”
“Luckily for you, I’m not as bad.” Alex sets a plate of pancakes in front of me, golden brown and perfectly fluffy. They’re topped with a drizzle of maple syrup and a handful of fresh berries. My stomach growls on cue. “Bon appétit.”
I spear a pancake, let syrup trickle down. My stomach growls its approval. “Chef extraordinaire, huh? You might ruin me for all future breakfasts.”
“Only the finest for you.” He plates himself some eggs and bacon, syrup dripping from his fingertips as he pours more on his pancakes.
Sunlight slants through the window, dusting everything in honeyed light.
We sip coffee and nibble pancakes, trading stories: his escape from family drama to chase big-city dreams, my vow to protect my little sister after our parents died.
Some scars I keep tucked away—too vulnerable and painful to share—yet here with Alex, even the painful bits feel safe.
“What’s on your agenda for today?” he asks, tilting his head as he chews a strip of bacon. “When do you have to head back to the city?”
I pause, picturing my calendar overflowing with networking events, cocktail mixers, and business breakfasts. But the whoosh of distant waves and the warmth in Alex’s eyes whisper that I could stay.
Just a little longer.
“I’m actually free today,” I blurt. “If you’ll have me. I need to be back in the city by tomorrow.”
His face lights up like a kid at a carnival. “Really? I was hoping we could explore the town today. There are so many hidden gems I want to show you.”
“I’m all yours then.”
After breakfast, we clean up together. Then, Alex takes my hand and leads me towards the bathroom for a much-needed shower.
The moment the door closes behind us, the world narrows to the sound of rushing water and the sight of Alex’s muscular form silhouetted against the steamy glass.
I don’t resist when he pulls me into the large walk-in shower, the warm cascade enveloping us both.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, and his lips graze the shell of my ear, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the temperature.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I pant as his hands roam over my skin.
Alex chuckles, but the laughter soon fades as we lose ourselves in the sensation of soap-slicked bodies sliding together. The water paints rivulets down our entwined figures, blurring the lines between where I end and he begins.
In the steamy cocoon of the shower, with droplets clinging to eyelashes and mingling with kisses, I allow myself the luxury of forgetting the world outside.
“Olivia,” he breathes out my name.
It’s a dangerous thing, this sensation of surrendering to another person, of losing myself in his touch. But in this place, with Alex, it feels right.
It feels like belonging. Like home.
Water beads on the glass, catching the light. I let him draw me under, warmth soaking into my bones, his body anchoring me in the moment.
Just this weekend , I promise myself. Just this one stolen weekend with him.