Chapter 9
Olivia
W e leave the beach house later than planned after our extended morning ‘shower’. I’m wearing a pale yellow sundress that Alex found in his sister’s old closet—a little tight across the chest but otherwise perfect for the warm day.
The ocean breeze ruffles my hair as we hold hands and walk down the sandy path, leaving the beach house behind.
Salt air, sun on my skin—I could live in this moment forever.
The coastal town unfurls like a storybook: dazzling white walls crowned with terracotta tiles, narrow streets winding toward the endless sapphire sea that shimmers under the afternoon sun.
“I can’t wait to show you around,” Alex says, his thumb doodling small spirals in my palm. “There’s this adorable market on Saturdays that I know you’ll love.”
As we enter the town, the symphony of laughter and distant guitar chords spills from open windows.
Boutique after boutique beckons us: hand-painted signs swinging on wrought-iron hooks, flower stalls bursting with color, bakeries exhaling warm, yeasty aromas.
Each storefront seems to whisper, “Come on in.”
We stop at a small cafe for an early afternoon snack, its striped umbrella casting dappled shadows over our table.
We order flaky pastries oozing with raspberry jam and two cappuccinos.
Alex shares fond childhood memories of summers spent here with his grandparents: dawn fishing trips, summer storms, late-night card games, picnics on warm sand.
“You seem like such a city boy,” I say. “Belonging in the bustling world of skyscrapers and constant movement. I would never have guessed that you dream of sun-kissed beaches and quiet coastal towns.”
He chuckles, licking foam from his upper lip. “You’d be surprised,” he says, a wistfulness creeping into his eyes. “Sometimes I think I’m more at home here—with sand between my toes and my head full of salt and wind—than in a suit behind some boardroom desk.”
He glances at me, a little sheepish, like that’s silly, and I’ll laugh.
But I reach out, brush a thumb over his wrist, and he relaxes into the touch.
For a while, we talk about nothing: the latest city gossip, my sister’s notorious failed soufflé, the kerfuffle last month with the mayor’s dog (don’t ask, just know it involved a runaway goat and three impounded golf carts).
I let my laughter fill the café, enjoying the way his gaze lingers on my lips, his smile growing wider and more unguarded with every story.
The rest of the day is a whirlwind of exploration: we climb the creaky lighthouse, browse a sunlit art gallery, and even drop by his favorite creamery for pistachio gelato.
By midday, hunger leads us straight into the Saturday market. Some stalls have begun to pack up, but we manage to snag fresh mangoes dusted with chili, weaving through the thinning crowds to fill our tote with basil and plump heirloom tomatoes for dinner.
As we drift past the last few vendors, a small boutique catches my eye. It stands apart from the weathered stalls, its window lined with delicate, floaty dresses. One in particular—a pale pink sundress, scattered with tiny blooms. It’s pure Tiffany.
“I want to buy it for my sister,” I tell Alex, pausing just long enough to step inside and make the purchase.
Clothes are where we’re the same and completely different.
We both wear elegant, expensive things, but for opposite reasons.
I do it to blend in. Tiffany does it to look older, to be taken seriously.
I don’t care about clothes, not really, as long as I’m comfortable and presentable.
Tiffany loves pretty dresses and beautiful things, even if she tries to hide that part of herself.
I buy the dress, despite the price tag, and ask the clerk to wrap it in tissue and place it in a sky-blue shopping bag. I imagine Tiffany’s face when she opens it—her cautious delight, the way her eyes dart away when accepting kindness, as if she’s not quite sure it’s safe. It makes me ache.
“Tell me about your sister,” Alex says as we rejoin the flow of the market, his hand warm at my lower back. “What’s she like?”
“Tiffany is endlessly kind. Curious. She devours books like candy, asks a million questions, and chases every idea until she understands it inside out. I adore her.”
My chest tightens. Since Dean’s ultimatum, I’ve been avoiding Tiffany, afraid that if she looks me in the eye and sees the worry in me, she’ll know. I’ve kept her in the dark because I want to protect her, even though that’s the very thing she hates about me.
Alex nudges me toward a bustling food cart, the aroma of sizzling skewers thick in the air.
“You’re not the only one blessed with an incredible sister,” he says fondly.
“Mine’s a hurricane of ambition. She’s studying acting and dreams of becoming a Hollywood star.
I wish I had half her courage to chase my own dreams.”
I cock an eyebrow. “What did you dream of?”
“Not what I’m doing now—that’s for sure.
I never actually wanted to join the family business.
I always thought I’d be a lawyer or a wildlife photographer—the kind that travels to the Amazon and comes back with a half-healed snakebite and a publishing deal.
” He laughs, then studies me. “Don’t you ever wonder what your life would be like if you could start from scratch? ”
“I think I’d be doing the same thing. I love where I am, even with all the pressure. I worked hard for it.”
“I want to make a difference. Use my family’s name, my resources, to reshape things for the better.
But…my path was laid out by my father. Would I be here without his connections?
Does that even matter? I have everything people hope for, yet I wake up restless, weighed down by expectations, terrified of letting anyone down. ”
After another hour of wandering, we reluctantly leave the little town and go back to the beach house to prepare dinner, our arms laden with bags of fresh produce from the market. The walk back is filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional brush of our hands and shared glances.
The sun slips lower, painting the sky in pink and orange as we tumble into the kitchen, arms full of canvas bags overflowing with glossy eggplants, ruby tomatoes, fragrant sprigs of basil, and sun-kissed peaches. The gentle clink of pots and pans mingles with the rhythmic sound of chopping.
“Here,” Alex murmurs, sidling up behind me. His chest presses against my back, warm and all too close. “Let me show you how to julienne these peppers.” His fingers curl around mine, guiding the blade into uniform strips. I lean back into him, savoring the intimacy of the moment.
“You’re a natural,” he teases, breath tickling my ear.
I twist my head, catching his eyes over my shoulder. “I have an excellent teacher.”
He kisses the side of my neck, just above my collar.
My whole body leans into the touch, exposed and vulnerable and electric.
I want to turn, to drag him onto the kitchen floor and forget dinner altogether, but I force myself to finish slicing the peppers.
Even so, I can’t resist reaching back to trail my fingers along his arm—finding reassurance in the solidness of muscle, the warmth of skin.
We cook together, moving in an easy rhythm. Alex pours wine and snacks on cheese as he chops garlic; I arrange tomatoes on a platter and sneak bites of sweet, sun-bursting peach.
It’s the least guarded I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe in my whole life.
By the time we sit to eat on the sun porch, the sky is heavy with stars. I prop my bare feet on his lap and let my hair down, savoring the freshly sliced ruby tomato layered with mozzarella and the tartness of balsamic drizzle. The sea is dark and endless just in front of us.
Alex reaches for the wine bottle.
“To unexpected adventures,” he toasts.
I clink glasses with him, letting the crisp white swirl across my tongue. “To detours,” I say, “since every one with you feels better than the main road.”
He grins, and it nearly undoes me. “You know, I never pictured myself doing this.” His voice softens on the last word. “Sitting still. Letting someone in. But I like it.”
I tuck my foot under his thigh. “What did you picture, then?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Just sips his wine and rests the glass on his knee.
“I thought I’d be alone by thirty,” he says finally.
Not sad, more factual, like he’s reciting the weather report.
“The Hawthorne men don’t exactly have a great marriage track record.
My dad tells everyone I’m a serial commitment-phobe.
Lauren says I’m just too picky. Maybe I am. ”
“Or you just haven’t found the perfect company for detours,” I say.
“That’s what I keep telling them.”
After the food is gone, he pulls me up. “Come on,” he says, leading me down to the water’s edge, where the sand is already cooling under the cover of dusk.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“Stargazing.”
Alex stretches out a thick blanket, and we sink onto it, our shoulders brushing.
The stars seem closer here, brighter, as if we’ve stepped into a different world entirely.
I can’t remember the last time I took a moment like this—just to be, without an agenda or a to-do list hovering in the back of my mind.
Our hands intertwine, and I can feel the pulse in his thumb.
Alex points to a cluster. “That’s Cassiopeia—the vain queen. My grandfather taught me to find her whenever I felt lost as a kid.” His voice is soft, almost reverent.
“Tell me more.”
He stays silent for a while, tracing slow circles against my palm, before saying, “She keeps watch over the sea. Waiting for her daughter to return. It’s not a happy story, but it’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it? She got turned into a constellation, but she never stopped caring.”
He’s closer now, close enough that I could count the eyelashes on his eyes if I wanted. “Do you believe in destiny, Olivia?” he asks.
I’ve never believed in destiny, not really.
Destiny is a word you cling to when you’ve run out of everything else, when you’re desperate for your life to mean something more than a string of decisions you can’t control.
But here, on a wild, salt-licked stretch of sand with Alex’s hand around mine, I want to believe.
“I don’t know. Maybe I do. Or I just like the idea of something bigger looking out for us. Some days, I think the only destiny worth believing in is the one you make yourself.”
Alex grins. “That sounds like you.”
The sand is chilly beneath the blanket, but I can’t bring myself to care. I study his profile in the starlight—the heavy brow and sharp cut of his cheekbone softened by something tender, something only I get to see when we’re alone. I reach over and brush a stray curl from his forehead. “Do you?”
He doesn’t answer with words, just dips his head so our foreheads touch.
His hair is damp and smells like shampoo.
The only sound is the gentle lapping of waves.
I hear his slow, even breathing and feel the thump of his heart through his tee.
His hands are impossibly warm; his lips, when they find mine, taste faintly of wine and salt.
The kiss is not urgent like last night, but slow, careful.
I know I’ll dream of this kiss long after tonight.