Chapter Sixteen Say Yes to Unplanned Adventures
Chapter Sixteen
Say Yes to Unplanned Adventures
The Maldives
“Hey, Mom, sorry I can’t talk right now,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear.
“You’ve been so busy, honey. I haven’t spoken to you in weeks. How are you? What’s going on now?”
She’s not wrong. The last three times she’s called, I’ve been in the middle of something. Now is no different. And I haven’t exactly been the best about calling her back. Though I do text often—usually a photo when I’m visiting the village to show her my progress.
“I’m packing, actually. But I can call you once I’m on my way to the airport.”
“I’m not hopeful enough to think you’re coming home for a visit, so where are you headed this time? Back to London? Or New York?”
I grab a pair of black flip-flops and pack them into the zippered part of my suitcase. “No, actually. I’m heading away for a few days ... to the Maldives.”
When Hart called this week, saying that I’ve been working too hard and asking me to come away with him to the Maldives for a long weekend, where his family owns a home, I felt powerless to refuse him.
Like a true hopeless romantic, I pictured us cuddled together on a sun-drenched stretch of beach.
Far away from my smartphone and the stresses of running the foundation.
Mom makes a noise that can only be described as encouraging. “ Oh là là . That sounds fancy. But it’s quite a flight.”
She’s right, but I’m actually looking forward to the long flight. I don’t get much downtime, and forced airplane mode, along with time to nap and read, sounds positively luxuriant right now.
“What’s in the Maldives?”
Might as well rip off the Band-Aid, Alessia.
“Hart,” I admit sheepishly. I mentioned him only twice before to my parents—once after Napa and then again after the Hamptons, both times to their stark disapproval.
Not that it surprised me. My parents’ reaction to his age was basically what I’d expected, which is why I’ve been quiet on his presence in my life.
“Oh.” She sounds surprised more than anything.
“Now’s not exactly the best time, with how busy I’ve been in Nairobi, but he convinced me that I’ve been working too hard and could use a few days of downtime,” I say, rambling. I tend to do that when I’m flustered.
“Well, I’m sure that’s true, but I’m honestly surprised to hear you’re still seeing him.”
The awkward silence that stretches between us lasts a moment too long.
I draw a breath to steady myself and release it slowly.
I place my toothbrush and toothpaste into my toiletry kit and carry it to the bed, where my suitcase is still open and spilling out onto the bed.
I’m probably overpacking. It’s possible I’ll wear a bikini and little else .
.. a devilish image of a shirtless Hart splashing in the surf flashes through my brain.
My mother’s voice brings me back to the present. “Alessia, it’s your life and you know I don’t like meddling ...”
But . . .
“But honey, honestly. What are you doing?”
There it is. There’s the judgment I expected. It’s why I haven’t told my parents much about Hart. I haven’t wanted to hear their opinions. I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m just having fun, Mom.”
She lets out a slow sigh. “Galivanting across the globe with some kid? It’s hard being a grown-up, but this is not the way to do it.”
Some kid? Ouch. I ignore the dig, the way you do when you’re trying to keep the peace and your sanity, but her words sting more than I care to admit.
Composing myself, I close my eyes. “Mom. I really can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Okay,” she relents.
When I end the call and shove the phone into my bag, I know I won’t be calling her back today, because I can tell our conversation about Hart is far from over.
And quite frankly, I don’t need another person in my life rooting against us.
My own skepticism about our relationship is enough to keep my anxiety well fed for now, thank you very much.
It’s a long flight—nearly thirteen hours—but once I land and Hart meets me at baggage claim, all those hours suddenly seem worth it.
“Hi,” he says, smiling at me.
“Hi,” I return, feeling a little shy.
He looks gorgeous—suntanned and happy—wearing a white button-down shirt that’s open at the collar, with floral patterned swim trunks.
The Jeep is parked outside, and with the wind in my hair and Bob Marley singing on the radio, I lose myself in the perfection of this moment.
From the driver’s seat, he reaches for my hand, then kisses the back of it once as he navigates down the winding road.
We pass the water taxis and fishermen’s boats bobbing along and continue past the tourist spots and waterfront restaurants.
The sand looks like sugar, and the water is impossibly turquoise blue.
As we drive, there are red streamers adorning the buildings that wave at us in the breeze. Red paper lanterns. Red flowers overflowing from pots. Everywhere I look, my favorite color.
“Wow. What’s all this?”
He shrugs. “A local festival, I think.”
Despite the seasons changing into winter back home, here it’s a perfect seventy-eight degrees and sunny, without a cloud in the sky.
It’s paradise. I’ve traveled quite a bit, but I’m certain I’ve never been anywhere this beautiful.
Between the sweetly fragrant flowers, the humid air, and the waves crashing lazily against the shore, I feel like I’ve died and entered heaven.
Hart pulls up to a beautiful oceanfront home and punches in a code for the gate, which begins to slide open with a sound.
“Nice place,” I say, slipping off my sunglasses to look around.
“Thanks. It belongs to Hayes’s parents. He and I try to come once a year. Usually in the spring for surfing. But this is better ...”
The house is spectacular, a six-thousand-square-foot masterpiece of island luxury.
Floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the endless expanse of the Indian Ocean.
A cozy living room with a huge plush white sectional.
A formal dining room for twelve, which I don’t expect we’ll use.
And a sleek infinity pool with several comfy-looking lounge chairs and big umbrellas for shade.
We make no pretense about sleeping arrangements, and after giving me a tour, he places my bags in the primary bedroom, along with his.
He arrived yesterday and stocked the house with food in the fridge, fresh fruit on the counter, bottles of prosecco and sparkling water.
Sunblock. Everything we would need for four magical days here together.
“Change into your swimsuit, and I’ll make us a drink,” he says, then kisses me softly on the mouth.
I nod, distracted by him.
I head to the bedroom and locate my swimsuit in my bag.
I packed a bright-pink bikini, and now I wonder why on earth I’d felt so ambitious.
I take the swimsuit to the bathroom to change.
On the counter, lined up neatly, are Hart’s toiletries.
Luxury skin care in sleek matte-black bottles, mouthwash, and an electric toothbrush.
I tie the strings of the bikini and then peer at myself in the full-length mirror. I may not be as young as the girls he usually dates, but I remind myself it’s me he wants here. And deciding that’s good enough for me, I head out to join him.
A lazy smile overtakes his face when he sees me.
“Everything okay?” I stride over, smiling.
“Everything is great. I think pink is my new favorite color.” His voice is husky.
We drink mojitos and swim in the pool, laughing and splashing each other.
Later, I park myself in the shade and watch him refill our drinks. His hair is wild, his shirt unbuttoned and drifting open in the breeze, and his shorts are dripping with water. And he’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.
Sinking into the lounge chair beside me, he hands me an icy cold cocktail.
“I know you missed your family and cookies, but is there anything else you missed?”
I turn toward him, shielding my eyes from the sun. “You want to hear me say I missed you?”
He sweeps a lock of dark hair from my shoulder, his fingertips leaving a blaze of heat in their wake. “Only if it’s true.”
I take a sip of my mojito, feeling brave. “It’s true. I did.”
“I missed you too.” His gaze lingers for a moment longer, and he touches my cheek, like he’s unable to look away, unable to stop touching me, even for a moment. “I like the way you look at me. You see me in ways that others don’t.”
I want to joke that he’s easy to look at, but I don’t, because I can sense he’s serious—I do see him for who he really is. He’s kind and generous and confident, but he’s also uncertain and searching for his purpose.
He touches my jaw, turning my face, noticing that I’m wearing the earrings he gave me for my birthday the last time I saw him. “You wore them.”
“I love these earrings, thank you again.”
“You deserve them.”
He asks for updates about my work in Nairobi, and I’m only too happy to talk to him about it.
Sean merely tolerated my work in Africa, often turning grouchy and lashing out when it was time for me to leave again.
Hart seems genuinely invested, like he’s rooting for my success there.
Next I show him pictures on my phone of Scarlet’s new baby.
He gazes at the photos—and there are many—with little reaction. I have a massive soft spot for babies, and before I read too much into it, I remind myself that his lack of interest is probably just because he’s never met Scar.
At night we eat entirely too much grilled lobster and octopus, and we laugh, dancing to sleepy steel drum music and kissing under the stars. In his arms, I’m far from home, but I’ve never felt closer to it.