Chapter Sixteen Say Yes to Unplanned Adventures #2
The following day we head off to explore the island, Hart showing me a few of his favorite spots—a local apothecary, where I buy scented bath salts and homemade soap, and a stop at a bakery, where he picks up a couple of squares of something called cassava cake, a traditional Maldivian dessert that he wants me to try.
He says the flavor is coconut and jasmine-flower water. Sounds interesting.
I steal glances at him beside me, maneuvering the Jeep along the stretch of road.
His skin is lightly tanned, and his hair is perfectly disheveled.
He’s beautiful in his navy board shorts, his backward baseball cap, and sunglasses.
The picture of carefree youth, not a blemish or wrinkle anywhere on his spectacular body.
He places his big palm on top of my knee and gives it a squeeze.
We sing along to the radio, which plays Fleetwood Mac, of all things.
It feels like another world here, so far from the worries of Nairobi.
With the wind in my hair and the sun on my skin and this man beside me, I’m completely at peace.
He grills dinner for us while I swim in the pool. I can’t believe we only have a couple of days left. I never want this feeling to end.
“Are you sure I can’t help with anything?” I ask, wrapping myself in a towel.
“Not a thing,” he confirms.
I decide to shower before dinner and blow-dry my hair. I’m guessing it will be a wasted effort with the humidity level here, but a girl’s gotta try. I put on a white eyelet sundress and make my way barefoot outside, where he’s placing skewers of grilled shrimp and vegetables onto a platter.
“You’re just in time,” he says.
I grab bottles of water from the outdoor mini fridge, along with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. We work together, carrying everything to the outdoor dining table. It’s perched on the perfect spot to overlook the tumbling ocean waves.
We enjoy our feast and finish with the cassava cake.
“It’s good,” I say to him, helping myself to another bite. He gazes at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
We skip the dinner cleanup and head inside, knowing the staff will handle it. This is the very best part of his wealth, I decide—not having to do the dishes.
Inside, I lounge on the bed while Hart heads into the luxurious master bathroom to shower.
Dressed in a pair of shorts and nothing else with his hair damp, he seems surprised to find me still on the bed.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he returns, leaning in to kiss me. “You look beautiful,” he says, stopping to gaze at me.
I blush, but I don’t have time to be shy, because he joins me on the bed, pulling me closer.
In his arms, our age difference doesn’t matter. The opinions of internet trolls cease to exist. The words of caution from my mother and even from Scarlet fade away. I place my hand on the stubble of his cheek, appreciating the way it scratches beneath my palm.
I’ve come to appreciate all the sides to him he’s shown me. Curious and thoughtful in Nairobi. Playful and flirtatious in London. Calm and relaxed in Napa. Happy and celebrating in East Hampton. But I think I like him best like this. Fueled by desire and reckless need.
He moves slowly down my body, kissing a path lower. My breath catches in my throat as I watch him with rapt interest. He runs his hands along my thighs, under my dress, until he finds the edge of my panties, which he draws down my legs.
Taking his time, he kisses me everywhere, and right when I’m convinced I’ll need to draw him a map, he moves lower, and my breath catches in my throat.
Wow.
“Alessia. Damn,” he groans. He seems to enjoy this almost as much as I do, which doesn’t seem possible, but his enthusiasm and the low sounds he’s making indicate that he’s very much enjoying himself.
When I finally come down from cloud nine, he’s smiling at me with a hazy expression on his face.
“Are you good?” he asks, voice deep and low.
If I were any better, I might burst. “I’m great ,” I say, smiling.
He chuckles. “Then come here.”
He pulls me close, and I rest my head on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my cheek, wondering if any of this is real.
After using the restroom, I stand in front of the large mirror above the vanity.
It strikes me that if this were any other situation, I’d want to brush my hair or maybe fix my makeup.
Instead, I tug on one of Hart’s T-shirts and decide I like the woman staring back at me.
Sure, my hair’s a little tangled and I’m slightly flushed, but I look happy, relaxed in a way I haven’t before.
Maybe Hart is good for me. Maybe this is exactly what I need in my life right now.
When I head back to the bedroom, Hart is perched on the edge, dressed in black boxer briefs with the remote control in his hand.
“The choices are”—he clears his throat—“a horror flick, a rom-com, or a documentary.”
“Documentary,” we say at the same time, and I grin.
“You get the snacks? I’ll get this cued up?”
“Deal,” I say and head off toward the kitchen with a smile. I feel lighter than I have in ages. I carry back a bag of organic popcorn, nacho-cheese-flavored snack mix, macadamia nut cookies, and bottles of water and settle in beside him with a smile.
The next day we go to lunch at a beachfront restaurant and sit on the patio, enjoying cocktails and fresh seafood; later we swim in the pool and cuddle on the lounge chairs. I read on my tablet while he naps in the hammock. It’s domestic and comfortable, but I’m fully aware it’s not my real life.
My real life will be waiting for me in Kenya when I fly back in another twenty-four hours. It’s council meetings in the village and long days. It’s the stress over wondering if I’m doing enough—making enough progress. I don’t want to think about that just yet, though.
Later, he books a private boat for us, and we snorkel along a beautiful reef teaming with fish and colorful coral. Not even the sunburn on the edge of my bikini where I forgot to put sunblock can dim my mood.
We attempt to play tennis on the court at the house.
I told Hart that I’d taken a few lessons as a child.
Turns out I’m no match for him. His serves are aggressive, and his form is perfect.
And even when I sense he is trying to go easy on me, he bests me.
I’m left sweaty and laughing, calling a truce if only for the beating to stop.
“You’re better than you think,” Hart says encouragingly, swatting my behind with his tennis racket.
Now we’re lounging again—this time inside in the air-conditioning. I reply to a few emails on my laptop while Hart lifts my feet to his lap, massaging my arches with his thumbs.
On the edge of turning forty and at risk of ending up as a single cat lady, I make a decision right then and there that I’m going to grab hold of these fleeting moments.
Even if this thing with Hart is short lived. Even if it leaves me feeling like a bit of a cougar, Scarlet’s right—I deserve some fun. Momentary happiness is better than none at all, and he makes me happy.
He seems to sense the decision I’ve made, even though I know that can’t be possible, but he takes my computer from my lap, closes it, and sets it on the coffee table in front of us.
I’m about to protest, but the realization that we don’t have much time left together and the hungry look in his eyes silence me.
He runs his fingertips along my bare thigh, kisses my neck.
“What am I to you?” I ask him, fully aware that young people today probably don’t place labels on things the way I’m used to. And that this trip has shifted how I feel about him.
“You ...” He sighs. “You are a breath of fresh air. The answer to a question I didn’t know I had.” He hauls me closer—until I’m in his lap—and meets my eyes. “I think about you constantly. And when we’re apart, I feel like something important is missing.”
His words crash through me, and suddenly my hands are in his hair. His tongue is in my mouth. My breathing is much too fast. He’s very aroused and, based on the firm outline of him, very ... large .
Last night was very sexy, but also very one sided.
Not that Hart complained. He has more patience than most guys his age—I’ll give him that.
I wasn’t ready for more. Not when I wasn’t sure about us.
Today I feel more certain. I slide from the couch to the floor, and he studies me with a look of wonder, like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, running his hand along the side of my neck.
I move closer, untying the front of his shorts.
“Alessia ...” His voice drops an octave lower, and an electric current rushes through me. “You don’t have to ...”
I give the shorts a tug, and his protests quiet.
I start tentatively, feeling unsure if this is the best idea.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and in my memories, it was not all that pleasant.
With Hart, the experience couldn’t be more different.
The way he artfully arranges my hair over one shoulder so he can watch me with a look of adoration painted across his features.
His pleasure-filled sighs, the caress of his hands on my cheek and my shoulder feel appreciative, worshipful.
He lets me take the lead, and I shower him with affection, moving my mouth at a leisurely pace until his chest heaves with a final deep groan of satisfaction.
After, he lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on the inside of my wrist. “You. Are. Incredible,” he says, breathing hard. The way he looks at me is dangerous. Like he could fall in love with me.
“Yeah, well ... don’t go falling in love with me,” I warn him jokingly.
He must sense there’s a kernel of truth to my warning because he meets my eyes. “Maybe it’s too late.”
My heart riots, and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a mini panic attack. “I’m not comfortable dating a younger man. What will people say? What will my parents say?”
“You haven’t told them?”
I bite my tongue. I don’t want to admit their disapproval to him. “All I’m saying is that people will think we’re a joke. I can already hear the comments now. About how I’m a cougar and a cradle robber.”
He brushes me off.
“I’m serious, Hart.”
“Hey,” he says, lifting my chin until I’m forced to meet his eyes. “You’re none of those things. Let’s just enjoy this and not overthink it. Do you think you can do that?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Have you told your parents about me?” I shudder to think what their reaction would be.
He gives me a wry look. “No, but only because my philosophy with them is never complain, never explain.”
“Where have I heard that saying?”
“It’s the public relations strategy of the royal family.”
“And the Winthrop family too?”
He shifts, uneasy. “Sometimes, yes.”
I’m not sure what to make of his words, what to make of us . Our time together here has been magical, exactly the break I needed, even if it couldn’t last. I’m going to miss waking up to the view of the Indian Ocean and a sleepy Hart beside me.