Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Milo
Not long after Ethan and Aria release everyone to begin “wedding week bingo,” Sienna and I leave the pavilion side by side, our shoulders brushing every other step.
The path to the gift shop winds through clusters of palm trees and vibrant hibiscus hedges, their red and pink blooms exploding. Sienna walks with her effortless, confident stride, her blue sundress catching the breeze and fluttering against her thighs. I keep my eyes mostly on the path.
Mostly being the operative word.
She catches me staring a second too long. “You’re awfully quiet. Plotting how to murder me on the final night so you can claim the catamaran sail for yourself?”
I shrug, hands shoved deep in my pockets. “Just wondering how long it’ll take Ethan and Aria to regret pairing us.”
“They’re probably already regretting it,” she snorts. “But if you’re secretly hoping I’ll regret being stuck with you… you’re out of luck. You’re way too stiff and controlled right now, but I’m betting I can fix that.”
I almost smile. “Are you always this optimistic before noon?”
“Only when someone makes me breakfast and then personally escorts me to get matching temporary tattoos,” she replies, head tilted. Her eyes gleam with mischief. “It’s giving domestic.”
My pulse kicks hard. “Domestic?”
“You made me breakfast. That’s domestic as hell.”
“I made us breakfast.”
“Semantics,” she shrugs, deliberately bumping my shoulder and lingering against me for a beat. “Admit it. You like taking care of me.”
I meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch between us. “I like taking care of people. There’s a difference.”
Her lips curve. “Is there?”
“Big difference.”
She laughs. “Keep telling yourself that, and maybe one day you’ll convince me.”
Minutes later, when we reach the gift shop, Sienna heads straight for the revolving display of temporary tattoos at the back.
She stops short, eyes bulging as she takes a sheet off the stand and holds it up. “Oh my God. They have dick tattoos, Milo.”
I exhale through my nose and look down at the sheet she’s holding. There are penises in various ridiculous sizes—glittery, holographic… even one wearing a goddamn pool floaty around it.
“Now… we could be adults about this, or we could be absolute legends.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “No, Sienna.”
“You’re so tempted!” she counters, stepping closer until the hem of her dress brushes my thigh. “Admit it. You want the dick tattoos as much as I do.”
I hold her gaze. “I’m tempted by many things when it comes to you.”
Her breath catches. For a second, the air between us feels thinner. “So… no dick tattoos?”
“No dick tattoos.”
With a reluctant groan, she turns back to the display and hangs the sheet back up. After five minutes of deciding, she finally chooses a sheet of small red hearts.
I beat her to the cashier, plucking the sheet from her hand and slide my card across the counter before she can protest. I can feel her glare on the back of my head the entire time I pay.
Outside, she loops her arm through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world and steers us toward the beachside bar cart.
She orders two hollowed-out pineapples filled with rum and topped with edible pink glitter.
When I reach for my wallet, she’s faster—already tapping her phone against the card machine with a smirk aimed my way.
She hands me one of the pineapples, and we walk down the beach until we settle into wooden chairs under a palm umbrella, our knees brushing as we sit. I take a sip of my drink and wince as it hits my tongue.
Holy fucking shit. It’s not even noon, and this woman is determined to get me drunk before we even finish the first task.
“Too strong for you?” she teases, biting the corner of her lip to stop herself from laughing.
“It’s fine,” I mumble, my voice dry. “Just not used to getting day drunk before noon.”
“The perks of being on vacation,” she grins cheerfully, her lips brushing the edge of the pineapple as she takes a sip. “There’s no time limit on drinking—what’s that saying? It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
A bead of glitter clings to her lower lip. She licks it off without thinking. My eyes follow the motion far too long.
“Oh fuck,” she curses, already on her feet.
“We forgot the water for the tattoos.” She jogs back to the cart, then returns moments later with a cup of water and paper towels, looking triumphant.
“Ready to get matching tattoos with me, Milo Reyes?” she asks, dropping back into her chair so our knees press together again.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, Sienna Harlow.”
“Do mine first,” she grins, already tearing out two small, sparkling hearts. “And make it look pretty.”
I wet the paper towel and press it against the inside of her wrist, holding it there for the full thirty seconds. Her pulse flutters wildly beneath my thumb. When I peel off the backing, a perfect red heart blooms on her tanned skin.
Without wasting words, she picks up the second heart and reaches for my arm. Her fingers are cool against my skin as her thumb traces my wrist before she presses the paper towel against it longer than necessary.
When she peels the backing off, she instantly reaches for her drink and takes a long sip. A droplet of rum slides down her chin. She catches it with her tongue, and my eyes follow the motion.
Sienna sets the hollowed-out pineapple on the table and looks at me. “You keep staring at my mouth.”
God. She has zero filter whatsoever.
I clear my throat. “I’m observing.”
Her lips curve. “Of course you are.”
“You’ve got glitter on your lip.”
“Then fix it.”
The challenge in her eyes is unmistakable. My pulse kicks up as I reach across the small space between us. Slowly, I brush my thumb along her lower lip, wiping away the pink sparkle. Her breath catches. Then her tongue grazes the pad of my thumb, but it’s gone in half a second.
I’m lying if I say my heart doesn’t slam hard against my chest.
Before I can recover, Sienna beams like nothing happened and shoves her phone into my hand. “Photo evidence! Both wrists in frame, obviously. And make sure you get this pineapple. I need Aria and Ethan to see this thing.”
I lift the phone, fighting a smile. “Bossy.”
“Efficient.” She corrects, scooting her chair closer until her shoulder presses against mine and her coconut-scented curls tickle my cheek.
She lifts her wrist beside mine, aligning the matching heart tattoos, then hoists the ridiculous hollowed-out pineapple like a trophy. A drop of condensation slides down the carved fruit and lands on her bare thigh. She doesn’t even notice.
“Smile, Mr. Wet-Pants-Wonder.” She teases, tilting her head so her temple brushes my jaw.
I snap the picture. Then another. Then one more, because she’s still leaning into me, still smiling like sunshine and trouble, glitter sparkling on her lip like tiny stars.
When she takes the phone back, her fingers linger against mine for a beat too long. She scrolls through the photos, biting her lip, and remarks that I managed to look “human” in at least one of them.
After sending the best picture to Ethan and Aria, we finish our cocktails before heading back to the villa. When we arrive, there’s a small wicker basket with a lid outside, along with a note in Aria’s bubbly handwriting.
Supplies for your “couple’s painting” square. Mess is highly encouraged! Have fun! We can’t wait to see the final product! —Aria & Ethan
Sienna picks up the basket and heads straight for the deck. She places it on the table, takes a seat, and begins unpacking. Inside, there are brushes in various sizes, tubes of acrylic paint, and two A4 white canvases.
She glances at me and wiggles her brows. “You ready to immortalize my face on canvas?”
“Only if you immortalize mine,” I respond, taking a seat opposite her. “Fair warning, though: I’m terrible at art.”
“You know the best thing about art?” She starts placing the acrylic paints neatly between us. “You can be as creative as you want with it. Nothing is ever truly bad in art.”
I grab the easels and set them up, then place the canvases on them and turn Sienna’s toward her. She dips a brush in blue and starts with broad strokes. I watch her for a second—tongue caught between her teeth, brows furrowed, curls falling forward every time she leans.
She tucks a curl behind her ear, leaving a streak of blue on her cheek. She looks ridiculous. Beautifully ridiculous, and something tugs at my chest.
Clearing my throat, I pick up a brush and start with her eyes—dark brown with gold flecks when the light hits them just right. The brush feels clumsy in my hand, but I keep going, trying to capture how her gaze sharpens when she teases me and softens when she thinks no one’s watching.
She glances up when she feels me watching. “You’re staring at my mouth.”
“How else am I going to capture your smile?”
Her cheeks flush as she laughs. She dips the brush into the green acrylic, then flicks it at me with a playful snap. The cool paint splats directly onto my cheek.
I gasp. “You did not.”
She smirks, but it quickly turns into a gulp when I dip my brush into red acrylic and lean across the table. Her mouth falls open, lashes fluttering frantically. “Milo—no. Oh my God!”
I smear red paint across her cheek in one smooth stroke. That’s all it takes for the chaos to erupt. She retaliates by swiping green paint across my nose. I drag my brush down the side of her throat in return—just below her racing pulse—leaving a thin line that makes her breath hitch.
Laughter fills the air—loud, breathless, and real. I haven’t laughed like this in years. Not since life became serious and controlling. Not since I forgot what it felt like to let go and have fun.
And it’s all because of her.
She’s chaos in human form, and somehow she’s making me remember what it feels like to be alive—to want laughter that hurts your sides. A woman who looks at you like she’s daring you to break every rule you’ve ever made.
I realize I’m still staring at her. And I’m still smiling so damn hard that my cheeks hurt. Shaking my head, I get back to my canvas. By now, it’s a half-decent attempt at her face, with eyes too big and a smile too wide, but it’s unmistakably her.
Because Sienna Harlow is abstract in every form, and she’s somehow still spectacular in everything she does.
“I’m done,” she announces, setting her brush on the table. “Are you?”
I nod and place mine beside hers. “Reveal on three?”
She gives a quick nod, and we count down together.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
We flip our canvases toward each other at the same time. Her mouth falls open, eyes blinking rapidly as she stares at mine. “That’s… me?”
I nod. “It’s… impressionistic.”
She snorts, her lip twitching. “It looks like I got hit by a paint truck.”
A laugh rumbles out of me before I can stop it. “Hey, what happened to ‘abstract’ and ‘nothing is ever truly bad in art’?”
She rolls her eyes, but a playful glint lingers in them as she points to her canvas. “This is you.”
I study it, my expression softening. “You made my eyes too big.”
“They’re expressive,” she shoots back, then jabs a finger at my painting. “And you’re one to talk—why do my lips look like I was stung by a wasp?”
I press my lips together, fighting back a smirk. “I got… distracted.”
“By what?”
You. That mouth. The way you bite your lip when you concentrate.
“By a lizard running up the wall behind you.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “You’re a liar.”
“And you’ve got blue paint on your lip.” The words are out before I can think.
I lean forward, my thumb brushing the streak of blue on her lower lip.
Her skin is warm and soft under my touch.
She doesn’t pull away. Instead, her breath catches as I let my thumb linger, then slowly drag it down the side of her throat.
I feel her pulse jump hard against the pad of my finger.
Her lips part. “Milo…”
I lean in closer until our breaths mingle. “You started this.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. “And you’re finishing it?”
“Not yet,” my voice comes out rough. “If I start something with you, Sienna, I’m not stopping halfway through.”
She swallows, the movement visible in her throat. Then she pulls back abruptly, stands, and breaks the heat between us. “Okay, I’m a disaster. Let’s take a photo, then I’m showering and heading to the pool before sunset yoga.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My body still buzzes from the feel of her skin.
I watch as she steps beside me, crouching until her face is level with mine.
Her shoulders brush my arm as she props her phone against the easel.
I hold up the painting of her while she lifts hers, and my mouth curves as the shutter clicks.
She grabs the phone, glances at the screen, then gives my shoulder a quick pat before disappearing into the villa. I lean back in the chair and exhale sharply. The deck suddenly feels too still, too empty without the warmth of her body beside mine.
I wanted to kiss her.
God, I wanted to kiss her.
I was right there—inches away, breathing her in, close enough to see the way her lips parted and her pulse fluttered.
But when I do eventually kiss her—and I will—I want it to be right. I want it to be when she’s ready. Not just because I want it, but because she wants it.