Chapter 23 OLIVE
OLIVE
Luxury
Iwake to warmth. Not just the soft sunlight spilling through the gauzy curtains, but the heavy, slow-breathing heat of Ash wrapped around me. His arm is slung over my waist, his face buried in the curve of my neck, like he’s decided I’m the pillow and he’s never letting go.
For a long moment, I don’t move. I just listen to the waves outside, smell the salt in the air, and feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back.
“You awake?” His voice is a sleepy rumble against my skin.
“Mmhmm.” I shift slightly, and his arm tightens, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then I don’t have to pretend I’m asleep so you won’t run away.”
I smile into the pillow. “Run away? You’ve basically got me in a full-body lock.”
“That’s the point.” His lips graze my shoulder—lazy, unhurried. “We’re not leaving this bed for… I dunno. Ever.”
“Not even for breakfast?” I tease.
“Actually,” he says, “I thought of that. We’re having breakfast in bed.”
I laugh, twisting in his arms to face him. His hair’s a mess, sticking up in half a dozen directions, his eyes heavy-lidded but sparkling in that way that makes my stomach flip.
This—this right here—is the part no one else gets to see. Not the man on stage or the one in the glossy photos. Just Ash. Warm, rumpled, ridiculous Ash.
“I think it should be here already. Let me check.”
He gets up, and a minute later returns with a tray the size of a small coffee table.
My jaw drops. It’s piled high with mango slices, fresh papaya, croissants, tiny jars of jam, eggs that look like they belong on a cooking show, and a pot of coffee that smells like it was brewed by angels.
I sit up, tugging his oversized black shirt down over my bare legs. It swallows me whole, the sleeves falling past my hands.
His eyes skim over me, slow and appreciative. “That shirt’s never looked better.”
“Flattery will get you a croissant,” I say, breaking one in half and tossing him a piece.
We eat cross-legged on the bed, stealing bites from each other’s plates, the ocean breeze drifting through the open doors. Ash pours me coffee, adds just the right amount of milk without asking. I lick mango juice from my fingers, and he watches me like I’ve just done something scandalous.
“This is ridiculous,” I say around a mouthful of pastry. “No one actually eats like this.”
“Correction,” he says, leaning back against the headboard with his coffee, “we eat like this.”
I throw a strawberry at him. He catches it in his mouth, grinning like he’s twelve.
We spend a few more hours tangled in this luxurious bed, laughing, cuddling, and gorging on fresh fruit.
But there’s so much I want to do here, and the pool is calling my name. I finally convince Ash to put on a bathing suit, and I’m the first to dive in.
The water is warm, sunlit, and impossibly blue—like it’s holding a piece of the Mexican sky just for us. I float on my back, staring at the cloudless horizon, until a splash hits my face.
I blink water out of my eyes. Ash is treading water a few feet away, wearing that lazy smirk that always means trouble.
“Did you just—”
Another splash. This one hits me square in the chest.
“Oh, it’s on,” I say, lunging toward him.
We end up in a ridiculous splash war, laughing so hard I can barely breathe. I duck under the water to escape his counterattack, but when I come up, he’s right there—hands catching my waist before I can wriggle away.
“Gotcha,” he says, voice low now.
My pulse trips. The laughter is still in my chest, but it’s tangled with something hotter, heavier. His thumbs stroke over my hips underwater, slow and deliberate.
“You’re cheating,” I manage.
“Always,” he murmurs, leaning in.
The cool edge of the pool presses against my back as his body crowds mine, heat radiating between us even with water lapping around our shoulders. He kisses me—slow at first, tasting of salt and sunshine—then deeper, hungrier.
His hands roam under the surface, sliding up my back, pulling me closer until we’re flush from chest to thigh. My legs hook around his waist without me thinking about it, water sloshing against the infinity edge as we move.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the view—the ocean spilling into the horizon, palm trees swaying—but mostly, all I can focus on is Ash, his mouth on mine, and the way the world narrows down to this weightless, heated tangle.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless. He grins, hair slicked back, eyes bright.
“Best vacation activity,” he says.
“Swimming?” I tease.
“Kissing you in swimming pools,” he corrects, before pulling me back in.
By the time we finally drag ourselves out of the pool, the afternoon sun hangs high and bright, spilling heat over my skin. My hair drips down my back, my limbs loose and languid from the water. Ash tosses me a towel with that lazy, satisfied smirk that says he knows exactly why I’m smiling.
I take a quick peek at my phone. A text is waiting:
Nina:
How’s the engagement moon?
I snap a photo of our villa—the infinity pool, the ridiculous blue sky—and send it back. Three little dots pop up.
Nina:
Now that’s just plain rude.
Olive:
You asked…
Nina:
How’s Mr. Rockstar?
Olive:
Delicious.
I stifle a laugh when an eggplant emoji pops up on the screen. Looking up, I notice Ash has already planned our next indulgence.
Olive:
Gotta go. Love you.
Nina:
Love you more. Go enjoy your fiancé. Also: sunscreen your ears!!
Olive:
Yes, mom.
Waiting on the terrace are two massage tables draped in crisp white linen, soft music floating through the air, the scent of frangipani curling sweetly around us.
I blink at them, then at him. “You’re ridiculous,” I murmur, but my voice is already melting into a sigh.
“Correction,” he says, brushing a damp strand of hair from my cheek. “I’m thoughtful. Now get on the table before I change my mind and keep you all to myself for the rest of the afternoon.”
Heat blooms in my chest that has nothing to do with the tropical air.
I pad across the terrace, toes sinking into the soft rug laid out beneath the tables, and slip onto the cool sheets.
The distant sound of waves mingles with the rustle of palm fronds overhead, and for a moment, I think—if paradise has a definition, this might be it.
The masseuse starts at my shoulders, kneading away every knot I didn’t even know I had, and I hear Ash settle onto the table beside me. He exhales slowly, the sound halfway between a groan and a sigh. “Never thought I’d be into this couples’ spa thing,” he murmurs. “But…”
His sentence dissolves into another low sound of pleasure, and I smile into the headrest.
It’s slow and unhurried, the kind of massage that makes my whole body feel heavy, boneless. The terrace curtains sway in the breeze, revealing flashes of turquoise ocean. Every so often, my hand drifts toward the edge of the table until my fingers find his.
He laces his through mine without a word.
It’s such a small thing, but it undoes me more than any grand gesture ever could. The pressure on my back makes me melt further into the table, but it’s the quiet squeeze of his hand that makes my chest tighten in a different way.
“You’re falling asleep,” Ash teases, voice low and lazy.
“I’m not,” I murmur, eyes already half-closed.
“You are.” His thumb strokes over my knuckles. “And when this is over, I’m carrying you to bed. I need to be inside you before dinner.”
“Bossy,” I murmur.
And that’s exactly what he does.
***
Afterward, we take a short walk along the beach.
The water is warm when it rushes over my feet, curling around my ankles before retreating back into the ocean. Every wave leaves a lace of foam in its wake, dissolving before the next one arrives. My dress flutters against my calves, and the air tastes like salt and sunshine.
Ash is barefoot too, his jeans rolled up to his shins, one hand holding mine, the other swinging lazily at his side. Every so often, he tugs me closer, making me stumble into him just so he can laugh when I swat his arm.
We veer toward the waterline, letting the waves splash against our legs.
He catches me off guard by kicking a little spray in my direction.
I gasp, half laughing, half mock-offended, and retaliate.
Soon we’re both dodging and splashing, laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath.
His hair is mussed from the wind, his grin boyish and completely unguarded.
I can’t remember the last time I saw him like this—light, carefree, and so unselfconscious it makes my chest tighten.
When the game dies down, we slow our pace and wander, scanning the sand for seashells.
Ash crouches to pick up a pale pink one, turning it in his fingers before placing it in my palm.
“This one’s yours,” he says simply, and my heart just…
flips. We find a few more—tiny spirals, smooth flat ones the color of honey—and he pockets a couple for me like he’s determined to collect a full set.
The sun sinks lower, painting the sky in ribbons of gold and rose. His shadow stretches long beside mine, and our joined hands sway between us. He keeps brushing his thumb over my skin, like he can’t help it, and each slow pass sends a little shiver up my arm.
It’s not just the way he touches me—it’s the way he’s with me.
Tuned in. Present. Like I’m not just part of his day, but the best part.
He notices when a bigger wave rolls in and steps between me and the water, shielding me without even thinking.
He slows down when I stop to watch a bird skim the waves.
He laughs at things that aren’t even that funny, just because I’m the one who said them.
You don’t do that for someone you don’t care about.
No, he must feel it too. The warmth in his eyes when he looks at me, the way his fingers linger when they brush mine—those aren’t the touches of a man playing a part. Those are real.