Chapter 24 ASH
ASH
Viral
The first thing I notice when I wake up isn’t the sunlight, or the sound of the waves—it’s the fact that Olive is still asleep beside me.
She’s curled toward me, hair a tangle on the pillow, one bare knee tucked over my thigh like she’s claiming territory.
The sheet is half-slid down her body, giving me an unfair view of skin I’d happily spend all morning getting reacquainted with.
I could wake her. I want to. But she looks so damn peaceful that I just lie there, listening to her soft, steady breathing and thinking—dangerously—about how right it feels to start the day like this.
My mind keeps replaying yesterday’s conversation on the beach. The way Olive had looked at me when she asked, Do you ever think about… what happens after our one-year contract is over?
It wasn’t an accusation, just… curious. Hopeful, maybe.
And I’d dodged it. Like I always do.
The thing is, I do care about her. Probably more than I should. She’s funny, smart, gorgeous in a way that sneaks up on you and wrecks your concentration. She makes everything lighter, easier—like maybe life doesn’t have to be so damn heavy all the time.
But we’ve got a good thing going, and I don’t see the point in screwing it up by putting labels on it. Serious relationships? Not my style. Never have been. I told her that at the start. I thought we were clear.
Still… there was something in her eyes yesterday, just for a second. Like she was searching for a promise I can’t give her.
I watch the slow rise and fall of her back, the way a loose curl rests against her cheek.
One year. That’s the deal.
Eventually, I slip out of bed, tug on some linen pants, and step onto the terrace.
The air is warm already, salt curling through it, the Pacific laid out in shades of blue that almost look fake.
The villa staff has gone full five-star—fresh coffee steaming on the table, a breakfast spread that could feed a football team, flowers arranged in the shape of a heart.
I sip my coffee and wait for her.
When she finally pads out—wearing one of my shirts, of course—it hits me like a punch. She looks sleepy and smug at the same time, like she’s caught me staring (because I am).
“Morning,” she says, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, sunshine.” I motion toward the chair I’ve pulled out for her. “Your kingdom awaits.”
She eyes the spread—fruit glistening with dew, pastries still warm with the scent of butter—and sits. “This looks delicious.”
I pour her coffee just the way she likes it, then slide a small, leather-bound package across the table.
She blinks. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
She peels back the paper, slow and cautious, like it might bite her. When she sees the journal inside—soft brown leather, embossed with a simple gold key—her lips part. She runs her fingers over the cover like she’s afraid to smudge it.
“It’s for recording scandalous thoughts,” I say lightly, leaning back in my chair.
Her gaze snaps up. “Scandalous?”
“Or, you know… thoughts about the trip. Or about me. Preferably flattering ones.”
That gets me a roll of the eyes, but the faintest blush creeps up her cheeks. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I say, watching her thumb the edge of the pages. “Figured you’d need somewhere to put all those words of yours.”
Her head tilts, a flicker of surprise there—like she’s realizing I’ve been paying closer attention than she thought. “You’re… very sure I’m going to write.”
“You’re you, Olive. You can’t help it.”
She ducks her head, but she’s smiling when she takes the first sip of coffee. I make a mental note that the journal was the right move—not just because it’ll give her an outlet, but because I like being the guy who gives her things she didn’t know she wanted.
And maybe—if I’m lucky—she’ll let me read a page or two.
***
By late morning, the sun’s high enough to demand sunglasses, and the air has that humid weight that makes clothes stick in all the wrong places.
Our driver—a guy named Mateo with a spotless white SUV and the kind of smile that says he’s seen everything—winds us down a coastal road. Olive’s glued to the window, drinking in every palm tree and glimpse of turquoise water like she’s cataloguing the entire Yucatán in her head.
When the ruins appear—stone temples perched above a cliffside, sea glittering below—she actually gasps.
“It’s like a postcard,” she murmurs.
“It’s better,” I say. “Postcards don’t come with you in them.”
She shoots me a look that’s half fond, half warning, but her cheeks give her away.
We wander through sun-bleached archways and past crumbling walls, the air heavy with the smell of warm earth and salt.
The ocean wind whips at her hair, and I swear it’s a personal attack on my self-control.
She’s wearing this light sundress that flutters around her thighs when the breeze hits just right—and I’m a man with limits.
I distract myself by reading the little plaques in front of the ruins, tossing in the occasional fake historical fact just to see if she’s paying attention.
“This temple,” I say solemnly, “was built in honor of the ancient god of tacos.”
She stops mid-step. “You’re impossible.”
“Accurate,” I reply.
By the time we reach the cliff edge, the view’s almost too much—endless blue meeting endless sky. She stands there with her hand shading her eyes, looking like she belongs in every travel magazine that’s ever made me roll my eyes at an airport kiosk.
“Alright,” I say, fishing my phone from my pocket, “stand still. I need photographic evidence that I took you somewhere cultural before corrupting you with margaritas.”
She laughs but lets me take the shot, tilting her head just so.
We linger until the sun starts to burn hot against the back of my neck. Mateo’s waiting with chilled water bottles and blessed air-conditioning, and we drive to the beach for a picnic.
We pick a shady spot beneath a towering palm and spread out our blanket. Inside the cooler is a spread of fresh ceviche, juicy mango slices, and freshly baked bread.
Olive’s got her toes buried in the warm sand, ankles crossed, sunlight painting her skin in soft gold.
She’s propped her elbows on her knees, journal balanced there like it’s the most important thing in the world.
The pen moves in small, neat strokes, her handwriting looping and precise.
Every so often, she pauses—tucks her bottom lip between her teeth while she thinks—and I swear it’s criminal how much I like watching her concentrate.
I lean back on my hands, pretending I’m looking out at the horizon, but really, I’m looking at her. She’s in her element here—barefoot, hair a little messy from the wind, sunlight catching in her eyes when she glances up.
There’s something private about her when she’s writing. It’s like watching someone dream with their eyes open, catching them mid-thought. I can’t help wondering what’s going into that journal—what she’s capturing about this trip… about us… about me.
“Whatcha writing?” I ask, casual, like I haven’t been dying to know since she opened it.
She glances over, a sly smile tugging at her mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning in, “I actually would.”
She starts to laugh, but before she can hide the thing, I make my move—plucking the pen straight out of her hand.
“Ash!” She lunges for it, but I’m already turning the page to a blank one. “That’s private!”
“Then I’ll make it public art,” I say, sketching the saddest excuse for a palm tree ever committed to paper.
She’s on her knees now, trying to grab the pen, and I’m holding it just out of reach. “You are ruining my journal!”
“Enhancing it,” I correct, adding a grinning sun wearing sunglasses. “See? Tropical theme.”
She groans, laughing anyway, her hair falling into her face as she shakes her head.
And I can’t help myself—I have to kiss her.
She tastes like lime from the ceviche we ate and salt from the sea air.
Her mouth softens against mine immediately, and the breeze threads through her hair, carrying the faint scent of coconut sunscreen.
I keep it unhurried—just a slow press, a brush, another.
But there’s something underneath it, humming there. Something I’m not ready to unpack.
When I finally pull back, she’s smiling at me like she’s saving the moment for later.
***
For our evening activity we’re going on a sunset catamaran cruise.
The catamaran is waiting for us at a private dock, sleek and white against the turquoise water. It’s the kind of boat you see on the glossy pages of a travel magazine—sun loungers on the deck, polished wood railings, champagne already chilling in a silver bucket.
Olive stops halfway down the dock, her hand shading her eyes. “This is for us?”
I nod. “All for you.”
“For me,” she repeats, side-eyeing me. “Right.”
“You’re the guest of honor. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fall overboard.”
The captain greets us, and within minutes, we’re gliding out over open water. The shoreline shrinks, replaced by nothing but endless blue. The air smells like salt and freedom.
Olive kicks off her sandals and wanders barefoot to the bow, her hair tangling in the wind, sunlight catching the curve of her cheek. I grab a club soda with three limes for me and a flute of champagne for her, then join her and pass the flute over.
“To vacations,” I say.
She clinks her glass against mine. “To being spoiled beyond reason.”
I grin. “You haven’t even seen the half of it yet.”
We stretch out on the deck, the boat rocking gently beneath us. The captain points toward a sheltered cove and drops anchor, giving us time to swim. Olive hesitates at the ladder, toes curling over the edge, before finally jumping in. I follow, the water warm and startling all at once.
She splashes me, grinning, and I retaliate, chasing her across the surface until she squeals and tries to dart away. I catch her easily, my hand circling her waist under the water.
“Careful,” I murmur. “You start something, you’d better be ready to finish it.”
Her breath catches—just a little—but she wriggles free, kicking toward the ladder. “Come on, rockstar. Race you back.”
By the time the sun starts to drop toward the horizon, we’re back on deck, wrapped in towels, sipping our drinks as the water glitters gold around us. She leans into my side without thinking, her head warm against my shoulder.
Her phone lies next to us, buzzing nonstop.
Every couple of seconds, it lights up again—screen flashing against the sunlight.
She tries to ignore it at first, tucking it under her thigh like maybe if she can’t see it, it’ll stop.
But it doesn’t. Eventually, she gives in and picks it up, scrolling with quick little flicks of her thumb, face unreadable.
I watch her for a while, trying not to pry, but the way her lips twitch—like she’s fighting a smile—has my curiosity on high alert.
“What’s going on?” I finally ask.
She hesitates. Just long enough for me to notice it’s not nothing.
“It’s, um…” She bites her lip, eyes still on the screen. “The ‘After the Photoshoot’ post went live this morning.”
Ah. The post. The one she wrote about us—well, a version of us with different names, but still us.
“And?” I prompt.
“And… apparently people are loving it.” She exhales, like she’s still processing it herself. “It’s blowing up. The comments are nonstop. My followers are jumping every time I refresh.”
I grin so hard I have to lean back to take her in. “So basically, you’ve gone viral.”
Her cheeks flush, and she tries to downplay it. “I mean… maybe just a little.”
“No, Olive.” I sit up, leaning toward her until she’s got nowhere to look but at me. “You’re blowing up. And you deserve it. This is your moment—own it.”
She shrugs, like it’s not that big a deal, but I can see the way her fingers tighten on her phone, the flicker of pride she’s trying to hide.
“You know,” I say, leaning back on my elbows, “if you can make a blog post go viral in a few hours, imagine what you could do with a book.”
Her mouth curves in a slow smile. “You sound like my manager.”
“Your unofficial one,” I say, nudging her knee with mine. “Except I’m a lot better-looking and I get to kiss you.”
That gets me a laugh. “What exactly do you mean my book?”
“I mean a book. A whole one. Something with a cover, a spine, a fancy font with your name on it.”
She hesitates, eyes flicking toward the horizon. Her cheeks go faintly pink, and she looks like she’s debating whether to admit something. Finally, she exhales. “I… might already have one. Well, half of one.”
I blink. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“It’s not—” She waves a hand, like she can brush it off. “It’s just something I started a couple years ago. A romance novel. I never finished it, and it’s probably terrible.”
I sit up, grinning. “You’re telling me you’ve been hiding a half-written romance novel from me?”
She laughs, tucking her knees up to her chest. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that,” I counter. “You’ve got this secret stash of words and you’re just keeping it to yourself? Criminal.”
Her lips twitch. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “Olive, the internet cares. Clearly. And I care. And now I want to read it.”
“Not a chance,” she says quickly, but there’s a spark in her eyes that tells me she likes the idea more than she’s letting on.