Chapter 25 OLIVE
OLIVE
Worth It
We opt for a slow morning at the villa. I’m curled up on the couch, laptop balanced on my knees, wrestling one stubborn sentence into place.
Ash flops down beside me, hair still damp from a shower, T-shirt clinging in a way that should be illegal. “Whatcha working on?” he asks, like it’s casual conversation.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly, snapping the laptop halfway closed.
He grins, that slow, knowing grin that always makes me nervous. “Oh, that was suspicious. Which means… it’s your book, isn’t it?”
“No.” My voice is firm. My cheeks, however, are burning like I’ve just sprinted a mile.
Ash leans in, lowering his voice like we’re conspiring. “You know, I’m a very good reader. Excellent at dramatic interpretation. I could do voices.”
I snort. “I bet you could. Still no.”
“Come on,” he says, pretending to pout. “Just one chapter. Or a paragraph. Or even the title.”
I shake my head, hugging the laptop to my chest like a life raft. “It’s not ready. It’s barely halfway done, and it’s rough, and you’d make fun of me.”
“Olive.” His tone is mock-offended. “I would never make fun of you. Tease you mercilessly, yes. But in a supportive way.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He stretches an arm along the back of the couch, his gaze flicking between my face and the laptop. “You’re killing me here. You know that, right?”
“I’m protecting you,” I say with a grin. “If you read it now, you’ll just fall in love with the heroine and get jealous of the hero.”
He laughs, low and warm. “So the hero’s based on me.”
My eyes go wide. “I didn’t say that. I didn’t even know you two years ago. You don’t factor into it at all.”
He puts a hand to his heart. “Wow. That actually stings a little.”
I laugh. “Good.”
I try to shove him away, but he catches my wrist and pulls me closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “One day, Olive Hart… I’m gonna read that book.”
Before I can roll my eyes or come up with a smart retort, his mouth is on mine. Slow at first, then deeper—hot enough to make my knees feel like they’ve forgotten how to function. His fingers slide into my hair, tilting my head just the way he likes, and my pulse kicks into a sprint.
By the time I’m melting against him, ready to forget my own name, he pulls back. Just like that. Gone.
I blink at him, breathless. “What the hell—?”
He grins, pure wickedness. “If you won’t let me read your book, there’s no sense in still hanging around the villa.”
I gape at him. “So you’re… withholding kisses now? Is that your strategy?”
“Not withholding.” He stands, offering me a hand like a perfect gentleman. “Just motivating.”
“Motivating for what?” I demand, refusing to take his hand.
He shrugs, already heading for the terrace doors. “For adventure. For mystery. For… swimming in a cenote before the sun gets too low.”
I fold my arms, still trying to get my pulse under control. “You’re infuriating.”
“And yet,” he says over his shoulder, “you’re coming with me.”
He’s halfway down the path before I give in, grabbing my swimsuit from the bedroom and muttering under my breath.
By the time I catch up to him, he’s already waiting beside a rented Jeep.
He grins, opens the passenger door, and I climb in.
Soon we’re winding through lush green trails, jungle pressing close on either side.
The hum of cicadas fills the air, and every bump in the road makes me more curious about where he’s taking me.
When we finally stop, the trees part to reveal a secluded clearing and a wooden platform that seems to float above a hidden pool.
The first thing I notice is how impossibly clear the water is—like glass that’s been tinted turquoise. Sunlight filters through gaps in the limestone above, scattering gold across the surface. The air smells faintly of wet stone and earth, cooler than the humid warmth outside.
“This is ridiculous,” I murmur, peering over the edge of the wooden platform. “This doesn’t even look real.”
Ash grins, tossing his shirt aside. “It’s real. And you’re getting in.”
I hesitate, peeking down at the drop. The cenote stretches out like a secret world beneath us—water so deep it fades to navy. “What if there are, I don’t know… ancient spirits down there? Or fish with teeth?”
He steps close, his voice low in my ear. “Then I’ll protect you.”
It’s meant to tease, but my stomach flips anyway.
Ash jumps first, slicing into the water with barely a splash. His laugh echoes off the stone walls when he surfaces, hair slicked back. “Your turn!”
I take a deep breath and leap. The water swallows me in a rush of cool silk, bubbles fizzing around my ears. When I break the surface, I’m laughing—shocked at how alive I feel.
“Not so bad, right?” he calls, swimming toward me.
“Not bad,” I admit, treading water. “Actually… perfect.”
We spend the next hour exploring—ducking into shadowy overhangs, pointing out tiny silver fish darting around our ankles, floating on our backs beneath the skylight of sun above.
We climb out eventually, dripping and exhilarated. My legs feel like jelly in the best way. Ash hands me a towel, his fingers lingering just a beat too long on mine. “Ready for the next stop?”
I nod, already warm again—though I’m not sure how much of that is the sun.
Our next stop is the market. It is a riot of color and sound—bright woven fabrics strung like flags overhead, the air thick with the smell of fresh tortillas and sizzling meat. Vendors call out in Spanish, offering bracelets, carved wooden animals, piles of mangos and limes that gleam in the sun.
My hair is still damp from the cenote, sandals clicking on the uneven cobblestones as I trail after Ash. He’s completely in his element—laughing with vendors, tasting roasted nuts, pointing things out like it’s his mission to make sure I don’t miss a thing.
We stop when we hear a street musician under a palm-fringed tarp, battered case open at his feet, hand-painted sign reading: Gracias por apoyar la música. He’s playing Sabor a Mí, notes clean, rhythm swaying with the heat. His voice is sugared smoke.
Ash shifts the way he does when music gets into his bones. “It’s in G,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. My hand tugs him closer.
We join the little semicircle of listeners—kids with melting paletas, a couple in matching hats, a grandmother with the sharpest elbows in Mexico. The guitarist looks up and smiles, wrinkle-fans at his eyes saying he’s done this a thousand afternoons and still loves it.
Ash’s thumb rubs over my knuckles as he leans down, mouth close to my ear so I can hear him over the market’s warm hum. “He’s swapping the turnaround,” he whispers, delighted. “Listen—he’s going to hang on the four and then dive.”
We listen. The guitarist does exactly that. It’s both unexpected and inevitable—the way music is supposed to feel, I’m learning. Ash beams like a kid who guessed the twist in a magic trick.
The song ends. Applause stutters, then gathers. The musician’s smile deepens; he nods, hand over his heart.
Ash pulls out his wallet and drops a bill into the case with a soft thwap. I glimpse the portrait before it disappears.
“Ash,” I hiss. “That’s—”
“—fine,” he cuts in, already flushing, guilty but not sorry. “He’s good. Like… good good.”
The guitarist blinks down, then back up at us. For a second I’m worried we’ve made it awkward. Then he laughs—quick, delighted—and calls something I don’t catch. The grandmother with the sharp elbows translates without being asked: “He say, felicidades. Honeymoon?”
I open my mouth to protest—we’re not honeymooning, we’re… whatever this is—but Ash beats me to it with a sheepish little bow that makes the crowd coo. The guitarist grins and, with a flourish, slides straight into Bésame Mucho, dedicating it to los esposos.
Okay, fine. When in Tulum, accept your fate. We stay for three songs.
The next stall drips with dresses—soft cotton and linen in every shade from seafoam to crimson. Ash brushes his fingers over a pale coral one, thin straps and a skirt that looks like it would flutter if you so much as breathed on it.
“This one,” he says, holding it up against me. “You have to try it.”
I laugh. “It’s cute, but—”
“No buts. Go.” He’s already gesturing to the tiny curtained space at the side of the stall. “Humor me.”
The dressing space is barely wide enough to turn around in, but the dress is light and airy against my skin. I smooth it down, take a breath, and step out.
Ash’s reaction is immediate. His jaw drops, then snaps shut like he’s caught himself. His gaze sweeps over me once—slow, deliberate—and I swear I feel it in places the tropical heat has nothing to do with.
“That’s it,” he says, voice low. “That’s the one.”
“It’s just a dress,” I protest weakly, tugging at the hem.
“It’s not ‘just’ anything,” he counters, pulling out his wallet before I can stop him. “It’s for my viewing pleasure.”
“Ash—”
“Too late. I’m buying it.”
And just like that, it’s mine. He hands the vendor cash, tucks the receipt away, and grins at me like he’s just won something.
I end up wearing the dress for the rest of the day, the light fabric swishing around my knees as we wander from stall to stall. Every time I glance at Ash, I catch him watching me—eyes dark, mouth curved in the kind of smile that makes my pulse jump.
It’s both distracting and… exhilarating.
We stop at a table stacked high with hand-painted ceramics, and the vendor—a man in his thirties with an easy smile and mischievous eyes—immediately zeroes in on me. “Bella,” he says, sliding a bowl toward me, “this one is as beautiful as you.”
I laugh, cheeks warming. “You’re a good salesman.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, “I am an honest man. But for you, I give special price.” He winks.
Beside me, Ash makes a low noise—half amusement, half… something else. “Special price, huh?” he says, resting his hand on the small of my back like he’s claiming a plot of land. “Better make sure it’s worth it.”