Chapter 25 OLIVE #2
The vendor grins at him, undeterred. “For her? Always worth it.”
I try to hide my smile, pretending to study the pattern of painted flowers, but I can feel Ash watching me, the warm press of his fingers against my spine. “You buying the bowl or just charming my fiancée?” he asks lightly, but there’s a thread of steel under the words.
The vendor chuckles. “Both is possible.”
I elbow Ash gently. “Stop scaring the nice man.”
He mutters, “Not scared. Just… making conversation,” but when the vendor hands me the bowl wrapped in paper, Ash is the one who takes it and tucks it into our bag like he’s making sure it’s claimed.
As we move on, weaving between stalls, I glance up at him. “Were you jealous?”
His mouth quirks, but he keeps his eyes ahead. “Nope.”
“You totally were.”
“Maybe a little,” he admits after a beat. “But only because he was right.”
“About what?”
He glances at me, a slow smile curling his mouth. “That you’re worth it.”
And just like that, the sun feels warmer, the market brighter, and my chest a little too full. Maybe Ash isn’t ready to talk about the future yet, but if he says things like that… he must like me, right?
***
That evening is our last at the villa.
Ash is by the pool, stretching like he’s about to play for a stadium crowd instead of, you know, just me.
“Watch this,” he says, flashing the grin that usually means he’s about to do something cocky.
I lounge back in the deck chair, one eyebrow arched. “Oh, I’m watching.”
He takes a running start along the edge, clearly aiming for one of those graceful, perfectly arched dives you see in slow-motion sports ads.
Only… he misjudges his footing.
His heel skids on the slick stone, and instead of slicing into the water like some Olympic swimmer, he flops—full, echoing splat—right onto his stomach.
The sound alone makes me snort, but when he surfaces, hair plastered to his face like a soggy mop, I lose it completely. I’m doubled over, clutching my ribs, tears stinging my eyes from laughing so hard.
“Glad I could amuse you,” he says, voice deadpan, water dripping from his nose.
“You—you looked like—” I can’t even finish because I’m wheezing too hard. “Like a pancake in midair.”
He narrows his eyes, mock-offended. “A pancake?”
I nod, still laughing. “A very… very flat pancake.”
He pushes his wet hair back, all faux dignity. “You think you’re safe over there?”
I lean back, grinning. “Completely.”
He’s out of the water before I realize what’s happening, water streaming off him in rivulets. I try to scramble away, but he catches my wrist, pulls me to the edge—and with one wicked grin, drags me in, clothes and all.
The water hits cold, bubbles bursting against my skin as I surface, sputtering. “Ash!”
He’s laughing—deep, unrestrained, the kind I almost never hear. “That’s what you get for laughing at me,” he says between chuckles.
“Then don’t belly-flop like a five-year-old!” I shoot back, flicking water at him with my fingers.
He gasps in exaggerated offense. “That was a highly technical dive. Years of training.”
“Uh-huh.” I kick toward him, but he splashes me first, and before I know it, we’re in a full-blown splash war—me shrieking, him laughing so hard he can barely defend himself.
At some point, the game slows. We’re both catching our breath, drifting closer in the water. His eyes find mine, and the mischief in them softens into something warmer, heavier.
“You look good like this,” he murmurs, voice low.
“Soaked?” I arch a brow, but my pulse is already jumping.
“Happy,” he corrects, and that one word melts something in my chest.
A thought bursts through my head—I think I actually want him to read my book. I trust him. I want his encouragement, his ideas for the story. I want him to know me in that way.
I can’t not let him read it, I realize.
So when we both climb out, dripping and laughing, I head inside to get my laptop.
Ash is sprawled across the outdoor sofa when I come back, hair still damp from our swim, a half-empty bottle of sparkling water dangling from his fingers. He looks relaxed—dangerously so, like he has all the time in the world.
The sun is sliding low over the horizon, spilling molten orange across the terrace and turning the ocean to liquid gold. The air is warm, heavy with the scent of frangipani, and somewhere down the beach, a lone gull cries.
I stand in the doorway with my laptop tucked under one arm, pulse skipping. I cross the terrace and hold it out to him.
He glances up, brows lifting. “What’s this?”
“My book,” I say, my voice steady even though my stomach is a tight knot. “Well… half a book.”
His eyes sharpen instantly, curiosity flaring. “You’re actually letting me read it?”
“Yes.” I sink down beside him, heart hammering. “Because… I trust you.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Just studies me like I’ve handed him something priceless. Then his mouth curves—not into his usual cocky grin, but something smaller, softer.
“I’ll take good care of it,” he says quietly, taking the laptop from my hands like it’s breakable.
The last sliver of sun dips beneath the horizon, and I realize my chest feels strangely light. Because for the first time, someone else is going to see this part of me.