3. Nora
NORA
I wake up warm.
Not warm like blankets-and-heating-pad warm. Warm like wrapped in another human who runs ten degrees hotter than the rest of the population and is currently pinning me to the mattress with one heavy arm draped across my ribs and a leg hooked over mine.
Cade.
The name lands in my brain at the same time reality does — I'm in his bed. He's asleep. His chest rises and falls against my back in the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. I can feel his breath stirring the hair at my nape, the solid weight of him pressed along every inch of my spine.
Two hours ago, I had sex for the first time.
With him.
On a private island.
In moonlight.
I should spiral. That's what I do — I spiral.
I overthink. I panic. But lying here in the dark with his arm around me and his heartbeat a steady thud against my shoulder blade, I don't spiral.
I just... float. Like my body hasn't quite caught up to what my brain knows happened, and the delay leaves me suspended somewhere between disbelief and this syrupy, boneless satisfaction I've never felt before.
My stomach growls.
The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet room, and I freeze, waiting to see if it wakes him. His breathing doesn't change. I wait another beat, then carefully — so carefully — start extricating myself from his hold.
He shifts, tightens his grip reflexively, and my heart stutters.
Then his arm goes slack and I slide free, sitting up slowly on the edge of the bed.
The sheet pools around my waist. I'm naked.
Sore in places I didn't know could be sore.
My thighs ache. There's a pleasant, unfamiliar tenderness between my legs that makes me hyper-aware of my own body in a way I've never been before.
I spot my nightgown on the floor near the door — a crumpled heap that looks like it lost a fight. I grab it, pull it over my head, smooth it down over my hips. Cade doesn't stir. I glance back at him once before I leave.
He's sprawled on his stomach now, one arm stretched across the space I just vacated, his face turned toward the pillow.
The moonlight coming through the glass walls catches the ink on his back — dark lines and shading I didn't get a good look at earlier because I was too busy not looking and then too busy definitely looking at other parts of him.
I slip out of his room and close the door behind me with a soft click.
The villa is silent. Empty. The kind of quiet that only exists when you're the only person awake for miles. I pad barefoot through the hall, past closed doors, into the massive open-plan kitchen that still smells faintly of wedding cake and champagne.
The fridge is the size of my bedroom back home and stocked like someone's preparing for the apocalypse. I open the freezer, squint at the rows of neatly labeled containers, and pull out a pint of vanilla bean ice cream that looks hella expensive.
Rich people are insane.
I grab a spoon, pop the lid, and take the whole pint with me outside.
The stone steps leading down to the beach are cool under my bare feet.
I sit cross-legged on the second-to-last step, the ocean spread out in front of me like a screensaver someone forgot to turn off.
The water is black and endless, the horizon line invisible in the dark.
Waves roll in with a soft, rhythmic shush that's the only sound for miles.
I eat the ice cream slowly, letting it melt on my tongue. It tastes like what regular vanilla has been trying to be its whole life — rich, creamy, with actual flecks of vanilla bean instead of whatever chemical approximation I usually get at the grocery store.
I'm halfway through composing a mental text to Dina — DINA I HAD SEX. WITH MY STEPbrOTHER. ON A PRIVATE ISLAND. IN MOONLIGHT. I KNOW. — when a voice comes from somewhere to my left.
"Nice view, right?"
I jolt so hard I almost drop the ice cream. My head whips around, and there he is.
Rhett.
He's in the jacuzzi — or near it, I can't tell in the dark. Just a shape against the darker shapes of the terrace, big and still and somehow louder for how quiet he is.
As my eyes adjust, details sharpen: the steam rising off the water in lazy curls, the way his arms rest along the edge of the tub, the gleam of wet skin and ink in the faint glow from the villa's exterior lights.
He's been here the whole time.
"Jesus," I breathe, pressing a hand to my chest like that'll slow my heart down. "You scared the shit out of me."
"Didn't mean to." His voice is low, calm, like we're having a normal conversation at a normal hour and I'm not sitting outside in a nightgown eating ice cream at midnight after losing my virginity to his brother.
I stare at him. He stares back. Or I think he does — it's hard to tell from here, but I can feel the weight of his attention, steady and unhurried.
"Yeah," I say finally, because he asked a question and I'm still capable of basic human interaction. Probably. "The view's... yeah."
Smooth, Nora. So smooth.
He doesn't say anything else. Just watches me. Not in the way Cade watched me — not like he was daring me to do something. More like he's just... noticing. Taking up space without filling it.
I turn back to the ocean and take another bite of ice cream, hyper-aware of him ten feet away. My brain supplies unhelpful details: he's six-seven, the tallest human I've ever stood near.
Gray eyes. Black hair. Tattoos down both arms, intricate and dark, wrapping around his biceps and disappearing under the water. I saw him all weekend — at the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, the reception — but I didn't see him. Not like this. Not alone.
"Can't sleep?" he asks.
"Hungry," I say, holding up the pint like evidence.
"Fair."
A pause. The ocean breathes. Steam rises.
"You?" I ask.
"Not tired."
Another pause. This one stretches longer, but it doesn't feel awkward. Just... quiet. The kind of quiet I'm usually terrible at sitting in, but something about him makes it easier. Like he's not waiting for me to fill the silence, so I don't have to.
I eat more ice cream. He shifts in the water, and I hear the soft slosh of movement, see the ripples catching light.
"That any good?" he asks, nodding toward the pint.
"It's ice cream. Of course it's good. Though I'm pretty sure it costs more than my rent."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "Probably."
"Do you guys, like, lose track of which island you're on? 'Is this the Caribbean one or the Mediterranean one?' 'Check the sand color, Rhett.'"
This time he does smile — small, barely there, but real. "We label them."
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
I blink. "You're serious. You label the islands."
"GPS coordinates work better than names."
"Oh my God." I take another bite, shaking my head. "Rich people are insane."
"You're here."
"Yeah, because my dad married your mom and then ditched me. I didn't exactly sign up for private-island life. I rescue cats, dogs, and other animals. My budget involves whether I can afford the name-brand cat litter or if I have to go generic. We are not the same."
"No," he agrees, and something in his tone makes me glance over. He's watching me again, head tilted slightly, gray eyes steady. "We're not."
It doesn't sound like an insult. Or a compliment. Just an observation.
I'm trying to figure out how to respond when he speaks again.
"Tell me about the rescue center."
I blink. "What?"
"You said you rescue cats and dogs. Tell me about it."
I stare at him. People don't ask about the rescue center. People say "oh, that's nice" or "you must really love animals" and then change the subject because who wants to hear about litter boxes and vet bills and the three-legged tabby who pees on everything when he's stressed?
"You actually want to know?"
"I asked."
Okay. Fine. I shift on the step, tucking one leg under me, and the nightgown rides up my thigh.
I tug it back down. "It's me and my best friend, Dina.
We graduated early, pooled our money, took out a loan, and opened it a few months ago.
The pay is terrible. Like, I-eat-ramen-four-nights-a-week terrible.
But we take in the animals nobody else wants — the old ones, the sick ones, the ones with behavior issues.
We fix them up, socialize them, and adopt them out.
Or we try to. Some of them just... live with us now. "
"How many?"
"Right now? Twelve. Technically ten are adoptable. Two are permanent residents because one has feline diabetes and needs insulin twice a day and the other bites literally everyone except me and Dina."
"What are their names?"
I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. "The biters?"
"All of them."
"You want me to list twelve names."
"Yeah."
I study him. He's not smirking. Not patronizing. He just... wants to know.
So I tell him.
I tell him about Meatball, the orange tabby who weighs twenty pounds and steals food off your plate if you look away for half a second.
About Duchess, the Persian with one eye and an attitude problem.
About Houdini, the three-legged cat who figured out how to open the supply closet and now sleeps on the top shelf surrounded by bags of kibble like a tiny, furry dragon guarding treasure.
Rhett listens. Actually listens. Asks follow-up questions. "How'd Houdini lose the leg?" "What's Meatball's adoption success rate?" "Does Duchess get along with anyone?"
I answer every one, and somewhere in the middle of explaining why Houdini sleeps on my pillow even though he's technically Dina's favorite, I realize I'm smiling.
Talking about the animals always makes me smile, but this is different. I'm not explaining it like I'm apologizing for it. Like it's not a real job or not important enough to take seriously.
I'm just talking. And he's just listening.
"You're good at this," he says when I pause to take another bite of ice cream.
"At what?"
"Talking about something you care about."
I look down at the pint, scraping the spoon along the bottom even though there's still plenty left. "It's just cats and dogs.”