"There's probably a lot you don't know about me," he says.
"Probably," I agree, meeting his gaze. "Though not for lack of interest."
His eyes widen slightly at having his own words turned back on him, and for a moment, that invisible thread between us pulls taut again. Then he clears his throat and turns back to the painting.
"This would look good in my office," he says. "A reminder of this place when we're back in New York."
The use of "we" doesn't escape me, but I choose not to comment on it. Instead, I nod. "It would certainly brighten up all that chrome and glass."
While Michael speaks with the gallery owner about the painting, I wander to the next room, which displays local crafts. Woven baskets, carved wooden figures, and handmade jewelry. A display of sea glass catches my eye—pieces tumbled smooth by the ocean, transformed from broken bottles into something beautiful. I pick up a necklace, a simple piece of blue-green glass wrapped in silver wire.
"That's lovely," says a voice behind me. The gallery owner's wife, a warm-faced woman with blue-streaked hair, smiles at me. "Local sea glass. Each piece is unique."
"It's beautiful," I agree, admiring how the light plays through the translucent glass.
"It matches your eyes," she says. "The color is unusual. Most sea glass is green or brown. Blue is much rarer."
I'm about to return the necklace to the display when Michael appears at my side. "We'll take that too," he says to the woman.
"Michael, no," I protest. "You don't need to—"
"Consider it a thank you," he says. "For making sure I actually take this vacation instead of working myself into an early grave."
I want to refuse. It crosses another line in our already complicated relationship, but the sincerity in his expression stops me. This isn't the CEO making a power play; it's simply Michael, trying in his own way to express gratitude.
"Thank you," I say finally. "It's beautiful."
The woman smiles as she takes the necklace to wrap it up along with the painting Michael has purchased. I feel myself blushing under her gaze and turn away, pretending to observe a display of wooden carvings.
Outside the gallery, the afternoon has progressed, the sun lower in the sky casting golden light across the village. Michael suggests we find somewhere for a cold drink before heading back to the villa, and I readily agree. We choose a small café with tables overlooking the harbor, where fishing boats bob gently in the clear water.
"This is perfect," I say, settling into a chair beneath a striped umbrella. "I could get used to this lifestyle."
"Couldn't we all," Michael agrees, ordering us both fresh coconut water from a passing server.
When our drinks arrive—actual coconuts with straws—I can't help but laugh at the sight of Michael Morrison, billionaire CEO, sipping from a coconut like a tourist. He catches my amusement and smiles ruefully.
"Not exactly my usual scotch on the rocks, is it?"
"Definitely not," I agree. "But somehow it suits you."
"Island Michael?"
"Something like that."
Fishermen unload their day's catch, children play along the water's edge, tourists and locals mingle in the golden afternoon light. It's peaceful in a way New York never is, even in its quietest moments.
"I've been thinking," Michael says suddenly, "about what you said last night."
My stomach tightens. I'd hoped we could leave that awkward exchange behind us. "Michael, we don't need to—"
"No, I want to," he interrupts gently. "You were right."
I blink, surprised. "About what?"
He stares out at the harbor, not meeting my eyes. "The walls. The protection. All of it." He takes a breath. "I wasn't honest with you last night."
I stay silent, afraid that anything I might say could end this moment.
