She throws a scrunchie at my face. I let it bounce off and grin.
“I’m serious,” she says, plopping onto the bed next to the suitcase and blowing a rogue curl out of her face. “This trip is important. What if there are paparazzi at the airport? What if the staff at the villa are like…models? I can’t just show up in Target flip-flops and hope for the best.”
“You could show up in a trash bag and you’d still be the hottest person in the room.”
She rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t injure herself. “Stop.”
“I’m not kidding.”
I reach over and tug her hand gently, making her look at me. Her skin’s warm from all the moving around, her cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted from all the huffing. There’s a jittery sort of excitement under her nerves—like she wants to be cool about this, but can’t quite manage it.
“This isn’t some press stunt or red carpet circus,” I say softly. “It’s just you and me. Sun. Ocean. No one watching.”
She exhales, long and shaky. “NoLiam.”
“No Liam,” I confirm. “Unless he hides in your carry-on. Which…isn’t impossible.”
That earns me a laugh, and the tightness around her eyes eases a little. I love watching her soften. Love that I can help her feel safe when everything else is spinning too fast.
“Okay,” she says, nodding slowly. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Damn right you can.” I kiss her hand. “And don’t worry about the wardrobe. If you forget anything, I’ll just have it flown in. Or buy out a store.”
“Casual billionaire flex,” she mutters.
“Didn’t even mean to. That’s just how my mouth works now.”
She throws another scrunchie at me—this time with less force, more affection. “Remind me why I’m fake marrying you again?”
“Because I read romance novels in bed and make you pasta from scratch?”
“And because you look really good in sunglasses,” she adds with a sigh, standing to grab another dress from the closet.
“Exactly. All the essentials.”
Two hours later, a sleek black car glides to the curb. The driver steps out in a pressed suit and opens the back door with a polite nod.
Olive hesitates for half a second, suitcase handle clutched in one hand, oversized tote bag slung over her shoulder. She's dressed in one of those soft travel sets she claims are “just comfy,” but she somehow still looks like she belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine. Her sunglasses are oversized. Her expression is nervous-excited.
“Fancy,” she whispers as I help her inside.
“Only the best for my fake fiancée,” I say, sliding in beside her and giving her hand a quick squeeze.
The doors shut with a softthunk, sealing us into what I can only describe as rolling serenity. The interior smells like leather and cedar. The seats are plush and the car glides forward like it’s on rails.
I reach into the compartment between us. “Snacks?”
Her eyes light up as I pull out a small curated box. Grapes, brie, crackers, chocolate-covered almonds. I know her favorites. I made sure they were all in here.
“You didnot,” she says, reaching for a chocolate almond like it’s contraband.
“I did. And”—I tap the screen in front of us—“your playlist is already queued. The one you said makes you feel like the main character on a road trip.”
She stares at me, blinking.
“What?” I say innocently. “I listen when you ramble about your Spotify habits at midnight. Sue me.”
The music starts, a slow, moody opening guitar riff filtering through the speakers. She turns to me slowly, mock-suspicious.
