Yes, mom.
Waiting on the terrace are two massage tables draped in crisp white linen, soft music floating through the air, the scent of frangipani curling sweetly around us.
I blink at them, then at him. “You’re ridiculous,” I murmur, but my voice is already melting into a sigh.
“Correction,” he says, brushing a damp strand of hair from my cheek. “I’m thoughtful. Now get on the table before I change my mind and keep you all to myself for the rest of the afternoon.”
Heat blooms in my chest that has nothing to do with the tropical air. I pad across the terrace, toes sinking into the soft rug laid out beneath the tables, and slip onto the cool sheets. The distant sound of waves mingles with the rustle of palm fronds overhead, and for a moment, I think—if paradise has a definition, this might be it.
The masseuse starts at my shoulders, kneading away every knot I didn’t even know I had, and I hear Ash settle onto the table beside me. He exhales slowly, the sound halfway between a groan and a sigh. “Never thought I’d be into this couples’ spa thing,” he murmurs. “But…”
His sentence dissolves into another low sound of pleasure, and I smile into the headrest.
It’s slow and unhurried, the kind of massage that makes my whole body feel heavy, boneless. The terrace curtains sway in the breeze, revealing flashes of turquoise ocean. Every so often, my hand drifts toward the edge of the table until my fingers find his.
He laces his through mine without a word.
It’s such a small thing, but it undoes me more than any grand gesture ever could. The pressure on my back makes me melt further into the table, but it’s the quiet squeeze of his hand that makes my chest tighten in a different way.
“You’re falling asleep,” Ash teases, voice low and lazy.
“I’m not,” I murmur, eyes already half-closed.
“You are.” His thumb strokes over my knuckles. “And when this is over, I’m carrying you to bed. I need to be inside you before dinner.”
“Bossy,” I murmur.
And that’s exactly what he does.
***
Afterward, we take a short walk along the beach.
The water is warm when it rushes over my feet, curling around my ankles before retreating back into the ocean. Every wave leaves a laceof foam in its wake, dissolving before the next one arrives. My dress flutters against my calves, and the air tastes like salt and sunshine.
Ash is barefoot too, his jeans rolled up to his shins, one hand holding mine, the other swinging lazily at his side. Every so often, he tugs me closer, making me stumble into him just so he can laugh when I swat his arm.
We veer toward the waterline, letting the waves splash against our legs. He catches me off guard by kicking a little spray in my direction. I gasp, half laughing, half mock-offended, and retaliate. Soon we’re both dodging and splashing, laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath. His hair is mussed from the wind, his grin boyish and completely unguarded. I can’t remember the last time I saw him like this—light, carefree, and so unselfconscious it makes my chest tighten.
When the game dies down, we slow our pace and wander, scanning the sand for seashells. Ash crouches to pick up a pale pink one, turning it in his fingers before placing it in my palm. “This one’s yours,” he says simply, and my heart just… flips. We find a few more—tiny spirals, smooth flat ones the color of honey—and he pockets a couple for me like he’s determined to collect a full set.
The sun sinks lower, painting the sky in ribbons of gold and rose. His shadow stretches long beside mine, and our joined hands sway between us. He keeps brushing his thumb over my skin, like he can’t help it, and each slow pass sends a little shiver up my arm.
It’s not just the way he touches me—it’s the way he’s with me. Tuned in. Present. Like I’m not just part of his day, but the best part. He notices when a bigger wave rolls in and steps between me and the water, shielding me without even thinking. He slows down when I stop to watch a bird skim the waves. He laughs at things that aren’t even that funny, just because I’m the one who said them.
You don’t do that for someone you don’t care about.
No, he must feel it too. The warmth in his eyes when he looks at me, the way his fingers linger when they brush mine—those aren’t the touches of a man playing a part. Those are real.
And I’m starting to think… maybe he’s been falling just as hard as I have.
When he catches me staring, his lips curve into a grin that’s all heat and mischief. “What’s on your mind, Hart?” he asks, tugging me closer until I’m pressed to his side.
“Do you ever think about… what happens after our one-year contract is over?” My voice is quiet, almost lost to the breeze.
Ash’s thumb strokes the back of my hand once, then stills. “I always try to live in the present,” he says, tone even but final, like he’s gently nudging the door closed.
It’s not the answer I want. But I’m not ready to let it go, not yet. “Do you think we’ll still talk when this is over?”
