The first thing I notice when I wake up isn’t the sunlight, or the sound of the waves—it’s the fact that Olive is still asleep beside me.
She’s curled toward me, hair a tangle on the pillow, one bare knee tucked over my thigh like she’s claiming territory. The sheet is half-slid down her body, giving me an unfair view of skin I’d happily spend all morning getting reacquainted with. I could wake her. I want to. But she looks so damn peaceful that I just lie there, listening to her soft, steady breathing and thinking—dangerously—about how right it feels to start the day like this.
My mind keeps replaying yesterday’s conversation on the beach. The way Olive had looked at me when she asked,Do you ever think about… what happens after our one-year contract is over?
It wasn’t an accusation, just… curious. Hopeful, maybe.
And I’d dodged it. Like I always do.
The thing is, Idocare about her. Probably more than I should. She’s funny, smart, gorgeous in a way that sneaks up on you and wrecks yourconcentration. She makes everything lighter, easier—like maybe life doesn’t have to be so damn heavy all the time.
But we’ve got a good thing going, and I don’t see the point in screwing it up by putting labels on it. Serious relationships? Not my style. Never have been. I told her that at the start. I thought we were clear.
Still… there was something in her eyes yesterday, just for a second. Like she was searching for a promise I can’t give her.
I watch the slow rise and fall of her back, the way a loose curl rests against her cheek.
One year. That’s the deal.
Eventually, I slip out of bed, tug on some linen pants, and step onto the terrace. The air is warm already, salt curling through it, the Pacific laid out in shades of blue that almost look fake. The villa staff has gone full five-star—fresh coffee steaming on the table, a breakfast spread that could feed a football team, flowers arranged in the shape of a heart.
I sip my coffee and wait for her.
When she finally pads out—wearing one of my shirts, of course—it hits me like a punch. She looks sleepy and smug at the same time, like she’s caught me staring (because I am).
“Morning,” she says, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, sunshine.” I motion toward the chair I’ve pulled out for her. “Your kingdom awaits.”
She eyes the spread—fruit glistening with dew, pastries still warm with the scent of butter—and sits. “This looks delicious.”
I pour her coffee just the way she likes it, then slide a small, leather-bound package across the table.
She blinks. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
She peels back the paper, slow and cautious, like it might bite her. When she sees the journal inside—soft brown leather, embossed with a simple gold key—her lips part. She runs her fingers over the cover like she’s afraid to smudge it.
“It’s for recording scandalous thoughts,” I say lightly, leaning back in my chair.
Her gaze snaps up. “Scandalous?”
“Or, you know… thoughts about the trip. Or about me. Preferably flattering ones.”
That gets me a roll of the eyes, but the faintest blush creeps up her cheeks. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I say, watching her thumb the edge of the pages. “Figured you’d need somewhere to put all those words of yours.”
Her head tilts, a flicker of surprise there—like she’s realizing I’ve been paying closer attention than she thought. “You’re… very sure I’m going to write.”
“You’re you, Olive. You can’t help it.”
She ducks her head, but she’s smiling when she takes the first sip of coffee. I make a mental note that the journal was the right move—not just because it’ll give her an outlet, but because I like being the guy who gives her things she didn’t know she wanted.
And maybe—if I’m lucky—she’ll let me read a page or two.
***
