When I finally pull back, she’s smiling at me like she’s saving the moment for later.
***
For our evening activity we’re going on a sunset catamaran cruise.
The catamaran is waiting for us at a private dock, sleek and white against the turquoise water. It’s the kind of boat you see on the glossy pages of a travel magazine—sun loungers on the deck, polished wood railings, champagne already chilling in a silver bucket.
Olive stops halfway down the dock, her hand shading her eyes. “This is for us?”
I nod. “All for you.”
“For me,” she repeats, side-eyeing me. “Right.”
“You’re the guest of honor. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fall overboard.”
The captain greets us, and within minutes, we’re gliding out over open water. The shoreline shrinks, replaced by nothing but endless blue. The air smells like salt and freedom.
Olive kicks off her sandals and wanders barefoot to the bow, her hair tangling in the wind, sunlight catching the curve of her cheek. I grab a club soda with three limes for me and a flute of champagne for her, then join her and pass the flute over.
“To vacations,” I say.
She clinks her glass against mine. “To being spoiled beyond reason.”
I grin. “You haven’t even seen the half of it yet.”
We stretch out on the deck, the boat rocking gently beneath us. The captain points toward a sheltered cove and drops anchor, giving us time to swim. Olive hesitates at the ladder, toes curling over the edge, before finally jumping in. I follow, the water warm and startling all at once.
She splashes me, grinning, and I retaliate, chasing her across the surface until she squeals and tries to dart away. I catch her easily, my hand circling her waist under the water.
“Careful,” I murmur. “You start something, you’d better be ready to finish it.”
Her breath catches—just a little—but she wriggles free, kicking toward the ladder. “Come on, rockstar. Race you back.”
By the time the sun starts to drop toward the horizon, we’re back on deck, wrapped in towels, sipping our drinks as the water glitters gold around us. She leans into my side without thinking, her head warm against my shoulder.
Her phone lies next to us, buzzing nonstop.
Every couple of seconds, it lights up again—screen flashing against the sunlight. She tries to ignore it at first, tucking it under her thigh like maybe if she can’t see it, it’ll stop. But it doesn’t. Eventually, she gives in and picks it up, scrolling with quick little flicks of her thumb, face unreadable.
I watch her for a while, trying not to pry, but the way her lips twitch—like she’s fighting a smile—has my curiosity on high alert.
“What’s going on?” I finally ask.
She hesitates. Just long enough for me to notice it’s not nothing.
“It’s, um…” She bites her lip, eyes still on the screen. “The ‘After the Photoshoot’ post went live this morning.”
Ah. The post. The one she wrote about us—well, a version of us with different names, but still us.
“And?” I prompt.
“And… apparently people are loving it.” She exhales, like she’s still processing it herself. “It’s blowing up. The comments are nonstop. My followers are jumping every time I refresh.”
I grin so hard I have to lean back to take her in. “So basically, you’ve gone viral.”
Her cheeks flush, and she tries to downplay it. “I mean… maybe just a little.”
“No, Olive.” I sit up, leaning toward her until she’s got nowhere to look but at me. “You’re blowing up. And you deserve it. This is your moment—own it.”
