I laugh, cheeks warming. “You’re a good salesman.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, “I am an honest man. But for you, I give special price.” He winks.
Beside me, Ash makes a low noise—half amusement, half… something else. “Special price, huh?” he says, resting his hand on the small of my back like he’s claiming a plot of land. “Better make sure it’s worth it.”
The vendor grins at him, undeterred. “For her? Always worth it.”
I try to hide my smile, pretending to study the pattern of painted flowers, but I can feel Ash watching me, the warm press of his fingers against my spine. “You buying the bowl or just charming my fiancée?” he asks lightly, but there’s a thread of steel under the words.
The vendor chuckles. “Both is possible.”
I elbow Ash gently. “Stop scaring the nice man.”
He mutters, “Not scared. Just… making conversation,” but when the vendor hands me the bowl wrapped in paper, Ash is the one who takes it and tucks it into our bag like he’s making sure it’s claimed.
As we move on, weaving between stalls, I glance up at him. “Were you jealous?”
His mouth quirks, but he keeps his eyes ahead. “Nope.”
“You totally were.”
“Maybe a little,” he admits after a beat. “But only because he was right.”
“About what?”
He glances at me, a slow smile curling his mouth. “That you’re worth it.”
And just like that, the sun feels warmer, the market brighter, and my chest a little too full. Maybe Ash isn’t ready to talk about the future yet, but if he says things like that… he must like me, right?
***
That evening is our last at the villa.
Ash is by the pool, stretching like he’s about to play for a stadium crowd instead of, you know, just me.
“Watch this,” he says, flashing the grin that usually means he’s about to do something cocky.
I lounge back in the deck chair, one eyebrow arched. “Oh, I’m watching.”
He takes a running start along the edge, clearly aiming for one of those graceful, perfectly arched dives you see in slow-motion sports ads.
Only… he misjudges his footing.
His heel skids on the slick stone, and instead of slicing into the water like some Olympic swimmer, he flops—full, echoingsplat—right onto his stomach.
The sound alone makes me snort, but when he surfaces, hair plastered to his face like a soggy mop, I lose it completely. I’m doubled over, clutching my ribs, tears stinging my eyes from laughing so hard.
“Glad I could amuse you,” he says, voice deadpan, water dripping from his nose.
“You—you looked like—” I can’t even finish because I’m wheezing too hard. “Like a pancake in midair.”
He narrows his eyes, mock-offended. “A pancake?”
I nod, still laughing. “A very… very flat pancake.”
He pushes his wet hair back, all faux dignity. “You think you’re safe over there?”
I lean back, grinning. “Completely.”
