The villa staff have packed our bags, and the place looks too neat now, like we were never here. No more wet towels draped over chairs, no stray flip-flops by the pool. Just a polished postcard version of what was, waiting for the next couple to live in it.
The drive to the airstrip is quiet, her hand warm in mine but her gaze fixed on the blur of palm trees. I don’t try to fill the silence.
The jet waits for us on the tarmac, sleek and gleaming in the sun. Celine greets us with champagne and that knowing smile people getwhen they see you as a “couple.” I let them think it. Hell, for the last few days, I almost let myself think it too.
As we settle into the same plush seats we flew in on, Olive kicks off her sandals and tucks her feet under her. She looks over at me, just a small smile, but it hits like a sucker punch.
“You ready to go home?” I ask.
Her eyes linger on mine for a second too long before she answers, “I’m not sure.”
Neither am I.
The engines hum to life, and Tulum falls away beneath us—blue fading into white, white into nothing.
I tell myself I’ll forget the way this trip felt. But I already know I won’t.
Somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico, Olive’s asleep.
Her head tips toward the window, hair falling over her face, lips parted just slightly.
I reach for her laptop, tucked safely in her carry-on at her feet.
She gave it to me last night—hesitant, almost shy, like she was handing me something breakable.I trust you,she’d said. And damn if that didn’t land harder than it should have.
I start to read. Within minutes, I’m gone.
The story is sharp and tender all at once, the kind of writing that makes you feel like you’re living inside the characters’ skin. Her dialogue snaps. Her descriptions are pure poetry without trying too hard. And the way she builds tension? Hell, I’m jealous.
It’s not just good. It’s really fucking good.
Every few pages I glance over at her, half-expecting her to wake up and catch me with that little smirk she gets when she knows she’s right. But she keeps sleeping, and I keep reading, devouring chapter after chapter until I forget I’m on a plane.
There are rough edges, sure. Places where she clearly wasn’t sure yet what she wanted to say. But the bones are solid, and the heart of it—the voice—is all hers.
By the time I set it down, my chest feels tight. She has no idea how talented she is. How much this could change her life if she let it.
I look at her again, still sleeping against the hum of the engines, and I make a silent promise right there—she’s going to finish this book. And I’m going to make damn sure the whole world reads it.
Finally, Olive stirs, her lashes fluttering.
I wait until her eyes find mine. “Olive, I read it.” I tap her laptop. “It’s brilliant.”
She blinks, still too sleepy to fully process. “You read it already?”
“Cover to… well, wherever you stopped writing. Which, by the way, is a crime. You can’t just leave a guy hanging like that.”
She sits up a little, cheeks coloring. “You’re exaggerating.”
I lean in, holding her gaze. “I’m not. It’s sharp. It’s real. It’s you, but in print. And if you don’t finish it, I swear I’ll… I don’t know, lock you in a room with nothing but coffee and a laptop until you do.”
She laughs, the sound a little embarrassed, a little pleased. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re a goddamn writer,” I say, dead serious. “People need to read this.”
Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with her. I’m not. Not this time.
I shift closer, the laptop forgotten on the table. “You have no idea,” I murmur, “how much it turns me on, seeing you like this.”
