Sun-kissed skin, a spray of new freckles across her nose. Hair that had gone full wild from the humidity, curls she'd stopped fighting somewhere around day five. Eyes that looked different somehow—older, maybe. Sadder.
When did you become someone who waits for a man to make thefirst move?
Gross.
She'd spent six years building an empire from nothing. Had faced down her father's disapproval, her mother's disappointment, the constant chorus of critics who said influencing wasn't a real job. She'd carved out a space for herself in a crowded digital landscape through sheer force of will and the stubborn refusal to let anyone else define her worth.
And now she was... what? Waiting for Alex Carmichael to decide her future?
You could ask him.
The thought was uncomfortable, prodding at tender spots she'd rather leave alone.
You could be the one to say "let's try long distance" or "I want to see where this goes" or "I think I'm falling in love with you and I'd really like you to not let me sail away without at least discussing it."
But even as she formed the words in her mind, something rebelled.
She'd spent her whole life performing for approval. Smiling when she wanted to cry. Being whatever version of herself people wanted her to be. With Alex, for the first time, she'd stoppedperforming. She'd let him see the messy, vulnerable, uncertain parts of her that she usually kept hidden behind a filter.
She'd been brave. She'd been real.
And now she wanted—no,needed—him to be brave too.
If he can't find the courage to ask, maybe this was never meant to be more than what it was.
The thought hurt. God, it hurt so much her chest ached with it.
But somewhere beneath the hurt was a kernel of steel—the same stubbornness that had gotten her through every obstacle she'd ever faced.
If Alex Carmichael wanted her, he was going to have to say so. She wasn't going to beg for crumbs from someone too afraid to offer the whole loaf.
She was Lily St. John. She deserved more than silence.
Even if the silence destroyed her.
Their last night on the island was achingly tender in a way that made Lily want to scream.
Alex cooked an elaborate dinner with the last of their supplies—grilled fish with herbs, roasted breadfruit, mangoes they'd picked that morning. He'd even found wild ginger to make a rough approximation of tea.
"You're going to make someone a good house-husband someday," Lily teased, but her voice came out wrong, and Alex's smile flickered.
"Just trying to send you off with something besides protein bars and bananas."
Send you off.Notgive us one last meal together.Notbefore we figure out our next visit.Send you off.
Like she was a package being returned to sender.
Before they headed to the beach with their plates, Alex disappeared into the bedroom. When he emerged, he was holding something small in his closed fist, looking more uncertain than she'd ever seen him.
"I, um." He cleared his throat. "I found this. A few days ago, on the eastern shore. I thought..." He trailed off, then thrust his hand toward her, uncurling his fingers.
In his palm lay a shell—small, perfectly spiraled, the color of sunrise where pink bleeds into gold. It was exquisite, the kind of thing she would have filmed for her channelin another life.
"Alex," she breathed.
"It's not much. But I wanted you to have something. To remember." He wasn't looking at her, his jaw tight. "To remember this place. The research. Everything."
To remember you, she heard in the spaces between his words.To remember us.
