I pull a blanket from the closet and toss it onto the couch. There’s no way in hell I’ll be sleeping in bed next to her for the duration of this torturous cohabitation. The couch is six inches too short for my frame and will be about as comfortable as a board meeting with federal regulators, but I don’t care. The alternative is climbing into that bed with her, breathing her in all night, and trying to summon the strength not to finish what we started on the veranda.
Because Ella just kissed me back like she meant it, and if she does that again, I’m not going to want to stop.
CHAPTER 12
ELLA
Two mornings in a row now, I’ve woken up alone in that big honeymoon bed.
Which should feel normal. After all, I’m a single woman on a solo vacation. Alone in bed pretty much describes my life in general. Except the bed in question still smells like Alec on his side, and the dip where his body slept next to mine is still there like a chalk outline at a crime scene. On the nightstand, his phone charger is still plugged in even though he’s been sleeping on the couch since the incident on the veranda. Neither of us has acknowledged the couch sleeping arrangement. We’d have to say the word “kiss” out loud to do that, and apparently we’d both rather chew glass.
These past couple of days, we’ve been running an avoidance operation so precise it could have its own military code name. I know his morning running schedule to the minute. He seems to have memorized when I shower. We’ve passed each other exactly twice in the suite, both times managing the kind of polite, hollow smile you give a coworker you accidentally made eye contact with in the bathroom. He said “excuse me” once. I said “no worries” once. It’s not ideal—not that anything about our forced cohabitation has been remotely close to ideal.
So now I’m on the beach, trying very hard to have a good time.
The sun is warm on my shoulders and I’m stretched out on a chaise with a book I’m not reading and a passionfruit juice I’ve been nursing for twenty minutes. I keep telling myself to relax. To just be here, in my body, on this beautiful beach. The problem is that every time the sun heats my skin, my brain replays the slow press of Alec’s palms rubbing sunscreen across my shoulders at the pool. And every time the breeze hits the back of my neck, I’m on the veranda again with his smoldering gaze incinerating my good sense, and his mouth, God, his mouth… firm, kissable lips and a tongue that still has me imagining all the places I want him to lick me.
But then there was the pull-back. The curse that hissed through his gritted teeth. The way his face closed.I can’t do this with you. This was a mistake.
Obviously, it was. Because two days later, the memory of Alec’s kiss won’t leave me alone. It shows up at random, like a song stuck on repeat. I let out a groan and flop back against my beach chair, desperate for a distraction from my spiraling thoughts.
A surf instructor named Kai is out on the water in front of me. He waves, and I lift my hand in greeting too. We met on the path to the beach this morning, where he offered me a free lesson. He’s attractive and athletic, with a mane of blondish-brown hair and a golden tan over smooth skin and perfect eight-pack abs. Normally, he’s the kind of guy I like. Friendly, easy smile, outgoing. Genuinely nice. So, why am I sitting here dwelling on a grumpy, antisocial, uptight man like Alec Beckett?
I’m quite sure I don’t want to know.
No more than I want to admit how much the other night hurt me. It still hurts.
Not only my pride, but something deeper. The familiar, unwelcome ache of wanting something the other person decided wasn’t worth the trouble. I know this feeling. It sits behind my ribs like a stone I swallowed. I don’t want to give the feeling a name. Naming it gives it an address, and I am not letting it move in.
Then I see Alec.
He’s jogging up the beach about a hundred yards out, running with the long, efficient stride of a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word relaxation. It’s late morning, which means this must be his second run of the day. I shake my head, exhaling a sigh. The man has been in paradise for four days and has not once, to my knowledge, simply sat and enjoyed it without also punishing his body.
My pulse speeds as I try not to stare at him. My stomach does a slow, warm turn that I refuse to dignify with analysis. He hasn’t seen me yet, and for three full seconds I consider the escape plan. Earbuds in, eyes closed, play dead like a possum on a highway. Pretend I’m asleep. Pretend I’m someone else. Pretend I didn’t just spend two days avoiding him while also overanalyzing every moment of our kiss.
But I don’t hide from things. I also don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me flee like he’s the approaching storm and I’m a lawn chair that didn’t get tied down.
I force myself to stay put and not react. I keep my book open. I sip my juice.
He spots me and immediately changes trajectory. Not away from me—toward me. Oh, God. If he apologizes again, I may die from embarrassment.
I surreptitiously watch his deliberate course correction, first slowing from a jog to a walk, then pulling his earbuds out and tucking them into his palm as he continues my way. The distance between us shrinks, and the air gets heavier with his every step.
His gray T-shirt is damp around the neckline and down onto his firm chest. There’s that flush across his cheekbones from exertion, the same one I noticed the morning he came back from his run and caught me in the bathrobe. I hate that I find it attractive. I hate that my eyes trace the line of his broad shoulders before I can redirect them. I hate that even now, even hurt, my body keeps a running list of everything about him that it wants and isn’t allowed to have.
He stops at the foot of my chaise. Neither of us speaks for a beat that lasts about four years.
“Morning,” he finally says.
“Morning.” I keep my voice pleasant. Neutral. The register of a waitress greeting a customer she doesn’t remember from last week.
He glances at the water, then back at me. “How’s the beach?”
“Wet. Sandy. Very beachy.” I gesture at my setup with my juice glass. “I’m having a great time.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. The scaffolding of one, quickly dismantled. He shifts his weight, and I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. Obviously, he didn’t walk over here to discuss the sand quality.
“Ella, I think we should talk about the... arrangement. Going forward.”
