There it is. The thing he actually came to say, and by the solemn tone of his voice, this is going to be worse than another apology. I set my book down and look up at him, shading my eyes with one hand.
“The arrangement,” I repeat.
“Yes. The suite situation. Sharing the space.” He crosses his arms, which pulls the damp fabric tighter across his chest, and I look at the ocean instead because I need somewhere safe to put my eyes. “I think it would make things easier if we establishedsome clearer guidelines. Lay down some roommate protocols. Keep things friendly, but... defined.”
I feel my brows inch up on my forehead. He wants to define us. Now. Like we’re negotiating a corporate lease agreement, not facing off on a public beach with the memory of his tongue in my mouth.
“Makes sense,” I say, even though it doesn’t. “Totally.”
“Good.” I can practically hear his inward sigh of relief. “It’s just practical. That way we can avoid any future misunderstandings.”
Misunderstandings. The word lands on the bruise I’ve been pressing all morning. And right on cue, a voice I thought I’d left back in Arizona slides in under my skin like a splinter. Jake’s voice, quiet and familiar and absolutely not invited:You always come on too strong, Ella. You read too much into things. You’re a lot, you know that?
I smile. It feels tight on my face. “Sure. Clean slate. No misunderstandings. Roommates.”
“Exactly. Roommates.” Alec nods, and the relief in that nod stings more than the speech. “I think that’s best for both of us.”
Best for both of us. There’s a phrase I’ve heard before. Jake used to build that same neat little fence around his retreats:I’m doing this for both of us, Ella. I think we both need space.
And now Alec is standing here with his careful boundaries and his measured words. His diplomacy is just a smoother way of singing the same old chorus:You’re too much. You always have been. You wanted this more than he did, and now he’s trying to let you down easy because you made it weird.
“Absolutely,” I say, and my voice sounds so breezy, so perfectly fine, that I almost believe it myself. “Consider the protocols established. Roommates. Friends, maybe.” I tilt my head. “I mean, if friends is within the approved parameters?”
He looks at me, and I see the flicker. Just a small one, at the corner of his mouth. “Friends works.”
He extends his hand.
I stare at it. This hand. The same strong, tender hand that cupped my jaw two nights ago, that tilted my face up to his, that tangled in my hair while his mouth opened against mine. And he’s offering it to me now in a handshake. A freaking handshake. The formality is so absurd I almost laugh.
I take his hand, which engulfs mine. His palm is warm from the run, slightly rough. Mine has sand on it from adjusting my chaise. His grip is careful, brief, yet I feel the contact like a jolt of electricity straight into my veins. I still want him. I stilllikehim, even though this truce he’s just declared has stung me more deeply than he can possibly know. When he lets go of my hand, the absence registers as a cool patch in my palm that won’t quite close.
Roommates. Friends. Two people who woke up fused together in a honeymoon bed and kissed on a moonlit veranda, now shaking on a platonic agreement like they’re closing a real estate transaction. Lisa would tell me this is something I’ll laugh about one day. Maybe I will, once it stops hurting.
He doesn’t leave. He stands there, looking at me, and the expression on his face is not corporate. Notdefined. It’s the look of a man convincing himself he made the right call while his eyes say the opposite.
That is almost worse than if he’d just walked away. Cold I can handle. Indifference I can dismiss. But this—this reluctant, visible effort—tells me he doesn’t want this either. He’s choosing it anyway. And I cannot stand here and watch him choose it for one more second.
“Well,” I say, standing up from my chaise, “now that we got that out of the way, I’m going to hit the water.” I reach for the knot on my sarong and unfasten it. The wispy fabric falls off mybikini-clad body, and I toss it onto the lounger. “Unless you had something else to discuss with me?”
He opens his mouth, maybe to respond, maybe to say something human. But his gaze is snagged on my body, doing a slow glance that I can feel in every nerve ending. “No. That was everything.”
“Good,” I reply brightly. I’m already looking past him. I lift my hand and wave to Kai. He’s out near the break with his board. He catches my eye and sends a wave back at me.
Alec notices. His gaze follows mine to the water and his expression tightens. A micro-shift I wouldn’t catch if I hadn’t spent five years at Red Rock Diner reading the faces of people who want things they haven’t asked for yet. He looks back at me, and there’s a question in his eyes that he has absolutely no right to ask. Not after the handshake. Not after he just spent ten minutes trying to “define” our “situation.”
“Hey, Kai!” I call out across the water. “Is that lesson you offered still good?”
Kai’s response carries across the sand, friendly and enthusiastic. “Anytime, Ella. Come on out.”
I catch the way Alec’s shoulders pull back half an inch as he glowers in Kai’s direction. The way his mouth sets into a line that wasn’t there thirty seconds ago.
Maybe it’s petty of me to feel some satisfaction that he’s jealous. It also feels pretty damn good. Some of the hurt I was feeling fades as I glance over at Alec and offer him a cheerful smile.
“See you around, roomie.”
The warmth of the sun hits my bare shoulders and stomach all at once as I take the first step onto the sand. I don’t look at Alec again. I don’t need to. I can feel his gaze on my back the way I can feel when a trucker needing a coffee refill is watching mecross the diner floor. That specific weight of attention between my shoulder blades. I’ve never once been wrong about it.
I walk toward the water at a leisurely pace. Not fast, not slow. The walk of a woman choosing forward motion over standing still. Because here is what I know. I know the feeling of a man deciding I’m too much. I know the choreography of shrinking yourself to fit inside someone else’s comfort zone. Tucking in your edges. Dimming your voice. Making yourself smaller and quieter and less until you disappear into a version of yourself that doesn’t scare anyone. Jake taught me every step of that dance.
