He considers them with the same focused assessment he gives everything. His eyes move from one to the other, then to me, then back to the green. “This one. The neckline is going to sit right here.” He lightly touches the space between my breasts, one fingertip, brief and specific. “And I’m going to spend all of dinner trying not to stare at it.”
I laugh. It comes out smaller than usual, still shaky at the edges, but real. “Sold.”
He takes the dress from my hand. “This is on me.”
“No, Alec. I have money. I can pay.”
He cups my cheek tenderly in his hand. “I know you can. But I want to do this. So, let me.”
I hold his intense gaze for a moment, then give him a soft nod. “Okay. Thank you.”
I return the peach dress to the rack while he pays. When I join him at the counter, the saleswoman squeezes my hand as she passes me the bag, a small, wordless kindness that almost undoes me more than anything Honey said.
Alec holds the boutique door open. I walk through it with the stunning green dress in a bag and his hand finding mine as we step into the sunlit corridor.
Tonight he is taking me to dinner. I am going to wear the dress he bought for me. And the woman who walks into that restaurant is not going to be shrinking or pretending or apologizing for a single thing about who she is.
She’s just going to be Ella.
Because that’s all I need to be with Alec.
CHAPTER 21
ALEC
Ella looks like a goddess in the pale green dress.
We’re walking the torchlit path toward the beach, her hand in mine, and I can’t stop stealing glances at her. The neckline of the dress drapes into that soft dip between her breasts, and the light from the tiki torches along the path turns her soft skin golden.
I told her in the boutique I’d spend all of dinner trying not to stare at her, but I underestimated the problem. Every step she takes shifts the luminous fabric against her body, giving me a slightly different view of the hollow at the base of her throat, her collarbones, the upper curve of her breasts catching light and shadow. I’ve had my mouth on every inch of skin that dress is covering. Not to mention all the other, delicious inches of her. That knowledge is not helping my focus.
Her dark hair is down, loose and a little wild the way the salt air always makes it by evening. She’s wearing simple sandals. No jewelry except for a thin chain with a small pendant that sits above the neckline and catches the torchlight every time she turns her head. She looks stunning and she knows it, and the confidence in her walk is doing things to the lower half of my body that I’m going to need to manage before we sit down.
The path opens onto the private stretch of beach and Ella stops. “Alec.”
I watch her take it in. The table set for two in the sand, close enough to the water that the surf foams white a few yards away. Crystal stemware. Linen napkins. Candles in hurricane glass. A server stationed at a discreet distance near a portable bar setup. Tiki torches mark the perimeter, their flames low and steady, throwing warm light across the white tablecloth and leaving everything beyond the circle soft and dark. The ocean is a black sheet with silver edges where the moon hits.
Her hand tightens in mine. Not a squeeze. More like a reflex, her fingers closing around what they’re already holding. Her mouth opens slightly and the expression on her face settles into something I wasn’t prepared for. Not the performed surprise I’ve seen from women who expected a gesture like this and were already composing their Instagram caption. Ella looks like someone just handed her something she didn’t know she was allowed to want.
That expression lands in my chest like a fist.
“You did all this?” Her voice is quiet. Not a question about logistics. She knows I was arranging dinner for us today. She just didn’t know what I had in mind.
“I had some help from the kitchen.”
She turns to look at me and her eyes are bright in the torchlight. “Oh my God. This is...”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead she rises on her toes, puts her hand on the side of my face, and kisses me. Soft. Brief. When she pulls back the look she gives me makes the entire afternoon I spent arguing with the resort’s private dining coordinator worth every second.
“Come on,” I say, leading her forward.
We step onto the sand, and I pull out her chair before the attendant can get there. She sits, giving our server a warm smile while I round the table and take the seat across from her.
The server brings menus. Handwritten on thick card stock, four courses, every item curated by me and the chef in a conversation this morning. The left column is her menu. The right column is mine. I spent twenty minutes with the chef making sure her side read like a celebration and mine read like a prescription.
Ella browses the menu, her gaze moving over both sides. Then she looks at me.
“Alec.” She holds up the card. “My appetizer is coconut shrimp. Yours is a salad. My entree is a filet with truffle butter. Yours is grilled mahi-mahi. My dessert is chocolate lava cake.” She turns the card toward me like I haven’t seen it. “Your dessert is a fruit plate.”
