He thinks about my question, running his fingers through my hair. “No. It all led me right here.”
I smile, listening to his heartbeat. I want to say those three words. But saying them is asking him to stay, and I won’t be that woman. If he stays, it has to be because he chose it, not because I begged.
I hold him, breathing him in, drifting off with his arm across my body. The candles burn out, but the waves don’t stop. We fall asleep, holding each other, like one of us might disappear.
There are only two days left on a promise that started as a hookup and turned into the most important agreement of my life. He’s not a fling. He’s everything I’ve needed, wanted, and wished for.
chapter twenty-nine
Dyson
Iwake up to sunlight flooding the room because the house is mostly glass.
Wendy is sleeping beside me, one leg kicked out from the sheets. Dark, wavy hair is everywhere. The ocean view looks like the screensaver I have on one of my travel laptops. I reach for my phone and see it’s just after eight.
I haven’t slept past seven in a decade. My body doesn’t allow it. I have a circadian rhythm that runs like a Swiss watch, no matter the time zone. And yet I just slept for ten hours in a glass box on stilts because everything feels right in my life.
Downstairs, pans clang, and the smell of bacon drifts up through the open staircase.
Fuck.I forgot I booked the chef for breakfast.
“Wendy,” I whisper, kissing her shoulder. “Time to wake up, sweetheart.”
She makes a sound.
“Chef Armand is downstairs, and we have a glass house full of his staff.”
One eye opens. “What?”
“Slipped my mind.”
Both of her eyes pop open. She sits up, and the sheet falls, and she grabs it against her chest and looks at me.
“Don’t worry about it. They’ve seen much worse. Trust me. But we should probably go downstairs to be respectful of their time.”
She launches out of bed and digs through her overnight bag, pulling on a sundress so fast that she gets her arm stuck in the neck hole. I watch her fight the fabric for three seconds before I help untangle her with a chuckle.
“Stop laughing,” she says, glancing down at my cock. “I wish I had time for that.”
“Later. I promise.” I pull on shorts and a T-shirt as she moves to the bathroom.
“Oh wow! The glass frosts when you lock the door.”
She’s adorable.
Ten minutes later, we walk downstairs, looking like two people who scrambled to get dressed. I have no shame though. Chef Armand doesn’t blink. He’s in the outdoor kitchen with a full spread of crepes, bacon, fresh fruit, pastries, and a pan of eggs that smells like brown butter and herbs.
“Good morning, Mr. Banks. Good morning, Ms. Winslow,” he says, folding a crepe with the precision of a surgeon. “Coffee is ready. Juice is freshly squeezed.”
“Morning. Thank you.”
“Good morning,” Wendy says, smoothing her hair with both hands. “This smells amazing. Thank you so much.”
Chef Armand gives her a smile. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Two coffees are given to us, exactly how Wendy likes to drink hers, and we sit at the deck table, inhaling the sea air. Today, the water is pale blue and calm. A pelican dives about fifty yards out and comes up with breakfast.
Today is August 2. Tomorrow, my reservation at the B&B and sabbatical away from the office end. The agreement Wendy and I made runs out. I don’t know what our future holds.
