Growing up in Wales, then moving to Boston, and later living in London had somehow trained him to forget that the sun was warm, that it could feel this good, like a hand resting on your shoulder instead of a mirage behind grey clouds.
Taking a break from work—even though Asma hadn’t shut up about new projects during the entire flight down to Sevilla and the car ride to Tarifa—was something he truly needed. The air smelled like sunscreen and seaweed, carried inland by a constant breeze that fluttered the linen curtains behind them.
His therapist said he was heading toward burnout. So yes, a vacation wasn’t just suggested, it was necessary. A Spanish–Italian–Moroccan wedding in the South of Spain? Even better. An excuse to stop thinking about spreadsheets and projections for once. The day before, he had closed the door to his London office with a rush of relief, knowing he had a long weekend ahead free from meetings.
“I was thinking about the Tremor project coming—” Asma started, lifting a bag far too elegant for sand. The leather was too pristine and absolutely doomed to have grains taking up permanent residence in every seam the moment they stepped onto the beach. For all he knew, Asma was a London girl through and through, and that bag made her stand out like a sore thumb in a place that demanded wilderness.
Callum turned slowly. Leif was already safe, already heading toward Sofia, who waited at the end of the small porch. She was ready to show them around the main house, where she would be staying with her family, and where the wedding celebrations would take place. Placing his hands on Asma’s shoulders, Callum squeezed gently, firmly.
“As a friend, this is your final warning. If I hear anything about work in the next seventy-two hours, I am going to lose my fucking mind, Asma. So please, let’s enjoy this vacation.”
Asma rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll just talk to Leif about it.”
Callum sighed. “You could also just… not talk about it. Take a fucking break.”
“I can’t. We can’t. It’sourbusiness.”
His entire body recoiled at the reminder.
Lamina Research Integrity Grouphad been her idea from the start. Leif and him had followed because, at the time, it sounded like an amazing idea to use his degree for good. But right now, Leif looked like he was on the verge of quitting altogether, if only to avoid acknowledging that Asma ignored every single attempt at flirting. And Callum himself was about one bad meeting away from buying a one-way ticket somewhere warm, where the sun existed and numbers didn’t.
He didn’t reply. He knew better than to speak when nothing good would come out. Instead, he grabbed one of the towels Sofia offered them and followed her and Leif down the sandy path toward the main house.
Since starting Lamina, money had flooded in fast. He’d grown used to things his younger self never would have imagined—his London apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, tailored suits, restaurants where prices weren’t printed. But this place? This was something else entirely. A sprawling Spanish villa perched above the dunes, white walls glowing against the blue, with an infinity pool melting seamlessly into the horizon. Tall grasses bent in the wind, and the Atlantic stretched endlessly beyond them, visible from every corner of the house, breathing in slow, steady waves.
As they stepped into the garden, he spotted a group of five lounging near the pool. Their skin had that unmistakable glow of people who lived outdoors. Not like him, who probably glowed with the pale intensity of office fluorescents.
“Ilias is there with Ale, Carlos, Ghita and Amira,” Sofia explained, guiding them closer.
His attention sparked instantly at the name Ale, his eyes snapping toward the woman propped on her elbows, wet black hair slicked down her back, emerald eyes sharp and unapologetic as they lifted to meet his.
Olympic gold medalist.
Two-time USL champion.
Pro surfer.
Alejandra López Romero.
Three years ago, bored out of his mind after a long day at work and a dinner with partners, he’d turned on the Olympics, expecting nothing in particular. Instead, he stumbled across surfing, streaming live from Teahupo?o in French Polynesia. From then on, he spent whatever free time he had watching it.
Even before the Paris Olympics, it didn’t matter whether itwas the Summer or Winter Games, if there was sport on, he was tuned in. He had always been athletic, drawn to competition in any form, even after the injury that had shattered his own dreams.
Alejandra had won the heat, and his attention had been completely captured by her. From that moment on, he followed her on Instagram, nursing a quiet crush from afar. Whenever someone brought up celebrity crushes, she was always his answer—the most stunning Spanish woman he had ever seen.
Meeting her there felt like destiny. He hadn’t even known she and Sofia were friends until he’d seen photos of them together on Alejandra’s profile. That wedding suddenly felt like an opportunity to turn a distant crush into something real, though he had no idea if she had a boyfriend (none that social media revealed), or if he even stood a chance.
“Let’s go introduce the nerd trio to the surfers,” Sofia beamed.
As soon as he noticed them, Ilias stood and walked toward them with his usual smug-but-friendly smile. He bro-handshook Leif and Callum, then hugged Asma. He greeted them with a “hello, nerds,” that made Asma scoff, annoyed at the name.
Callum didn’t mind. Ilias was a good sport, with always a bright smile and a joke to give.
“How was the flight?” Ilias asked, squeezing Leif’s shoulder, who stiffened slightly; he’d never been particularly touchy. Ilias, on the other hand, definitely was.
“Good,” Leif and him answered.
“Terrible.” Asma informed, prompting a laugh from Sofia and Ilias. “The hostess kept bumping into my shoulder with her hips.”
