Asher reaches for my hand, thumb brushing slow across my knuckles, and I can feel the question vibrating between us before he even says it.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks carefully, as if he’s afraid he might shatter me just by asking.
For reasons I cannot begin to understand, this is what does me in. Not the surprise trip or the jet or the fact that my entire future is crumbling and the only thing I actually want is right here in front of me. No, it’s just Asher, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world he cares about.
I nod, and my voice comes out so raw I almost don’t recognise it. ‘Yeah. I’m… yeah. Thank you.’ I laugh, a watery, breathless mess. ‘I just can’t believe you remembered. Or that you’d even want to do this for me.’
He squeezes my hand, eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Of course I wanted to. You deserve everything.’
The kiss, when it comes, is slow and impossibly gentle. He leans in, and my heart skips and I don’t know why I’m suddenly nervous. I’ve kissed Asher before. I know what his mouth tastes like. But this isn’t like any of the other kisses we’ve shared. This is the kind of kiss you dream about and then wake up convinced it can’t possibly exist in real life because nothing could ever be this good or right ordevastatingly perfect.
My heart trips over itself, then starts up again, double-time and wild in my chest. His lips are so soft it almost hurts. Andjust like that, something unspools inside me. Something huge and bright and terrifying. He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and soft, and it suddenly hits me all at once.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh God.
I’m think I’m in love with him.
Deep, can’t-breathe-without-you, stupid, messy love with Asher Vouvalis. The realisation consumes me so entirely, it’s like I’m drunk with it.
He’s kissing me like I’m both his joy and his undoing and all I can think is – this is it. This is what I’ve been trying not to feel and now I can’t imagine ever feeling any other way. There’s no going back. My hands are in his curls, my chest is caving in, and every part of me is humming with him and there’s absolutely no denying it now.
This islove.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINEImani
If heaven had an ocean view, I’m pretty certain that it would look like this.
From our floating bungalow, the water stretches out in a hundred shades of blue, pale as glass near the shore, darkening into something so deep and rich the further it goes out, that it looks almost unreal. Even the waves move slower here, curling lazily beneath the deck as though time itself has decided to take a break and enjoy the beauty that is the Seychelles.
I step outside and the warm, salty, tropical air hits me. Our private deck floats right above the water, complete with an infinity pool that looks like it’s melting into the ocean. The other bungalows are spaced far apart, so it’s genuinely quiet except for the lazy lap of the waves and the occasional cackle of some island bird off in the distance.
We’ve been here for three days already, and we’vebeen making the most of it like we’re on borrowed time. Technically, I guess we are.
In the mornings, we have breakfast on the deck: fresh papaya, pineapple slices dripping with juice, croissants still warm from the oven. By afternoon, we’re out exploring one of the local villages and the surrounding areas. I take Asher on hikes along trails framed by wild hibiscus and palm trees that look older than time. No maps for us, we just follow the scent of sea salt and frangipani until we find hidden beaches no one else seems to know about except a handful of locals fishing or barbecuing on the golden sand.
We’ve visited a spice garden, where the air smells like cinnamon and vanilla, and the scent sticks to our clothes long after we leave. We’ve taken a boat ride to the tiny island of La Digue, rented bikes and spent the afternoon exploring, riding past pastel-coloured houses and children playing barefoot in the street. We get caught in a flash tropical storm and we spend an hour camping out under a palm tree, soaked, laughing, and stealing kisses with the rain drumming overhead like a heartbeat.
We have dinner with Marie to discuss her eco-lodge and Asher doesn’t mind in the slightest when Marie and I spend the entire evening chatting about plans for potential tourism packages. He just sits back and lets us brainstorm, a soft smile plastered across his face whenever I glance up in his direction. For the first time in a very long time, my dream feels tangible and it’s because of him.
If I think too hard about the fact that soon we’ll have to flyback home to London and to the mess waiting for us there, my chest goes tight. So instead, I just lean against the railing and watch the sunlight scatter across the water, pretending for one more moment that this is my everyday life.
‘Asher?’ I call over my shoulder.
He’s inside the bungalow, humming off-key to a song I can’t quite catch. A moment later, he appears in the doorway, barefoot, shirtless, holding two glasses of freshly squeezed mango juice. His hair’s still damp from the shower, curling against his temple, and just the sight of him makes my stomach flip. I wonder if I’ll ever stop reacting to him like this. Aside from sightseeing and exploring, we’ve spent a, quite frankly, ridiculous amount of time in bed together.
It’s strange to think about how intimately I know him now, compared to that first meeting months ago. Back then, I only knew his name, but now I know every low, rough noise he makes when I touch him just right. The way his breath catches when I claw my nails gently down his back. The needy, broken sounds he tries, and fails, to stifle in my neck when he’s losing control. I’ve mapped every inch of his body with my hands and mouth. I know the constellation of freckles under his jaw, the exact spot on his hip that makes him tense and gasp (and where he has a poorly done stick and poke tattoo of a cactus), the way his eyes go slightly unfocused when he’s trying not to come too soon. The way he looks at me, afterwards, like I’ve remade the world just for him.
It’s a miracle I’m even vertical right now. If I’m being honest, the effort of putting on actual clothes and stepping outside instead of crawling straight back into his arms might just be the most willpower I’ve ever demonstrated in my entire life. And from the way Asher’s looking at me right now, head tilted, eyes lazily roving over my body like he’s imagining peeling me out of my sundress and dragging me back to bed? I’m not sure my willpower is going to last much longer.
No, I tell myself. It’s our last day and we need to make the most of it.
A traitorous voice in the back of my mind slyly says that spending the day in bed with Asher, his head between my legs, his tongue giving me an encore from this morning’s performance, might just be the best way to spend our last few hours here, but I ignore it. Just about.
‘I’m thinking Curieuse Island this afternoon?’ I say as he approaches and hands me a glass.
