Is he still out there in the hot tub, hard and frustrated, stroking himself while thinking about me? The thought sends another bolt of heat straight to my core.
I roll onto my side, pressing my thighs together, but it does nothing to dull the need. My fingers trace the stupid glittery heart on my wrist, and I let out a shaky, bitter laugh, telling myself to get it together.
But even as I say it, I know it’s already too late.
The match has already been lit.
And the fire is only getting started.
Chapter Fourteen
Sienna
When I wakethe following morning, my lips still feel the ghost of Milo’s kiss, but everything else feels strangely normal—just the soft sound of the ocean and the faint clink of dishes coming from the kitchenette.
The oversized shirt I threw on sometime during the night rides up my thighs as I walk out of my room. Milo is standing at the counter wearing nothing but gray sweatpants while be plates scrambled eggs.
I have to tell my brain not to stare becauseholy fucking shit, how can one man bethatattractive?
The soft morning light is doing unfair things to the ridges of his abs and the sharp cut of his hips where the sweatpants sit dangerously low. My mouth goes dry. And for one terrifying second, I forget how to walk like a normal human.
He looks up when I enter, that almost-smile curving his mouth. “Morning,” he says, sliding the plate onto the table like he’s been expecting me. “Figured you’d be up soon.”
I slide into the chair, trying not to stare at his forearms as he pours a mug of coffee and sets it in front of me. He made me breakfast… again. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and it makes something in my chest tighten.
“Smells amazing,” I smile, picking up the fork. “You’re spoiling me. I might start expecting this every morning—even when we’re back in New York.”
He leans against the counter opposite me, sipping his coffee. “And I might start expecting you to say, ‘thank you’ every morning.”
I take a bite of the fluffy eggs. “Thank you. There, happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
My eyes roll, but I’m smiling. The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s… easy. Comfortable. Like the kiss shifted something without needing to be named. Like we both decided, without speaking, to let it breathe.
Milo sets his coffee down and slides a small notepad and pencil across the table toward me. “I booked the couple’s massage for eleven, by the way. It’s the only spot they had available today.”
I raise an eyebrow, fork paused mid-air, voice teasing. “You booked it? That’s very domestic of you.”
His eyes roll. “You were asleep. And I know how much you love being told what to do.”
I snort. “That almost sounded like flirting, Milo.”
The faintest blush blooms across his cheeks, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he taps the notepad. “Also… the next square. Write a poem about your partner. Thought we could do it now, while we eat. Get it over with before the massage.”
I stare at the notepad like it might bite me. “You want me to write a poem about you before coffee has fully hit my bloodstream?”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, sipping his coffee. “That way, there will be no overthinking.”
Picking up the pencil, I swirl it between my fingers. “Are you saying I’m an overthinker?”
“No, quite the opposite, actually. You never think before blurting something out. That’s what I like about you. You’re… you.”
“You’re definitely flirting with me,” I smirk, even as my stomach does a little flip.
Again, he doesn’t answer.
Tapping the pencil against the paper, I stare at the blank page. A poem about Milo… what the hell do I even say?
