GRANT

The next morning, I sit at the breakfast bar, hair still damp from the shower, a steaming cup of coffee sitting in front of me, left untouched. Sunlight filters in through the slatted blinds, casting striped shadows across the oak countertop.

I hear the soft pads of her bare feet on the tile as she crosses to the cabinet and pulls down a mug. Her hair is twisted into a careless knot, a few dark strands escaping to brush her neck. The edge of her shirt slips from her shoulder, revealing the faint pink of sun-kissed skin and a pale line from her bikini top.

She doesn’t glance my way as she pours. She takes a careful sip, then slips to the table at the far side of the room, her gaze drifting over the rim of her mug. I watch how her eyes flick from the window to the door, her jaw working as if she’s chewing on words she isn’t sure she wants to say.

I sigh, finally taking a swallow of my own coffee.

I fucked up.

Last night, I let my dick do all the thinking. Thank God she had the sense to stop me, because I certainly would not have stopped myself.

She exhales softly, and I lift my head.

“Spit it out,” I say gently.

She lowers her mug, hesitating.

“I know you have something to say.”

“I just...” She breathes out a fraction, knuckles whitening around the mug. “Maybe we should just go back.”

“Go back where?” My brows draw together.

“Home,” she says, meeting my eyes. “This isn’t helping either of us. Last night should never have happened.”

“I know,” I whisper, voice rough. “I fucked up.”

“I didn’t help,” she counters.

“You did. You stopped us before we made a mistake.”

She bristles, but I ignore it.

“We haven’t even gone to the beach,” I say.

It’s a desperate effort. For what? I don’t want to admit it, but deep in my bones, I know what I really want.

I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to return to reality. I don’t want what comes next.

“I don’t care about the beach, Grant.” She shakes her head. “I want some fucking clarity.”

“The beach is perfect for that,” I say, smirking. “Come on. One more day. We can leave tomorrow, alright?”

After a few moments of her mulling it over, she finally nods. “Fine. But we’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Deal.”

Moira strides next to me, the thin white fabric of her sundress doing little to hide the shape of the black bikini laced beneath. The dress sways softly around her thighs as we walk, the small space between our shoulders a permanent addition to our new dynamic.

We wordlessly scale the length of the beach, the soft sand warm beneath my bare feet. Every so often, Moira points out some small scene. A seagull squabbling over a piece of discarded bread. A spaniel tearing across the shore with its tongue lolling out, eyes bright with simple joy.

But then, as if she suddenly remembers the reality of our situation, the easy chatter dies, and silence settles between us once more.

After a long while, she breaks it.

“What do we do when we get back?” she asks softly, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline.

“You stay with me,” I say.

She stops dead, staring up at me, eyes widening until they’re the size of saucers.

“What?” she hisses. “I want to escape you, Grant, not play house with you.”

“What did you expect, Moira?” I hiss, dropping my voice low as I step closer. “You have nowhere else to go, or did you forget? And, like it or not, we have this arrangement. People will ask questions if we don’t live together after this.”