Page 19 of Wicked God
In the steamy cocoon of the shower, with droplets clinging to eyelashes and mingling with kisses, I allow myself the luxury of forgetting the world outside.
“Olivia,” he breathes out my name.
It’s a dangerous thing, this sensation of surrendering to another person, of losing myself in his touch. But in this place, with Alex, it feels right.
It feels like belonging. Like home.
Water beads on the glass, catching the light. I let him draw me under, warmth soaking into my bones, his body anchoring me in the moment.
Just this weekend, I promise myself.Just this one stolen weekend with him.
Chapter 9
Olivia
We leave the beach house later than planned after our extended morning ‘shower’. I’m wearing a pale yellow sundress that Alex found in his sister’s old closet—a little tight across the chest but otherwise perfect for the warm day.
The ocean breeze ruffles my hair as we hold hands and walk down the sandy path, leaving the beach house behind.
Salt air, sun on my skin—I could live in this moment forever.
The coastal town unfurls like a storybook: dazzling white walls crowned with terracotta tiles, narrow streets winding toward the endless sapphire sea that shimmers under the afternoon sun.
“I can’t wait to show you around,” Alex says, his thumb doodling small spirals in my palm. “There’s this adorable market on Saturdays that I know you’ll love.”
As we enter the town, the symphony of laughter and distant guitar chords spills from open windows. Boutique after boutique beckons us: hand-painted signs swinging on wrought-iron hooks, flower stalls bursting with color, bakeries exhaling warm, yeasty aromas. Each storefront seems to whisper, “Come on in.”
We stop at a small cafe for an early afternoon snack, its striped umbrella casting dappled shadows over our table. We order flaky pastries oozing with raspberry jam and two cappuccinos. Alex shares fond childhood memories of summers spent here with his grandparents: dawn fishing trips, summer storms, late-night card games, picnics on warm sand.
“You seem like such a city boy,” I say. “Belonging in the bustling world of skyscrapers and constant movement. I would never have guessed that you dream of sun-kissed beaches and quiet coastal towns.”
He chuckles, licking foam from his upper lip. “You’d be surprised,” he says, a wistfulness creeping into his eyes. “Sometimes I think I’m more at home here—with sand between my toes and my head full of salt and wind—than in a suit behind some boardroom desk.”
He glances at me, a little sheepish, like that’s silly, and I’ll laugh. But I reach out, brush a thumb over his wrist, and he relaxes into the touch. For a while, we talk about nothing: the latest city gossip, my sister’s notorious failed soufflé, the kerfuffle last month with the mayor’s dog (don’t ask, just know it involved a runaway goat and three impounded golf carts). I let my laughter fill the café, enjoying the way his gaze lingers on my lips, his smile growing wider and more unguarded with every story.
The rest of the day is a whirlwind of exploration: we climb the creaky lighthouse, browse a sunlit art gallery, and even drop by his favorite creamery for pistachio gelato.
By midday, hunger leads us straight into the Saturday market. Some stalls have begun to pack up, but we manage to snag fresh mangoes dusted with chili, weaving through the thinning crowds to fill our tote with basil and plump heirloom tomatoes for dinner.
As we drift past the last few vendors, a small boutique catches my eye. It stands apart from the weathered stalls, its window lined with delicate, floaty dresses. One in particular—a pale pink sundress, scattered with tiny blooms. It’s pure Tiffany.
“I want to buy it for my sister,” I tell Alex, pausing just long enough to step inside and make the purchase.
Clothes are where we’re the same and completely different. We both wear elegant, expensive things, but for opposite reasons. I do it to blend in. Tiffany does it to look older, to be taken seriously. I don’t care about clothes, not really, as long as I’m comfortable and presentable. Tiffany loves pretty dresses and beautiful things, even if she tries to hide that part of herself.
I buy the dress, despite the price tag, and ask the clerk to wrap it in tissue and place it in a sky-blue shopping bag. I imagine Tiffany’s face when she opens it—her cautious delight, the way her eyes dart away when accepting kindness, as if she’s not quite sure it’s safe. It makes me ache.
“Tell me about your sister,” Alex says as we rejoin the flow of the market, his hand warm at my lower back. “What’s she like?”
“Tiffany is endlessly kind. Curious. She devours books like candy, asks a million questions, and chases every idea until she understands it inside out. I adore her.”
My chest tightens. Since Dean’s ultimatum, I’ve been avoiding Tiffany, afraid that if she looks me in the eye and sees the worry in me, she’ll know. I’ve kept her in the dark because I want to protect her, even though that’s the very thing she hates about me.
Alex nudges me toward a bustling food cart, the aroma of sizzling skewers thick in the air. “You’re not the only one blessed with an incredible sister,” he says fondly. “Mine’s a hurricane of ambition. She’s studying acting and dreams of becoming a Hollywood star. I wish I had half her courage to chase my own dreams.”
I cock an eyebrow. “What did you dream of?”
“Not what I’m doing now—that’s for sure. I never actually wanted to join the family business. I always thought I’d be a lawyer or a wildlife photographer—the kind that travels to the Amazon and comes back with a half-healed snakebite and a publishing deal.” He laughs, then studies me. “Don’t you ever wonder what your life would be like if you could start from scratch?”
