Page 20 of Wicked God
“I think I’d be doing the same thing. I love where I am, even with all the pressure. I worked hard for it.”
“I want to make a difference. Use my family’s name, my resources, to reshape things for the better. But…my path was laid out by my father. Would I be here without his connections? Does that even matter? I have everything people hope for, yet I wake up restless, weighed down by expectations, terrified of letting anyone down.”
After another hour of wandering, we reluctantly leave the little town and go back to the beach house to prepare dinner, our arms laden with bags of fresh produce from the market. The walk back is filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional brush of our hands and shared glances.
The sun slips lower, painting the sky in pink and orange as we tumble into the kitchen, arms full of canvas bags overflowing with glossy eggplants, ruby tomatoes, fragrant sprigs of basil, and sun-kissed peaches. The gentle clink of pots and pans mingles with the rhythmic sound of chopping.
“Here,” Alex murmurs, sidling up behind me. His chest presses against my back, warm and all too close. “Let me show you how to julienne these peppers.” His fingers curl around mine, guiding the blade into uniform strips. I lean back into him, savoring the intimacy of the moment.
“You’re a natural,” he teases, breath tickling my ear.
I twist my head, catching his eyes over my shoulder. “I have an excellent teacher.”
He kisses the side of my neck, just above my collar. My whole body leans into the touch, exposed and vulnerable and electric. I want to turn, to drag him onto the kitchen floor and forget dinner altogether, but I force myself to finish slicing the peppers. Even so, I can’t resist reaching back to trail my fingers along his arm—finding reassurance in the solidness of muscle, the warmth of skin.
We cook together, moving in an easy rhythm. Alex pours wine and snacks on cheese as he chops garlic; I arrange tomatoes on a platter and sneak bites of sweet, sun-bursting peach.
It’s the least guarded I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe in my whole life.
By the time we sit to eat on the sun porch, the sky is heavy with stars. I prop my bare feet on his lap and let my hair down, savoring the freshly sliced ruby tomato layered with mozzarella and the tartness of balsamic drizzle. The sea is dark and endless just in front of us.
Alex reaches for the wine bottle.
“To unexpected adventures,” he toasts.
I clink glasses with him, letting the crisp white swirl across my tongue. “To detours,” I say, “since every one with you feels better than the main road.”
He grins, and it nearly undoes me. “You know, I never pictured myself doing this.” His voice softens on the last word. “Sitting still. Letting someone in. But I like it.”
I tuck my foot under his thigh. “What did you picture, then?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Just sips his wine and rests the glass on his knee. “I thought I’d be alone by thirty,” he says finally. Not sad, more factual, like he’s reciting the weather report. “The Hawthorne men don’t exactly have a great marriage track record. My dad tells everyone I’m a serial commitment-phobe. Lauren says I’m just too picky. Maybe I am.”
“Or you just haven’t found the perfect company for detours,” I say.
“That’s what I keep telling them.”
After the food is gone, he pulls me up. “Come on,” he says, leading me down to the water’s edge, where the sand is already cooling under the cover of dusk.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“Stargazing.”
Alex stretches out a thick blanket, and we sink onto it, our shoulders brushing. The stars seem closer here, brighter, as if we’ve stepped into a different world entirely. I can’t remember the last time I took a moment like this—just to be, without an agenda or a to-do list hovering in the back of my mind.
Our hands intertwine, and I can feel the pulse in his thumb.
Alex points to a cluster. “That’s Cassiopeia—the vain queen. My grandfather taught me to find her whenever I felt lost as a kid.” His voice is soft, almost reverent.
“Tell me more.”
He stays silent for a while, tracing slow circles against my palm, before saying, “She keeps watch over the sea. Waiting for her daughter to return. It’s not a happy story, but it’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it? She got turned into a constellation, but she never stopped caring.”
He’s closer now, close enough that I could count the eyelashes on his eyes if I wanted. “Do you believe in destiny, Olivia?” he asks.
I’ve never believed in destiny, not really. Destiny is a word you cling to when you’ve run out of everything else, when you’re desperate for your life to mean something more than a string of decisions you can’t control. But here, on a wild, salt-licked stretch of sand with Alex’s hand around mine, I want to believe.
“I don’t know. Maybe I do. Or I just like the idea of something bigger looking out for us. Some days, I think the only destiny worth believing in is the one you make yourself.”
