Page 26 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
He holds up something small pinched between his fingers—a single pink flower, its stem flattened between two napkins. “Found it on the path to the beach. You could press it between the pages of the book you’re reading to take it back home.”
I laugh, sitting up. “I?—”
“It’s practical,” he says. “Portable. And hopefully, TSA-friendly? I don’t know about that, honestly.”
I take it anyway, fold the napkin closed around it. “Thank you.”
“For the flower or the free material for future teasing?”
I chuckle, still half-surprised. No one’s given me anything in such a long time; my ex-husband stopped doing any sort of gift years ago, after the third time I said I didn’t need anything. But this small, thoughtless gesture feels bigger than it should. I can’t remember the last time Matías saw something pretty and thought of me, if ever.
“Both,” I say finally, softer this time.
Ben smiles like it’s nothing, but something about the ease of it—the way he’s not trying to impress me, not asking for anything back—makes my chest ache a little. It’s been years since I’ve been this close to someone without wondering when the other shoe would drop, or what it might cost me later.
He sets the coffee on the nightstand and leans in to kiss me. It’s lazy, morning-soft, tasting of espresso and toothpaste and it makes my chest burn.
God, this feels so wrong but so fucking right at the same time. It’s like something finally unlocked, and everything makes sense.
Ben looks at me like he’s memorizing something. It’s almost too much.
I reach for a distraction. “You’re very good at this.”
He grins. “At what?”
“Making things feel easy.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a very convoluted way of calling me a people pleaser.”
“It’s a compliment.” My voice dips quieter. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I don’t usually let things be easy.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just kisses the corner of my mouth, soft and sure. “Maybe you should,” he murmurs.
And for a while, I do.
We spend the rest of the morning in bed—laughing, kissing, talking about nothing. When we finally pull ourselves together enough to order breakfast, the sheets are a mess and my hair’s a disaster, but I don’t care.
He stretches beside me while we eat, one arm ticked behind his head, the other lazily stealing bites from my plate. “So is this how you do vacations, then?” he teases.
“Apparently,” I say, scooping up another piece of papaya. “Eat too much, sleep too much, flirt with hot men who are way too young for me.”
“Flirt?” His brows lift. “That’s what we’re calling this.”
I bump his leg with my foot and the dishes on the bed rattle. “You know what I mean.”
He grins, takes a sip of his coffee, then looks at me in that disarming way he has—curious, a little too perceptive. “Are you always this bad at relaxing?”
The question catches me off guard. “What makes you think I’m bad at it?”
“You keep checking the clock,” he says, gesturing toward the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. “And you’ve been staring at your phone expecting it to ring, even though it’s Christmas and I’m sure no one has ever called you with an architectural emergency on Christmas.”
I laugh, but it’s short and quiet. “Old habits. I’m used to being on a schedule.”
“Work?”
“And life,” I admit. I set the fork down, drag the edge of a cloth napkin between my fingers. “I got married, kind of in a haste, to my college sweetheart. We met in school, he was a couple of years older than me.” I don’t think I’ve ever told thisstory to anyone outside of my most intimate circle. As a matter of fact, I don’t think any of my coworkers know my divorce was finalized, and no one has asked. “It was good, great, even, for a while. Comfortable, I guess.”
Ben doesn’t say anything, he just listens. His attention is steady, unhurried.
