Page 9 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“I’m not mad,” I protest weakly. “I’m just—the girls are gone, I have no plan, and I already checked out mentally. In my head, I should be halfway to New York by now.”
“Then check back in. Go to the bar. Order a drink. Maybe flirt with someone.”
“Camila.”
She widens her eyes innocently. “What? You’re divorced, not dead.”
I bury my face in a pillow. “I can’t flirt. I don’t even remember how.”
“Perfect. That’s when it’s fun again.”
I lift my head just enough to glare. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” she says, smug. “Now go. Have a drink, eat something, and stop thinking for one damn night.”
The call ends with her blowing me a dramatic kiss, and I can’t help it—I laugh. A real, loud one.
The rest of the afternoon slips by slowly. I shower again, rinse everything from my hair, and wander aimlessly around the resort—past the small and overpriced shopping plaza, the empty pool, the couples taking photos by the water. It’s the first time all week I’ve been truly alone, and weirdly, it doesn’t feel awful. I grab a late lunch in one of the indoor restaurants, answer a fewwork emails I probably should’ve ignored, and sit on the balcony until the light starts to fade.
By sunset, I’m walking barefoot down the path to the beach restaurant, dress swishing around my knees. The air smells like lime and grilled fish, and the string lights above flicker on just as the sun melts into the horizon.
The place is half-full, music low, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation filling the air.
I spot him instantly.
Sitting by himself near the railing that separates the open-air restaurant from the sand, phone in one hand, drink in the other. He’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt this time, his hair a little wind-tossed, a faint pink line across the bridge of his nose that looks suspiciously like a sunburn.
He looks… content. Quiet and calm in a way that takes me by surprise. I mean, I hardly know the man but the two interactions we’ve had, he’s been buzzing with energy and excitement, like a little puppy dog waiting for praise from its owner after sitting on command.
Ben looks up right as I start to turn away and our eyes meet, too late to pretend I didn’t see him.
He smiles—a huge, crooked grin, just like last night. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.Didn’t you say it was yourlastnight?”
I sigh and walk over, stopping beside his table. “It was.”
“And yet…” He gestures around, mock-dramatic. “You’re here. At dinner. Looking suspiciously not home-bound.”
“I got stuck,” I admit.
His brows lift and he gives me a curious look. “Stuck?”
“Apparently,” I say with a big sigh, “you can’t fly twelve hours after diving. Who knew?”
“Ah, of course,” he says calmly, although he makes a face that contradicts his words. I wonder if he’s mocking me slightly, orsimply lightening a shitty situation. “The twelve-hour rule. How could I forget?”
“Yep.” I tap my fingers on the table, trying to calm myself down a little more. “The one time I do something spontaneous, it backfires.”
“I’d call it fate,” he adds, eyeing me from top to bottom. A shiver runs down my spine at his perusal of my body, and my stomach flutters a little. An unexpected reaction again, something I haven’t felt in years. “But that might sound like a line.”
“It definitely sounds like a line.”
He gestures to the empty chair next to him. “Sit anyway?”
I hover for half a second, then sit. Because why not. Because I’m tired of my own company, and because whatever they’re serving here tonight smells delicious.
He flags down the waiter and orders another round of drinks before I can even protest. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
