Page 10 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“They have tacos with these sweet potato fries that might actually change your life. I had some last night, too. Coming back for more.”
“That’s a bold promise.”
“I take my food seriously.”
The drinks arrive—mojito for him, margarita for me—and so do the tacos. Warm tortillas, perfectly charred fish, salsa that burns just enough to make my mouth water.
We eat in silence for a while, ocean moving in a predictable cadence just a few feet away. The night has gotten darker suddenly, and the only thing I can see from my spot is the white where the waves break and foam, rolling into the wet sand, one after the other.
“You were right,” I admit eventually. “These might actually be life-changing.”
He grins. “Told you.”
“You’re so annoying.”
Ben laughs and it’s easy and unforced. I find myself laughing too, and my shoulders relax. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the fact that this ended up not being such a bad thing, after all. One more day in paradise really does feel like fate.
“How long are you here for, anyway?” I say, leaning back on my chair. The drinks are condensing, the big drops are trickling down the side of our glasses, forming a water ring around the base.
“Until the twenty-sixth. As you know, I’m attending a wedding on the twenty-fourth—an old work friend.” He looks at me, tilting his head again. The move makes him look like a little puppy. “You?”
“Argentina,” I say automatically, because it’s easier than explaining anything more complicated. And I’m being intentionally cryptic because despite his attractiveness and charm, I’m trying to keep a distance.
He chuckles. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know,” I reply, smiling at him. His eyes crinkle with the smile he give me in return. “But it’s all you’re getting.”
He laughs, low and easy, the sound rolling between us like the tide. “Mysterious. I respect it.”
There’s something about the way he looks at me—like he’s not teasing anymore, just taking me in. I feel it under my skin before I can name it. It’s been so long since anyone looked at me like that.
I take another sip of my drink, pretending I’m not suddenly aware of every inch of my body.
“So,” he says after a beat. “What’s the plan for your unexpected bonus day?”
“Sleep. Read. Avoid further humiliation.”
“Fun.”
“I’m a very fun person.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says lightly. “But since you’re officially grounded, I think you should make the most of it. Start with another drink.”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling. The waiter approaches us with two more drinks, and we sit there, talking for a while longer. About nothing, really. Movies neither of us have seen, terrible hotel playlists, how sunscreen always smells like summer even when it’s January and the worst of the winter is yet to come. It’s easy, the kind of conversation that stretches without realizing it.
At some point, he pushes back from the table. “Walk with me?”
I hesitate for a second but then nod. The air is warm and soft, the tide low. We step off the deck and onto the sand, shoes in hand, the music fading behind us. The water glows faintly under the moonlight, thin strips of silver cast across the surface.
He kicks at the surf, getting his ankles wet. “You ever notice how people only walk on the beach when they’re on vacation?”
I glance at him. “You’re very philosophical for someone who wears a rash guard to get in the water.”
“It’s a gift.”
We keep walking. The silence follows us as we walk, his arm brushes mine once, then again, and neither of us pulls away. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me wonder if there’s some sort of magnetic force anchoring me to him.
When I glance up, he’s already looking at me. There’s that crooked smile again, but softer this time, like he’s asking for permission instead of attention.
