CHAPTER 105: DANCE WITH ME

He reached for a sponge nearby and dipped it in the water, wringing it out before dragging it gently over her shoulder. She hummed low in her throat.

"You know," she murmured, eyes still closed, "you’re setting a dangerous precedent. I’m going to start expecting luxury baths after every beach day."

Nicholas ran the sponge down her arm, slow and easy. "Good. I like high-maintenance you."

"You like bathing me."

"Also true."

He leaned closer and kissed the top of her damp knee, which was peeking out from the water. His voice was quiet. "You look like a painting."

Ella opened her eyes just enough to catch him watching her with that look again—like nothing in the world could touch them here. Like she was sunlight in a porcelain tub, and he’d spend the rest of his life learning how to hold her without shattering.

"Get in," she said suddenly.

Nicholas blinked. "In the tub?"

"No, the wardrobe." She reached for his hand and tugged. "Of course the tub. Come on. We’ll make it work."

He gave a mock-sigh but peeled off his shirt and stepped out of his swim trunks with deliberate slowness.

Ella tried not to stare. She failed.

"You’re very distracting," she mumbled as he climbed in behind her.

"I know," he said, settling in and pulling her gently back against his chest. "It’s part of the brand."

She melted into him, his arms wrapping around her in the water, her back against his chest. Their legs tangled lazily beneath the surface. His chin came to rest on her shoulder.

"This," she whispered, "is dangerously good."

His lips brushed her temple. "I told you. I’m going to ruin you."

They stayed like that for a long time, the water cooling slowly, but neither of them caring. The candle flickered low on the windowsill, and the breeze coming in through the cracked window smelled like rosemary and distant sea salt.

Ella lifted one of Nicholas’s hands and ran her fingers over his knuckles, slow and thoughtful. "You’re quiet."

"I’m thinking."

"Dangerous."

"About how good this feels," he said. "About how I’d like to do this every night."

She smiled, letting his hand float gently in the water. "I’d let you."

"Every night?"

"Every night."

There was a pause.

Then he kissed the corner of her jaw, whisper-soft. "You feel like home."

Ella turned her face toward him, eyes bright but soft. "That’s funny," she said. "Because I was just thinking you taste like home."

His smile curved slow and crooked. "You’re not going to cry in this bath, are you?"

"Not unless you say something devastating."

"Like I’d give up every house I’ve ever owned just to keep this—right here?"

She blinked. "That was very close."

"Too far?"

"Perfect."

She turned in the water, shifting carefully until she was straddling him, hands resting against his chest. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders. His palms slid instinctively over her thighs under the water, anchoring her there.

And then—no teasing, no big declarations—she leaned in and kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Gentle pressure. Warm mouths. Quiet hearts.

Nicholas kissed her back like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life.

And maybe, in that moment, they both believed that was true.

When they pulled apart, her forehead resting against his, she whispered, "We should probably get out before we turn into soup."

"I like you as soup."

She snorted, arms draping around his shoulders. "You’re the worst."

"I’m the bath king."

She kissed him again, lips curved against his. "And you’re mine."

They got out eventually—wrapped in towels, laughing as they bumped elbows brushing their teeth at the double sinks, dripping across the floor with no urgency.

The sky outside had turned a syrupy kind of gold by the time they made it onto the terrace. Everything looked like it had been dipped in honey—the white walls blushed pink, the sea glittering like a scattered tray of diamonds. The breeze was warmer now, lazier, and it tugged gently at Ella’s linen wrap dress, brushing it against her bare legs as she stepped outside.

Nicholas was already there, barefoot in lightweight trousers and a white linen shirt left half-unbuttoned. He had set up the small wooden table with casual precision—two tumblers, a copper shaker, slices of peach glistening on a plate, and a tall bottle of something golden and promising.

He turned when he heard her, and then he smiled.

That slow, lazy kind of smile that always hit her like a sunbeam straight to the ribs.

"Just in time," he said, lifting the shaker. "You’re about to witness history."

Ella padded closer, eyes narrowing playfully. "Let me guess. Sun-Kissed Trouble

makes its debut?"

"Oh, we’re past the debut," Nicholas said, shaking the mix with flair. "This is the premiere. Red carpet. Standing ovation. Five stars on Yelp."

She sat down, resting her arms on the warm stone tabletop. "If this drink is terrible, I’m throwing you off the balcony."

"Fair. But it won’t be. Because I’m brilliant."

He poured the cocktail with a flourish—liquid the color of sunset cascading into her glass, a slice of peach balanced perfectly on the rim, the scent of basil and citrus rising with the steam from the ice.

Ella picked it up and sniffed it cautiously.

"Taste it," he murmured, watching her like the verdict might ruin—or redeem—him.

She took a sip.

Paused.

And then let out the most dramatic sigh imaginable. "Oh no."

Nicholas’s face fell. "No?"

She took another sip, this time slower. Then smiled.

"Oh no," she repeated. "It’s perfect."

He grinned in that way that made her want to kiss the smugness off his face. "Told you."

"It tastes like summer and secrets and something I’d say yes to too quickly."

Nicholas clinked his glass against hers. "Exactly the brand."

They sipped in silence for a while, the music from the little record player humming softly in the background—something jazzy, lazy, full of warmth. The horizon burned orange, and the sea below caught every bit of it.

Ella pulled her knees up to the chair, chin resting lightly on one. "This is stupidly romantic."

"Stupidly," Nicholas agreed, tipping his glass back.

"Do you bring all your girlfriends here?" she teased.

He didn’t flinch. "Just you."

She looked over at him. His expression hadn’t changed. No coy grin. No joke to follow.

Just simple truth.

Ella’s chest tightened, but in a good way. The kind that felt like something unfolding inside her, like petals turning toward light.

"Dance with me," she said suddenly, already standing.

Nicholas blinked. "To jazz?"

"To this

jazz."

She held out her hand. He took it.

Bare feet on warm stone. His hand on her waist, her fingers curled lightly at his shoulder. The music wrapped around them like another breeze, soft and swaying, the rhythm more felt than heard.

They moved slowly, hips brushing, arms loose. It wasn’t polished, but it was easy. Like everything with them somehow was.

Ella looked up at him under the last sliver of sun. "You keep doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like I’m the only thing you’ve ever wanted."

Nicholas’s fingers flexed slightly at her waist. "That’s because you are."

The words landed without drama. No rush. No urgency. Just a quiet kind of certainty.

She leaned her forehead to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the linen. He smelled like citrus and something clean, and he was warm in that way that made her feel safe without ever asking to.

They danced until the music faded, until the sky darkened and the stars blinked out one by one. And even then, they didn’t let go.

Eventually, they drifted back to the chairs. Ella curled her feet up into her seat, the last of her cocktail melting slowly beside her.

Nicholas reached over, brushing a thumb along the inside of her wrist.

"You’re glowing," he murmured.

"That’s just the cocktail."

"No," he said, softer now. "That’s just you."

She turned her hand to lace their fingers together.

"You’re really not going to ruin this, are you?" she asked. Not scared. Just wondering.

"No," Nicholas said without hesitation. "I only ruin boring things."

Ella smiled, gaze flicking from their joined hands to his face.

Then, quieter: "And I’m not boring."

"You," he whispered, lifting her hand to his lips, "are everything but."

And just like that, the world went quiet again.

Just them. Just stars. Just the clink of ice and the soft rise of music and the kind of love that didn’t need to be announced to be understood.

Ella didn’t say it.

She didn’t have to.

Not when she leaned her head on his shoulder like home.

Not when his hand stayed over hers the entire time the record turned.

Not when they sat in perfect silence, as the night wrapped around them like a promise.

They stayed on the terrace until the sky turned a velvet blue, their drinks long finished, the music fading into a low crackle of vinyl as the last song played out. Nicholas reached over eventually and tapped the switch, silencing the player.

Ella didn’t move.

She was still curled in her chair, one leg tucked under her, her cheek resting lightly against his shoulder. The night breeze threaded through her hair, and she was half-asleep, eyes blinking slowly as if she couldn’t decide whether to let the moment go just yet.