“Sleep well last night?” Mitch sneers. “Shame you didn’t want to party on with us. We had fun.”
“Fuck off, asshole.” My words are light. Two weeks ago, I could have said the same words with the warmth of friends. The Australian way of insulting is reserved for close mates. Not now. I mean every syllable.
“Or you could save yourself the embarrassment of watching this wonderful woman and me fall in love all over again.” It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to knock him into the ocean when he tries to hold Liv’s hand. Lucky for him, and me, she pulls away. A slight shake of her head gives me a glimmer of hope.
“I’m finished.” Olivia pushes aside her still-full bowl of fruit salad. “Your twenty-four hours start now.”
“Wait,” I stand up, ignoring the coffee set down in front of me. Bless the staff for knowing what I need without being asked. “A few minutes, please?”
I offer Olivia my hand, looking towards Mitch. “If you’re so bloody confident, you shouldn’t have a problem with me saying goodbye.”
The whole table hears Olivia’s gasp, and I realize it sounds like my bags are packed. Not true, but if it gives me another few minutes, they can live in innocence.
“Sure,” Mitch is full of insincere grace. “Glad you’ve come to your senses, but let’s not make plans to catch up again in Sydney.”
“Liv?” I ignore the bastard and lead her to the far side of the balcony. Still within sight of the others, but at least we have each other and the glorious views of half a dozen secluded beaches.
“Are you okay?” Olivia asks, looking at me with fingers twitching.
“I was going to ask you the same. Were the girls awake when you got back?”
“No, but Jess knows.”
“There’s so much I want to say right now, but the words are a fucking mess in my head.”
“Hunter, I’m not sorry for this week, or last night. I’m truly not. You deserve so much better than a woman who isn’t ready to shout to the world how she feels.”
“I don’t need you to shout it to the world, just for you to admit it to yourself.”
Olivia doesn’t respond, not that there are any words other than, “Hell yeah, I love you too,” that I want to hear. Instead, she allows me to pull her close. A hug like many of the others we’ve shared in recent years. Platonic, except this time there’s no distance between our hips. I don’t try to protect her from feeling my erection, and she doesn’t pull away from her breasts being pressed close to my chest.
Gently, I stroke her blonde hair, being careful not to release the messy bun. We stand for what seems like hours, but is only minutes before I release her, one final stroke of her hair before cupping her face. Her eyes plead for one last kiss, but I can’t do it. Two hours ago, I walked her back to her villa, kissing her on the steps. My scent is still all over her body. If we’re to have a last kiss, I want her to remember that one. Still full of love and promise, and me being the bigger person—handing her back to her friends. Not here, in full view of the bastard.
My thumb brushes away the single tear before it can fall. I shake my head, not wanting her to cry. I give her one last, tighthug before escorting her back to the table. Handing her to Mitch, my stare is as stoic as I can fake. He doesn’t fucking deserve her.
“Tick, tick, tick. See you at 8:52 am tomorrow.”
Turning, I feel Olivia tense as if to come after me.Do it. Don’t wait another day,I silently plead. Instead, each step back to my villa is alone, and it’s not until I collapse onto the daybed that I realize my undrunk coffee is now cold.
Me to Liv:Life is too short to drink bad coffee.
I send her a photo of the cup and wait for a reply that doesn’t come.
Revenge of the Runaway Bride
Olivia
“I guess we’ll leaveyou to it.” Tash can’t wait to leave us alone, and I can only imagine how many minutes she’ll wait before heading off after Hunter. That thought fills me with more dread than spending the next day with Mitchel.
“Thanks, have fun,” I call after her as she drags Jess away, leaving Mitchel and me alone.
“Have you had enough to eat? How about some of their pancakes?”
“You know I can never resist pancakes,” I chuckle. Mitch has a secret recipe he only pulls out in times of immense groveling.
“Cinnamon,” he says behind a cupped hand as if sharing a secret.
“What?”
