Page 39 of Forbidden Fruit

The directness of the question catches me off guard, but I don’t mind. “I think... I got comfortable with the familiar. Even when the familiar wasn’t good for me.” I take a sip of wine, gathering courage. “And I wanted to check that box—marriage, family, the whole package. I thought Jack was my last chance.”

Clive’s laugh is gentle but incredulous. “Rebecca, you’re twenty-eight, brilliant, and beautiful. Jack wasn’t your last chance. He wasn’t even a good chance.”

The afternoon stretches into a golden haze as we talk and laugh. Clive tells me about building his security empire from nothing, his childhood in Boston, and his passion for marine conservation. I share stories about my most disastrous events, my college adventures, and my secret dream of writing a novel someday.

When the sun begins its descent, Clive reluctantly starts the engine.

“We should head back before it gets dark,” he says, though he sounds as reluctant as I feel to end this perfect day.

The boat cuts through the water, slower now, as if Clive, too, wants to prolong our time together. I lean back, letting the wind caress my face, my eyes closed against the setting sun. For the first time in years, I feel present—truly present in this moment rather than worrying about the next checklist item in my carefully planned life.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Clive says, his voice carrying over the gentle hum of the engine.

I open my eyes to find him watching me, his gaze warm and curious. “I was just thinking that I can’t remember the last time I felt this... content.”

His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that makes my heart skip. “Good. You deserve contentment, Rebecca. And a lot more.”

The shoreline approaches too quickly, his private dock illuminated by soft lights that have automatically switched on at dusk. With practiced ease, Clive guides the boat into its berth, cuts the engine, and secures the vessel.

“Need a hand?” he asks, extending his arm to help me onto the dock.

I take it, but my foot catches on the edge as I step from the boat. I stumble forward with a small gasp, falling directly into Clive’s chest. His arms encircle me instinctively, steadying me against him. For a moment, we stand frozen, my palms flat against his still-damp skin, his hands at my waist.

“Sorry,” I whisper, though I make no move to step away.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, his voice deeper than before. His eyes search mine, asking a question he doesn’t voice.

The air between us crackles with possibility. I should step back. I should thank him politely for a lovely day and retreat to my guest room to sort through the emotional wreckage of my relationship. I should do anything but what I’m actually doing—rising onto my tiptoes, my face tilting toward his.

Clive hesitates, his breath warm against my lips. “Becca,” he says, my name a warning and a plea.

“I know,” I finish for him. “We shouldn’t lose our heads.”

His expression changes suddenly—restraint melting into a determined hunger. His hand grips my cheek, thumb tracing firmly across my lower lip. “You’re right. We shouldn’t. It won’t happen again.”

My heart slowly sinks, but I can’t forget this has nowhere to go.

Clive

Istand in the kitchen, still damp from the shower, slicing poblano peppers as the scent of cumin and lime fills the air. The rhythmic sound of my knife against the cutting board is oddly soothing as I try to process everything that happened today.

Becca was in the water, her slender body cutting through the turquoise waves with unexpected grace. The sunlight dappled her wet skin, and she was enthusiastic when that school of bright fish surrounded us. The moment our legs brushed beneath the surface, I felt a jolt of electricity I had no business feeling.

The memory of her in that white swimsuit makes my hands falter. I nearly slice my finger instead of the pepper and curse under my breath. I need to focus. This dinner isn’t going to cook itself, and I want it to be perfect for her.

I toss the peppers into the sizzling pan, listening to the satisfying hiss as they hit the hot oil. Outside the kitchen window, the Cozumel sunset paints the sky in impossible shades of orange and pink. The villa feels different now—lighter somehow, despite the weight of what I’m feeling.

When I suggested snorkeling, I didn’t realize how it would only solidify my obsession. One moment, we were floating above a rainbow of coral, schools of fish darting between us, and the next moment, I was reaching for her hand underwater. The way she looked at me, those brown eyes wide with surprise and something else—something that made my chest tighten.

“Slow,” I mutter to myself, stirring the simmering sauce. “You need to go slow.”

She’s twenty-eight. I’m forty-six. What would she want with an old man?

The sound of footsteps makes me turn, wooden spoon still in hand.

And there she is.

Becca stands in the doorway wearing a white sundress that clings to her curves before flaring just above her knees. Her dark hair falls in damp waves around her shoulders, and her skin glows golden in the kitchen light. She’s barefoot, her toenails painted a soft pink that matches the flush in her cheeks.

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