Page 36 of Forbidden Fruit

"No," I agree. "Perfect is overrated anyway."

We stand in silence for a moment, the only sound is the distant crash of waves outside. The kitchen feels like a sanctuary, removed from the chaos of the evening.

"I'm not sure what to do now," Becca admits, leaning against the counter.

"You don't have to decide anything tonight," I say, carefully adjusting the ice pack. "The guest room is yours for as long as you need it."

She studies me, her expression thoughtful. "Why are you being so kind to me? And don't say it's because I'm Jack's girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend," she corrects herself, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.

I consider my answer carefully. "Because I see you, Becca. Not the polished event planner, not the girlfriend of my ex-wife's son. Just you. And what I see is someone extraordinary who deserves to be treated as such."

A blush creeps across her cheeks. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because..." She hesitates. "It makes me feel things I shouldn't feel."

My pulse quickens, but I force myself to remain still. "I'm not expecting anything from you. That's not why I'm offering you a place to stay."

"I know." She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "That's what makes it worse, somehow. You're just... decent. It shouldn't be so refreshing."

I can't help but laugh at that. "I've been called many things in my life, but 'decent' might be my favorite."

Her smile is genuine this time, lighting up her eyes. "Well, punching your ex-stepson might disqualify you from complete decency."

"Fair point." I flex my hand again, wincing slightly. "Though in my defense, he swung first."

"Will you really make them leave tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Jack won't go easily."

"Jack doesn't have a choice," I say, my voice hardening slightly. "This is my house, and I want them gone."

"And me?" she asks, her eyes meeting mine.

"You," I say carefully, "can do whatever feels right for you. If you want to leave with them, I'll understand. If you want to stay, the villa is yours for as long as you need. If you want to go somewhere else entirely, I'll arrange it."

She absorbs this, then asks, "What do you want me to do?"

The question catches me off guard. No one asks what I want anymore; they just assume I'll make it happen. "I want you to be happy," I say honestly. "Whatever that looks like."

"I don't think I know what that looks like yet," she admits.

"Then stay until you figure it out."

She takes a step closer, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume—something subtle and floral that suits her perfectly. "Is that what you want? For me to stay?"

I should lie. I should maintain professional distance. I should remember she's young and vulnerable and just ending a relationship. Instead, I say, "Yes. But what I want doesn't matter right now."

"It matters to me," she says quietly.

Our eyes lock, and something shifts between us, a current of possibility neither of us is ready to name. She reaches out and briefly touches my injured hand, a gentle, fleeting contact.

"Goodnight, Clive," she says, stepping back. "Thank you... for everything."

"Goodnight, Becca."

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