Page 179 of Ewan

He selected the swimsuit.

A red bikini bathing suit with gold metal hardware that looks great against my hair and skin.

The beach was, for the most part, empty.

Most people were still at home, unwrapping gifts and spending time with their families.

We kissed on the beach and watched the water ripple nearby and the lazy waves break into shallow puddles as the birds dove into the ocean.

I hadn’t felt so at peace in a decade. Literally.

With that being said, Ewan was sunk in thought, his stare blank, pinned on the water, his fingers moving absently through my hair as I had the back of my head propped against his abdomen.

We sat like that, him staring at the water while I was studying the sky. Doing nothing, enjoying the silence interrupted only by the whispering breeze, the small waves, and the noise of the seagulls.

Later, we went snorkeling, which was an amazing experience, and then we drove around the island.

Eventually, we found this place, a nice restaurant with a shady terrace and a fantastic ocean view.

We were lucky to find it open as most places are closed today. The owner, Martha, knows Ewan and his family, which doesn’t surprise me.

They speak about Ewan’s brother before she goes inside, and soon after, our food arrives.

Everything is fresh and tasty. Enchilada, quesadilla, salsa, guacamole, refried beans, and tacos. It seems like a lot, but we’re hungry, and we devour it within minutes.

Our desserts arrive, churros and homemade flan. And we pace ourselves this time, getting the chance to chat again.

“This was fantastic,” I say, smiling, full.

“It’s one of the best restaurants in the neighborhood.”

He orders coffee for both of us and soon we sip Mexican spiced coffee.

The breeze threads its fingers through my hair, pushing it over my face.

I pull it all up and tie it into a loose bun at the top of my head, and his stare stalls on me a little.

“What?” I ask, smiling. “It doesn’t look good?”

What does, really?

My skin is dry and salty. A bit red from the sun.

I have no makeup on my face, and my hair is matted and smells like the ocean.

I have sand in my flip-flops, and my dress is damp from my wet bra.

He has his elbows on the table when he brings his coffee to his mouth and looks in the distance.

“You are beautiful. That’s all,” he says in a clipped voice, and my eyes stay on his face before dropping to his lips as he runs the tip of his tongue over them to collect a drop of coffee.

I can say the same thing about him.

It’s the second time I have had this thought about him, and this is more than about his physical features. His strong jawline, kissable lips, high cheekbones, and eyes made of moonstone. The soft lines forming around the corners of his eyes when he smiles.

There’s a quiet beauty in the way he breathes and lives, a nostalgic blend of self-assuredness, sadness, and simmering passion for all the things pulsing with life.

And I am one of those things.

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