Page 24 of Official

“It’s settled, then.” He rubs his hands in front of him. “You’ll give yourself a break.”

“I am.” Again, I wave around the ocean. “What you don’t seem to grasp is that it’s not about restrictions and making myself miserable. It’s about showing people that living a life of balance is not only possible but also amazing. We can indulge every now and then, but sticking to healthy options for most of our meals is good for our bodies. We only have one, so we should take care of it.”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, I peer down at him where he lies on a towel on the other side of the food.

He’s staring back at me, and his curious gaze makes me self-conscious. Is there something on my face?

“What?” I tuck loose strands of hair behind my ear.

“I like when you talk about your work.”

“I’m sure it’s like you when you talk about writing.”

“I guess.”

“Why do you write? I don’t think I’ve ever asked you that.” I take a small bite of my eggs, but I barely taste them. I’m more interested in his answer, strangely eager to know him better.

I’m actually surprised I don’t know how he started writing. Before we arrived on the island, I thought I knew him pretty well, but I’m learning all these new things about him now.

And I like it.

“My dad got me into writing when I was thirteen.” He tucks his hands behind his head and turns his attention toward the ocean, where the water is still and calm. The more he talks, the more the water lightens from the rising sun. “When my mom’s acting career took off, she traveled a lot. Acting isn’t a nine-to-five job, but my dad’s finance job was. They were both gone frequently, which wasn’t a big deal when I was in school. They just had no clue what to do with me during breaks, so my dad picked the first thing he could find on a list ofthings to occupy your teenage son during summer.”

I raise my eyebrows, sensing a bitter layer under his tone, but I remain quiet.

“Little did he know, my dad’s idea to get rid of me worked out in my favor. I almost hate that it’s the one thing I have to thank him for. He didn’t even stick around to see me through it.” He laughs, but it lacks any trace of humor. “Anyway, when my first screenwriting summer program ended, I found myself still writing well into fall and winter just for fun. I wrote random scenes between classes and researched other programs to continue exploring that avenue, and now here we are.” He spreads his arms wide, and a proud smile stretches across his square jaw.

I return his grin, at a loss for words.

This is one of the rare moments when I get this side of Xander. One where he’s not cracking jokes and talking about his latest hookup.

When he’s vulnerable and honest, he’s captivating.

The first time I laid eyes on him, I never would’ve believed he’s a writer had Teddy not told me beforehand. At first glance, the guy walks the walk of an LA actress’s son, an aura of poise and certainty following him like the air he breathes. His thick hair is as dark as his eyes, but not as rich and deep. Those eyes hold more than stars for Hollywood.

The more time I’ve spent with him just the two of us, I’ve noticed the quiet way he studies the people around us through the eyes of a storyteller—with meaningful contemplation of what raw and flawed layer lies beneath the surface of perfection.

I study form in much the same way—following the fluidity of a movement like it’s telling a story. One of internal gratitude and strength, albeit grueling too, the latter of which isn’t too far off Xander’s gritty taste in movie genres.

Maybe Teddy is the reason I know so little about his past. Usually, my brother’s around to razz on him, which doesn’t tend to leave room for a real conversation. Does Teddy even know some of this stuff about Xander?

Surprising me, Xander sighs and squeezes his eyes closed, reaching his hand out. “Okay. I’ll eat whatever you give me. Be gentle.”

Humming, I rummage through the bag and retrieve the other container of egg whites that room service brought me. Before I even hand it to him, I know he’s going to hate them—after all, the yolk is the tastiest part of an egg—but I refuse to waste a perfectly good serving of lean protein.

He peeks at his palm and groans.

“Enjoy,” I sing.

Grunting, he sits up and tears into his food like an animal. He usually eats more gently, but I suspect he wants to get it over with sooner rather than later.

“We have to start enjoying all that the island has to offer instead of just existing on this beach.” He waves around us at the large expanse of white-sand mounds sprinkled with a handful of other vacationers under rainbow-colored umbrellas, hats on their heads and drinks or books in their hands. “We need to live a little.”

“If this spontaneous trip itself doesn’t count, then we definitely lived the other day when we had shrimp out of that food truck.”

“That is a Maui institution, recommended to us by almost everyone we encountered the first day we got here, including the flight attendant before we stepped off the plane.”

“You mean theflirtattendant?”

---