Chapter 1: San Elijo Beach, 5:27 AM

The Pacific was flat and glassy at dawn, the sky streaked pink as Gareth paddled into a waist-high wave. He popped up, knees bent, arms loose, the swell carried him almost to shore before sputtering out in a fizz of salt and foam. He stumbled off, laughing, breathless, wet hair plastered to his face.

Vivienne watched from the sand, her salt-bleached ponytail slung over one shoulder. When he trudged out of the water, board under his arm, she clapped, slow, approving. "Look at you, You're not fighting the water anymore." she said

He jogged toward her, board tucked under his arm. She met him halfway, his laugh was swallowed by her kiss.

Her mouth tasted like the sea. Her hands slid down his chest, fingers catching on the ridges of his ribs.

“I’m learning from the best.”

 "Flatterer. But you’re still too stiff in the shoulders," she murmured against his lips. "Let me fix that."

They sank onto the sand. The beach was empty except for the gulls and the distant silhouette of a lone paddleboarder. The kiss deepened, playful, slow, teeth grazing. Her hand slid over the bulge in his trunks.

“Jesus,” he whispered, half a laugh, “here?”

“Early enough,” she murmured, glancing down the empty stretch of San Elijo. “Just you, me, and the tide.”

Vivienne straddled him, her knees sinking into the sand. She settled onto his lap. Her turquoise bikini clinging to the curves of her hips, Gareth’s palms found the notch of her waist, thumbs brushing along her abdomen.

"You’re so—" He didn’t finish. Words dissolved when she rocked against him, the damp fabric of his trunks and her bikini bottom a maddening barrier.

Vivienne hummed, amused, and reached for the towel draped over his board. With a flick of her wrist, she wrapped around their waists, draping it casually. Her hand slipped beneath, fingers curling around his cock, guiding it out, hidden from the world. She rubbed the head along her bikini bottom, gasping at the pressure.

Gareth’s pulse kicked. "Someone could—"

“Hush.” She shifted, tugged her bikini aside, and sank onto him, slow and slick, her eyes fluttering closed.

"They’ll see nothing but two lovers hugging," she murmured, and then her mouth was on his again, swallowing his gasp as she rolled her hips. The ocean wind skimmed their skin, the tide whispering against the shore.

He drowned in her—the salt on her throat, the soft give of her thighs under his grip, the way she clenched around him when he nipped her collarbone. His hands slid up her back, relearning every mark, every knot of muscle, every place he’d memorized in the dark.

Then, footsteps.

Gareth froze, heart racing. “Shit. Someone’s coming.”

She leaned forward with a smile. “We’re just cuddling,” she whispered.

Gareth tensed, eyes flashing toward the jogger approaching down the shoreline. Vivienne went still, but her pussy tightened around him, teasing.

"Relax," she breathed, lips brushing his ear. Her fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close. 

The jogger passed without glancing their way.

When the footsteps faded, Vivienne laughed, low and wicked, and started moving again.

This time, Gareth didn’t hold back. He licked into her mouth, slid her bikini top aside and kissed the swell of her breast, tongue flicking over her nipple. She gasped, hands in his hair, and her pace quickened, her thighs trembling, and when she came, it was with her forehead pressed to his, her breath stuttering.

He followed, hips stuttering up into her, fingers digging into her ass as he spilled deep.

For a long moment, they clung to each other, silent and shaking, salt and sweat mingling between their skin, the sunrise painting them gold.

Vivienne rested her forehead on his, smiling. “God, I love mornings.”

He kissed her jaw. “You ruin me.”

“Good.” She pulled back, eyes crinkling at the corners as she adjusted her bikini. 

Gareth caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm.

Chapter 2: Always Unlocked

The bike’s tires crunched on the gravel path, sea mist still clinging to Gareth’s skin as he followed Vivienne through the crooked gate. Her sarong fluttered in the morning breeze, bougainvillea petals catching in her tousled hair. She leaned the cruiser against the stucco wall and lifted her board to the porch with practiced ease.

The front door was, as ever, unlocked.

Inside, the scent enveloped them: wood polish, massage oil, old books, and the faint ghost of burnt sage. It was cool and still, like stepping into a dream.

Vivienne dropped her bag on the daybed, turned to him with that glint in her eyes, the same one that got him hard at the beach. She pulled him close by the damp collar of his shirt and kissed him, deep and slow, until his knees nearly buckled.

“You have sand on your tongue,” he murmured against her lips.

“So do you.”

Her hands were already beneath his shirt, nails grazing his back. Gareth moved to lift hers too, but she turned them, walking him backward toward the little massage room. The masks on the walls stared silently as they passed.

Vivienne laughed softly against Gareth’s mouth, her fingers sliding under his waistband, when…

“Oh my God, Mother.”

Gareth flinched like he’d been slapped.

In the archway stood a woman in her early fifties, dressed in cream slacks and a pale blue sweater that probably cost more than Gareth’s rent. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in a tight chignon, and the expression on her face could’ve curdled milk.

Vivienne didn’t look surprised. Or sorry.

“Well, look who’s awake early,” she said, casually stepping back.

Gareth, flushing, tried to tidy his shirt. “Hi,” he said lamely. “I’m Gareth.”

The woman didn’t answer him. Her eyes were fixed on her mother, cold and incredulous.

“I can’t believe you,” she said, voice clipped and low. “Your boyfriend is a child.”

Vivienne rolled her eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Gareth froze. I’m not?

Maeve’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Vivienne. “That’s supposed to make this better?”

Vivienne shrugged, adjusting her sarong. “I don’t answer to you.”

“You’re seventy-six,” Maeve said sharply. “And he looks like he’s just out of college.”

Gareth, trying to salvage dignity, muttered, “I’m thirty.”

Maeve’s mouth curved in something almost like a smile. “Well. What a mature gentleman.”

Vivienne moved to the kitchen, reaching for the kettle. “You’re in my house, Maeve. Remember?”

“No. I’m in Nana’s house. The one you’ve inherited and turned into a hippie love shack for hosting toy boys half your age.”

Vivienne turned, water stilling mid-pour. “Get to the point.”

“I texted. I called. You ignored all of it. Then I stop by—just to make sure you’re alive—and walk into a live-action tribute to Emmanuelle meets Cocoon.”

“We were kissing,” Vivienne said.

“You had your hand down his pants.”

Vivienne smirked. “He didn’t seem to mind.”

Gareth opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Maeve shook her head, exasperated. “You really don’t see how this looks?”

“To whom?” Vivienne asked lightly. “The neighbors? The coastal elite?”

“To me,” Maeve said. “To your family. You talk all the time about freedom, about spirit, about healing—but what are you healing from, exactly? It looks a lot like running away.”

Vivienne’s jaw tensed, just slightly. She looked to Gareth. “You don’t have to stand here for this.”

He didn’t move.

“I thought…” he began, his voice low, careful. “I mean, I didn’t think I was your boyfriend—that’s old-fashioned, maybe—but…”

He trailed off, already regretting bringing it up again. 

Vivienne’s tone softened—not apologetic, but clear. “You’re not.”

Gareth’s mouth opened, then closed. He gave a small nod, managed a smile he didn’t feel. The words stung more than he expected. She wasn’t cruel. Just… cool?

Maeve let out a dry breath. “Right. I don’t need front-row seats to whatever this is.”

Vivienne turned to her, expression unreadable. “Next time, wait outside.”

Maeve scoffed, started to turn—then paused in the doorway.

“Oh, and by the way,” she said, flipping her sunglasses from the neckline of her sweater and sliding them on. “Dad’s dying.”

Vivienne blinked. “What?”

Maeve was already walking. “Stage four. Liver. You’d know if you ever checked your voicemail.”

The words dropped like a stone in a still pool.

Vivienne followed fast, barefoot through the door, voice rising. “Maeve. Maeve!”

Gareth stood frozen for a moment before stepping out after them. The sun was higher now, bleaching the front garden in a hard light.

Vivienne caught up to her daughter at the driveway, grabbing her arm. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Maeve pulled free, furious. “Now you care about him?”

Vivienne was visibly shaken, her composure finally cracking. “Don’t you dare. He’s—he’s the love of my life.”

The words stabbed. Not at him, not directly, but they still found their mark. Gareth turned his face slightly, as if that might protect him. The love of her life? Not a love. Not one of. Just like that, he saw himself outside the picture. A bright, wild moment she’d someday recall with fondness, not the love of her life.

Maeve barked a laugh. “You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it. You know where he lives.”

She slid into the sleek, oversized SUV and slammed the door. The engine started with a soft, expensive purr. Vivienne stood like a statue in the driveway, lips parted, arms limp at her sides.

The car backed out, turned, and disappeared down the hill.

Silence.

Across the street, an old neighbor in a sunhat stood behind her hydrangeas, pretending to deadhead them while very obviously watching.

Gareth caught her eye and gave a pleasant, almost regal little wave.

The woman blinked, startled, and waved back.

Vivienne let out a sharp breath and turned back toward the house.

“We’re going to Todos Santos,” she said over her shoulder.

Gareth hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

He followed her inside, the door swinging shut behind them.

Chapter 3: Mile High

They were thirty-six thousand feet above Mexico. The seatbelt sign was off. The drinks cart had passed twice. Vivienne hadn’t touched hers.

Gareth watched the clouds slide past the window in pink-edged silence. Vivienne sat beside him, arms folded tightly, staring at nothing. She hadn’t spoken since takeoff—not really. Just a clipped “yes” when the flight attendant offered her still water, and a forced smile that looked more like a grimace.

Gareth shifted in his seat, unsure what to do. They weren’t fighting, not exactly. But whatever had settled over her since Maeve’s bombshell felt bigger than he could reach.

He turned slightly toward her. “Vivienne…”

She didn’t look at him. Instead, she leaned close, speaking low and fast.

“Wait a couple of minutes,” she said. “Then come meet me in the toilet.”

And just like that, she stood.

Her hips brushed his knee as she walked past. No eye contact. No time to respond.

Gareth sat there stunned, blinking. The seat felt too warm beneath him. Around him, the cabin murmured in soft conversation and plastic clinks. 

Is this really the time? he thought.

The thought hit him slowly, then all at once: she meant it.

His cock twitched beneath his jeans.

He waited. Counted the seconds. The image of her body, suntanned and biting, straddling him in that tiny room curled around his brain like a hand.

He stood. Walked slow. Tried to look casual.

At the back of the cabin, he paused outside the lavatory door. A heartbeat passed. Then another. He lifted his hand and knocked, soft.

The door cracked open.

Vivienne’s eyes met his, glinting, unreadable, and then she grabbed his collar and pulled him in.

She locked the door behind them.

It was tight. His shoulder brushed the paper towel dispenser. Her leg bumped the sink.

Vivienne kissed him hard. No teasing. Just heat.

She yanked his belt open, her breathing sharp against his neck. Gareth groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding under her loose travel skirt. No underwear. Of course. She was soaked.

“God,” he whispered.

She pushed his jeans down just far enough. Her hand wrapped around his cock—slow, possessive—and then she turned, bracing herself against the tiny mirror.

“Now,” she said.

He hesitated, just a second, then pressed into her. She bit her wrist to keep from moaning.

It was all friction and heat, her body tight and trembling around him, slick and urgent. She clenched with every thrust, her pussy molten velvet, and Gareth bit back a ragged groan. 

The airplane bathroom hummed around them, cramped and illicit, every sound magnified. The hitch of her breath, the creak of the sink against her back, the wet slap of skin on skin. He fucked her slow, deep, fighting the urge to lose himself too soon.

Her hand braced against the mirror, fingers splayed, her reflection flushed and hungry in the glass.

His free hand slid down her belly, past the soft down of her hairy mound, finding the swollen nub of her clit, a smooth, hairless fold, so slick his fingers glided without resistance. He circled it, firm, deliberate, and she hissed through her teeth, her hips jumping.

"That—yes, right there—" Her whisper was raw, wrecked.

He grinned against her neck, reveling in the way she came apart under his touch. Her folds were soaked, dripping, her clit stiff under his thumb.

The plane hummed around them, indifferent. Somewhere, someone was laughing over gin and tonic. Here, inside this tiny shell, every stroke made her thighs shake, her breath coming in sharp little pants.

When she was close, her walls fluttered around his cock, he pressed two fingers against her lips.

"Taste," he growled.

Her tongue darted out, slow and filthy, licking her own arousal from his fingers. Her mouth was warm, deliberate, lips closing around his fingertips as she sucked them clean. Fuck, he loved her like this. unraveled, shameless, her pupils blown wide in the mirror’s reflection. She arched back, rutting against his hand, her hips working in desperate little circles.

Her orgasm hit hard, her cunt milking him as she trembled, her moan muffled against his shoulder. The mirror fogged with their breath, her face a blur of pleasure, lips parted, eyes dark with satisfaction. He fucked her through it, relentless, chasing his own release, until he spilled into her.

For a heartbeat, they stayed locked together, his forehead pressed to her damp skin, the plane shuddering around them. Then she turned in his arms, licked the sweat from his throat, and smirked against his pulse.

They cleaned up quickly, quietly.

Vivienne opened the door first and slipped out.

Gareth followed a minute later, heart pounding. No one seemed to notice.

Back in their seats, Vivienne was already reading the inflight magazine, legs crossed, face cool.

As if nothing had happened at all.

Chapter 4: The House of the Living

The taxi crunched up the gravel drive, past terracotta pots bursting with bougainvillea and palms that cast long shadows in the late afternoon sun. The hacienda unfolded like a dream, low adobe walls painted the color of warm sand, cobalt trim on arched windows, and a single fountain burbling in the courtyard.

Gareth stepped out of the car, blinking against the light. The heat was dry and rich with jasmine. He reached back in for their bags just as Vivienne had already wandered forward, in her wrap skirt, eyes fixed on the open veranda ahead.

Then a voice: “Ma déesse.”

Jean-Luc emerged from the house as if conjured, bare-chested beneath a gauzy linen shirt, tanned, tall, eighty going on ageless. He moved with that effortless elegance certain men never lose, not even when death taps on the shoulder. His silver hair was swept back. His eyes lit the second he saw her.

Vivienne didn’t hesitate. She walked straight into his arms and they kissed, no cheek pecks, no polite brush of lips. Full-bodied. Slow. Familiar. He pulled her close and his hand cupped her ass like it had done a thousand times before.

She grinned against his mouth.

Gareth, mid-luggage shuffle, tried not to stare. He ended up watching Maeve instead, perched on a stucco bench, sunglasses on her head, smiling to herself like a woman witnessing something tender.

“They do that,” she said, not looking at Gareth. “Even after all this time.”

Gareth adjusted the straps on the bag and said nothing.

Jean-Luc pulled back, brushing Vivienne’s hair from her face. “You look like the last time I saw you. Wild. Untamed. Like you just got back from somewhere you shouldn’t have been.”

“Maybe I did,” she said, her voice warm.

Jean-Luc turned then, finally acknowledging Gareth. “And you—”

Vivienne glanced back. “This is Gareth. A friend.”

Jean-Luc extended a hand with old-world grace. “Jean-Luc. I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve heard quite a bit, it seems you made an impression on Maeve.” He laughed. “Don’t worry. She doesn’t like anyone.”

Maeve, from her bench, didn’t look up. “That’s true. But I do notice anyone my mother parades through customs like a rescue dog.”

Jean-Luc winced and chuckled under his breath. “Charm inherited, clearly.”

Gareth managed a tight smile and shook Jean-Luc’s hand. The man’s grip was firm and steady.

“Pleasure,” Gareth said. “I’ve heard a lot, too.”

“None of it true,” Jean-Luc winked. “Or worse—too true.”

Vivienne laughed.

“Anyway,” Maeve said, rising, smoothing her dress. “There’s a lovely hotel just ten minutes down the road. Very quiet. Pool, breakfast on a terrace. If you’d like, I can drive you over.”

Gareth blinked. “That’s—uh—”

“Nonsense,” Jean-Luc interrupted, waving a hand like clearing smoke. “A friend of Vivienne is a friend of mine. You’ll stay here. Best guest suite’s already aired. It has a view of the palms and the sound of the frogs at night. Do you like frogs?”

Gareth blinked. “Uh—sure.”

Jean-Luc lit up. “Ah, good. They’re philosophers, you know. The French ones especially. They sing all night, insistent little existentialists. Ribbit, ribbit—what is love? Ribbit—why are we born? They don’t sleep, they think. It’s a very pure life.”

Jean-Luc gestured toward the house, completely pleased with himself. “Come, I’ll show you. You’ll have dreams like Proust.”

Gareth, unthinkingly, followed.

They entered the central courtyard, the air cooler beneath the shaded arches. A small pool glistened like a mirror. On a lounge nearby, a woman in her forties looked up from a book.

She was striking, dark hair slicked back, sunglasses perched high on her head, skin still damp from a recent swim. A sheer sarong clung low on her hips, nearly translucent in the light, revealing the curve of a toned thigh as she shifted. Her bikini was deep green, the top small and triangular, emphasizing the soft lift of her full breasts, the bottoms narrow and knotted at the sides, sitting low against a trim, sun-kissed belly.

“Ari,” Jean-Luc called. “Come say hello.”

She glanced up from her book and gave him a slow, amused smile, then turned back to the page, unhurried.

“That’s Ari,” Jean-Luc said, turning to Gareth.

Vivienne said nothing. Gareth glanced back. Ari, by the pool, stretched her arms above her head and let out a pleased little sigh, her breasts shifting under her light top. Gareth looked away quickly.

A lover, he figured. Jean-Luc’s. The boundaries here were hard to read.

Jean-Luc clapped Gareth on the back. “Let’s get you settled. Then drinks. And stories.”

Gareth forced another smile, already wondering just what, exactly, he’d agreed to. He hoisted the last bag up the tiled steps, sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

Vivienne had vanished halfway up the path as she slipped easily into step beside Jean-Luc. Their laughter trailed behind them, buoyed by shared history and the subtle magnetism of old lovers who hadn’t quite let go.

She didn’t glance back.

Gareth watched from a few paces behind as she let Jean-Luc’s hand rest at the small of her back, then curl—intimately, familiarly—around her hip. She laughed and leaned into him. His fingers stayed there.

By the time Gareth reached the guest suite, they were already disappearing down another hallway.

The room was beautiful. Soft light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a golden wash over the smooth tile and white linens. A bowl of fresh limes sat on the dresser. Someone had placed a folded towel on the bed and shaped it, absurdly, into the form of a swan.

He set the luggage down and crossed to the window.

The shutters gave just enough of a view into the inner courtyard. A few rooms had their own open-air patios—private, but not entirely hidden. Beyond a low stone wall, he spotted the flicker of motion.

It was Jean-Luc, in a robe, reclining across the bed. Ari lay beside him, propped on one elbow, laughing at something he said. They looked… together. Comfortable. The way people do when clothes and years no longer mean anything.

Gareth felt an unexpected ripple of relief. So Ari’s with Jean-Luc, he thought. Good. That makes sense.

Then Vivienne entered the frame.

She stepped into the room barefoot, wearing a bikini? She must have borrowed it, or pulled it from a drawer she never fully let go of. Her hair was unpinned, falling soft around her shoulders. She smiled down at the bed like it was always hers.

Jean-Luc shifted slightly and without a word, Vivienne sat at the foot of the bed and lifted his leg onto her lap. She began massaging his foot with steady, practiced hands. Ari turned toward her, smiling.

Vivienne glanced up, caught Ari’s eye.

Ari slid down, took Vivienne’s bare foot in her hands, and began to rub in slow circles.

Vivienne leaned back on one arm, watching her.

Then, gently, Ari kissed the top of her foot.

The three of them laughed, lightly, richly, like it wasn’t the first time.

Gareth stepped back from the window and closed the curtain. Slowly.

His body felt wrong in the room, too tense, too upright, like he didn’t match the softness around him.

The familiar pinch flared at the base of his spine.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, pressing his palm to the ache.

"Perfect," he muttered.

The sound of their laughter, faint and muffled, slipped through the wall.

Later, dinner was held under hanging lanterns in the courtyard, where the air was thick with the scent of lime leaves and grilled fish. The table stretched beneath the stars—casual elegance, mismatched ceramic plates, salt-rimmed glasses. Jean-Luc poured a golden rosé into tumblers like he was hosting a salon in Saint-Tropez.

Vivienne was radiant in a slinky linen dress, barefoot, legs curled up on her chair like she’d lived in the hacienda forever. Jean-Luc sat at the head of the table, telling some story about losing his passport in Morocco and winning a camel in a card game. Ari, across from him, laughed with that low, conspiratorial ease that made her seem like a second daughter—or a not-daughter. It was never fully clear.

Maeve, sipping wine and slicing grilled peaches, was unusually relaxed. She glanced at her father now and then with open affection, clearly pleased by the warmth in the room.

For a while, Gareth stayed quiet, trying to match the pace of the conversation, trying to pretend he wasn’t two glasses behind and a universe away.

Then, unthinking, he said it:

“It’s really lovely to see everyone so... at home with each other. Even if some of us feel like the odd man out.”

It was quiet for a beat.

Vivienne didn’t smile. “Don’t do that,” she said, too flat. “Don’t make yourself the outsider. That’s on you.”

Gareth blinked. “I didn’t mean—sorry. I wasn’t trying to guilt anyone.”

He let the glass hover, then set it down. The silence around him tightened, embarrassed.

Jean-Luc cleared his throat gently, rescuing him. “It’s understandable. I once watched a poet follow her across two continents just to be told she wasn’t in the mood. Vivienne has that effect on people. Men orbit her, thinking they’re the center—until they realize they’re just a satellite passing through.”

Vivienne’s jaw tightened. Before she could reply, Ari smiled. “And women too. She’s got gravity.”

“Of course you’d sympathize,” Vivienne said to Jean-Luc, her voice cool, “with any man who feels left out because he can’t tame me.”

Jean-Luc gave a shrug, the Gallic kind, half ironic, half sincere. “Moi? I gave up on taming you in 1983.”

Then Gareth, trying to recover some ground, laughed a little too loudly and said, “Well—look, if the three of you are... involved, or whatever, I’m not judging. Just... maybe give a guy a heads-up before dinner.”

Silence.

Ari’s fork froze midway to her mouth.

Jean-Luc tilted his head, puzzled. “Involved?”

Gareth gestured vaguely toward Vivienne, Jean-Luc, and Ari. “I mean, I saw you all in bed. Not, like—doing anything exactly—but laughing, touching, kissing feet—”

Ari dropped her fork. “Wait. You think I’m sleeping with them?”

Vivienne’s eyes snapped toward him. “What the fuck, Gareth?”

Jean-Luc looked suddenly very, very amused.

“I’m sorry,” Gareth backpedaled, his ears going red. “I just thought—I mean, it looked intimate. I didn’t realize—”

“I’m their daughter,” Ari said flatly, eyes wide with horror.

“Jesus.” Gareth covered his face. “Forget I said anything. I wasn’t trying to—God.”

Vivienne’s smile disappeared. “You wanted to see me as the center of something messy and hot and half-illicit. And when you couldn’t make sense of it, you invented a version that let you feel excluded.”

“I—no,” Gareth said. “That’s not what I—”

“You did,” she said. “It’s fine. Just don’t pretend it came from innocence.”

The table fell silent again.

Jean-Luc chuckled. “Don’t worry. The confusion only proves we’re aging gracefully.”

Then, with a wink: “And for the record, I’m flattered by your curiosity, Gareth—I’m not into men but if I were….”

Ari gagged. Vivienne looked like she might scream or laugh or both. Maeve took a long, deliberate sip of wine.

Gareth glanced desperately at her. “About that hotel you mentioned?”

Everyone objected at once.

“Don’t go!”

“Come on, it was a misunderstanding!"

“Stay, Gareth—please.”

But Maeve stood. “Let’s give him some space. Just for tonight.”

Vivienne opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t move.

Gareth followed Maeve out into the night.

As they walked to the car, the cicadas chirped like static. Gareth didn’t speak. Maeve, surprisingly gentle, unlocked the door and looked at him sideways.

“They’re impossible,” she said. “I grew up in it. But you’re still learning how it goes.”

He nodded, grateful. For the quiet. For her. For the cool leather seat, and a little distance from Vivienne’s gravity.

Chapter Seven: No Lilies

The hotel was beautiful in that discreet, colonial way, cool stone arches, trimmed ficus, hand-painted tiles. The kind of place where wealth didn't announce itself; it simply assumed the air belonged to it.

Maeve walked through the lobby like she owned it.

Because she did.

"Buenas tardes," she said crisply to the concierge, not bothering to wait for his greeting. "We’ll take the Talamanca suite. Have it turned down and stocked. No lilies, please. He’s allergic to everything."

The concierge nodded deferentially, already picking up the phone.

Gareth leaned in, brow raised. “I’m not allergic to anything.”

Maeve didn’t look at him, just signed the slip with a flourish. “I know,” she said, then glanced over her shoulder with a small, sly smile. “It keeps the staff on their toes.”

She winked.

And just like that, she was gliding toward the elevator, heels clicking softly, expecting him to follow.

Gareth followed her across the lobby, still dazed from the dinner, the drive, the slow-motion implosion of whatever fragile understanding he'd had with Vivienne. The air smelled like old citrus and clean linen. He hadn't spoken much in the car, and neither had Maeve.

She led him with a practiced gait, hips controlled, spine perfect.

The room was big. Muted and luxurious. Soft lighting, handwoven rugs, a marble bathtub sunken into a raised alcove. She shut the door behind them.

"I always ask for this one," she said, walking to the window and parting the curtains. "It gets the morning light. And the frogs are quieter."

Gareth smiled faintly. "You know the frogs too, huh?"

She turned. “Of course. I grew up falling asleep to their awful croaking about death and the meaning of life all night long. My dad used to say they were little philosophers, mostly they just kept me awake.”

They stood across from each other, something fragile buzzing between them. The energy wasn’t flirtation and more of a... shared damage. Two satellites that had once orbited the same sun and burned in different ways.

“I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” Gareth said.

“You didn’t.” Her voice was flat. “You were just the latest trigger. My family’s full of kindling.”

He laughed, then caught himself.

She moved closer.

There was a warmth to her now, despite the starched dress, the too-elegant restraint. Gareth suddenly saw what she must have looked like many years ago, trying to be perfect while her mother slipped in and out of her life like tides.

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” Maeve said softly. “Orbiting her. You start to wonder if you even exist without her gravity.”

Gareth didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The truth was, he loved orbiting Vivienne. He wasn’t drifting; he was anchored, pulled, stabilized. Her gravity didn’t unmake him, it kept his feet on the ground, even as everything else spun. He was pretty sure of that.

But before he could find the words, Maeve leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t a deep kiss. Not quite tentative, but not hungry either. A kiss born of ache, of quiet resentment, of wanting, for once, to be the one who reached first.

Her breath slowed. Her eyes fluttered shut, deliberately, vulnerably, as if willing the moment to become something else. She leaned in with care, not desperation, and for a second, he didn’t move.

His own eyes stayed open. He watched her come closer, felt the faint tremble in her hand where it grazed his arm. Then her lips touched his, warm, soft, tasting faintly of wine and something floral. It was a gentle pressure, the barest invitation. A question, not a claim.

And still, he didn’t answer it.

A strange guilt bloomed in his chest, because he could feel what it cost her to try.

He pulled back, careful, almost tender in the refusal.

“Maeve…” His voice cracked a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give the wrong impression.”

She blinked, no embarrassment, just cool detachment. She tilted her head.

“I was just testing,” she said lightly, as if reciting a horoscope. “To see if you were a good man.” Her fingers traced the inside of his forearm slowly. “Which, clearly... you are.”

She turned to leave.

But as she opened the door, what Gareth couldn’t see was: the flicker of something broken across her face. Her throat bobbed. She almost cried—almost—but then caught it, blinked it back like someone used to makeup that must not smudge.

She stepped into the hallway, straightened her dress with a tug at the waist, lifted her chin.

She made it halfway down the corridor before the first sob escaped her throat.

It came out small, sharp, like a crack in a mirror. She kept walking—heels muffled on the plush runner—until the hallway turned, just past a closed linen closet. There, finally out of sight, she slid down the wall and sat on the cold tile, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around herself like a child.

And she cried.

Not a dainty cry. Not the silent tears of a woman who still had the energy to care how it looked. This was guttural, unfiltered, messy. Her body shook with it. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth to muffle the sounds, but they came anyway—half-sobs, half-laughter, the exhausted, bitter kind.

Because it wasn’t just about Gareth.

It was Vivienne. It was always Vivienne. Her mother, the sun in every room, always getting to be wild and wanted. Always able to walk away from chaos untouched. And Maeve—the well-behaved one, the reliable one—was left holding the glass when it all shattered.

She stayed there until the tears dried on her cheeks.

Then, slowly, she rose. Smoothed her dress. Wiped her eyes.

She found a compact mirror in her bag and reapplied her lipstick without blinking.

By the time she reached the elevator, Maeve looked flawless again.

Composed. Proper. Impeccable.

As if nothing had happened at all.

Just as it always has.

Well-behaved Maeve, sealing her wounds beneath silence.

Chapter 8: Fleeting Moment

The knock was gentle, almost shy. Gareth had been half-dozing in the armchair by the window, sunlight stretching warm and forgiving across the stone floor. He hadn’t slept much. His body ached in that dull, familiar way, not just from his back, but from some bruising deeper than muscle.

He opened the door expecting a staff member, maybe Maeve again.

It was Vivienne.

She was in a cotton sundress that clung in the breeze and didn’t seem to know it. Her hair was up, sunglasses in her hand. No makeup. Skin sun-warmed and easy. She looked like a postcard from someone else’s life.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft and unguarded. “Want to play hooky with me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Day date.” She smiled. “We’ll go somewhere with color and sugar and strangers who don’t care who we are. Do you want to?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

She leaned on the doorframe. “I wanted to say sorry. For being... not much with you, lately. I’ve been... pulled. Jean-Luc. Maeve. Everything. I don’t always know how to do the right thing.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Gareth said..

“But I want to,” she said. “You being here—it matters. I feel you in the room, even when you’re not speaking. I don’t want to take that for granted.”

There was a pause.

“I’d like you to come back to the hacienda tonight,” she added, eyes not quite meeting his. “But let’s take a day first. Just us. I think we need it.”

Something in her voice, a crack of sincerity, of longing, threaded into him like warmth after too long in the cold.

Gareth stepped back and opened the door wider.

“I’ll get dressed.”

The restaurant was white tablecloths and pressed linen. Gareth had his hand gently resting on Vivienne’s waist as they approached the podium.

The hostess smiled politely at him, then at Vivienne, and said, “Just you and your grandma today?”

Vivienne grinned before Gareth could speak. “Yes,” she said brightly, sliding her arm into his. “Just the two of us.”

Gareth opened his mouth. Closed it. What was he supposed to say?

“Yep,” he said, smiling tightly. “Just me and Grandma.”

The hostess raised a curious eyebrow as she clocked his hand still possessively stroking Vivienne’s hip, but led them to their table without another word.

They sat. A quiet window. The sea just visible past the palms.

“That’s how I like you,” Vivienne said, smoothing the napkin over her lap. “Unbothered. Unapologetic.”

“I need to tell you something,” Gareth said. “Maeve kissed me.”

Vivienne barely blinked. “Is she a good kisser?”

He stared. “That’s your reaction?”

She shrugged, sipping her water. “Every daughter goes through her mother’s things eventually.”

“Her things?” he repeated, incredulous. “So I’m a handbag now? A piece of vintage jewelry?”

Vivienne looked amused. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re more like an old T-shirt someone sleeps in once and realizes still smells like home.”

“Are you not mad?” he asked.

“Maeve could use a good fuck,” Vivienne said, glancing at the menu. “You’d be good for her. You’ve got kind hands.”

He blinked. “You want me to sleep with your daughter?”

“I want everyone to feel good. That’s the only real goal.”

“From your boyfriend?”

Again, the shrug. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

He stared. “And that’s the part that bothers you?”

She finally looked at him. “I’m seventy-six, Gareth. How many years do I have left? How many years do you have to waste worrying about titles? Would it be so terrible if, one day, I was gone and you found comfort in Maeve? Two people I love, keeping each other company?”

He opened his mouth, but she was still speaking.

“This body,” she said, gesturing down, “it’s already softening. Sagging. My eyes will blur, my hearing will fade. My pussy… Well, eventually she’ll dry up like the rest of me. That’s the truth. I won’t be the woman you met on the beach forever.”

He watched her. Loving her. Devastated by how much.

She caught his expression. “What?” she asked.

He smiled. “You said you love me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” he said gently. “You said, two people I love.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t twist my words.”

“Too late,” he said, standing.

He slid under the table. Dropped to his knees, right there on the restaurant floor.

She blinked, startled, as he kissed her foot, reverent.

Then her calf.

Then her knee.

Vivienne glanced around, lips parted. No one was looking. Yet.

He kissed up her thighs, lifting the hem of her skirt, her breath catching as he slid her panties down, slow and deliberate.

He tucked them into his pocket.

She opened for him without a word.

What followed was quiet, tender, obscene.

Gareth’s breath burned against her skin as he nuzzled the soft curls of her mound, untamed and lush, just the way he adored.

Then his tongue glided lower, finding the silken heat of her waxed lips, already glistening.

A low groan escaped him as he tasted her, slow and deep, worshiping every fold like a man starved.

Vivienne shuddered, biting back a cry.

His mouth was relentless, sucking, teasing the swollen peak of her clit before plunging inside again, his tongue working her in firm, rhythmic strokes.

She arched, thighs trembling, fingers knotting in his hair.

"Fuck—" she gasped, the word breaking into a moan.

He growled against her, drinking her in, coaxing out every slick, shameless sound until her breath came in ragged gasps.

The scent of her arousal, the way her hips canted greedily against his mouth. Nothing compared to this.

His cock throbbed, but he ignored it, too lost in the way her body clenched around his tongue, the way her thighs shook as she neared the edge.

"Come for me," he murmured against her, lips wet with her.

And she did, loud, whimpering, back bowing as pleasure tore through her.

When Gareth emerged from under the table, flushed and grinning, the hostess stood frozen a few feet away, horrified.

“What the hell—” she sputtered.

Vivienne grinned, adjusting her dress. “Don’t worry, we were just kidding. He’s my boyfriend, not my grandson.”

“Out,” the hostess barked. “Now. Or I call the police.”

They ran.

Out the front, hand in hand, laughing like children.

Later, they ate tacos from a street cart, barefoot and greasy and perfectly at ease.

And later still, in a quiet hotel room, naked and tangled, they fell asleep the way people do when there’s nothing left to prove.

At the hacienda the next day, the world went warm and strange.

Jean-Luc, weaker but smiling, held court at the table like a sun-worn lion. Ari was at his feet, massaging his toes.

Maeve and Vivienne shared a glance across the meal, not peace, but something close.

Jean-Luc, in a straw hat, held up a tiny frog from the garden. “Look at this little philosopher,” he said.

Gareth smiled.

He watched Ari and Maeve bring cool water.

Watched Vivienne press a cloth to Jean-Luc’s forehead, rub ointment into his chest with infinite care.

Gareth sat beside her, her breast bare under his palm like it belonged there.

He kissed her shoulder.

He kissed her hand.

He kissed her knees.

Her belly.

Her breasts.

He didn’t know what it meant to love a woman like Vivienne.

She didn’t need him.

But she let him close.

And in that space between the letting and the leaving, something else began to grow.

He didn’t have to be her boyfriend.

He didn’t have to be her forever.

He was there.

And that was all he needed.