Page 103 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

Now it’s my turn to blush. I’m trying to think of a clever retort when Oliver holds up his wallet. “I’ve got it covered, Laurel. But thank you.”

I whip around to face him. “Oliver!”

He paints an innocent expression. “What?”

Laurel snickers. “You two are something else. Have a good night, okay?”

“You too,” I reply as she turns to go. “But not too good, if you know what I mean.”

“Screw you, Ivy!” Laurel cries out in a singsong voice as she departs.

“I can’t wait to watch the sitcom about you two being old maids in an apartment together someday,” Oliver says in a low voice, shutting the door behind Laurel.

“Wow.” I feign offense. “Thanks a lot. But I’m not planning to spend my golden years in tight quarters with my cousin.”

He throws his arm around my shoulders. “Good plan. You should spend them with me instead.”

My eyes flick over to his, which are twinkling at the joke. But it kind of looks like he’s serious? I swallow hard, and I think he notices.

“Come on,” I pull him down the hallway, desperate to change the subject simply because I’m not sure how to respond. I love the idea of our future together, but I can’t tell how serious he is, and I don’t want to be the one to make things weird. “I want to see what you brought in your wallet.”

He laughs. “I thought you might.”

Once we’re in my room, with the door shut in case Laurel comes back, it only takes a minute for us to shed our wet clothes. Grains of sand fall everywhere as we toss them aside.

“Sorry,” Oliver says, eyeing the mess, then my pink lace bra.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a vacuum tomorrow.” I run my pointer finger down his chest. “I have a feeling this might be well worth a little cleanup.”

His mouth tips up. “What is ‘this,’ exactly?”

“Oh, I think you know,” I tease, walking him back toward the bed.

“Mmm,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I might have an inkling.”

Then his hands are at my waist, my hips, between my legs, pulling my underwear to the side and sending my heart racing. I gasp as his fingers slip inside me, fumbling at his hips to return the pleasure.

He turns us around and eases me back onto the pillows, then comes to kneel inside my thighs. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he whispers.

“I’m always thinking about this,” I answer, looking straight into his eyes.

He smiles, then takes my breath away when he says, “I’m always thinking about you.”

We’re a jumble of limbs and hands and kisses after that, moving together in a perfectly beautiful mess of two selves that are losing sight of their edges. His body and his poetry and his words—I didn’t know what I was missing until I found him, but now that I have, I don’t think I can do without.

When we finally collapse in a pile of satisfaction atop the comforter, Oliver runs his hand gently across my forehead, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You know,” he begins quietly, “for someone who loves words so much, I’m left with precious few every time I think about how lucky I am.”

I turn to face him, pulling myself against his chest. “Lucky how?” I ask coyly.

He grins. “Lucky to have met you.”

My heart overflows with joy. “I feel lucky, too.” I run my hand down his forearm contemplatively. “You know, I hated you at first.”

“I could tell,” he chuckles.

“But I’m glad I got over that.” I lace my fingers through his. “In fact, I don’t hate you at all anymore.”

“Oh, no?” he quips.