The Stranger I Married

The next morning slid in quietly, sun spilling pale and buttery across the villa. The shutters in the bedroom were cracked open just enough to let in a sea-salted breeze and the sound of gulls wheeling high above the cliffs.

Ella stirred first, stretching out slowly beneath the linen sheets. The bed was mostly hers now—Nicholas had gotten up a little while ago, though the warm imprint of his body still lingered beside her.

She yawned, rolled onto her back, and blinked at the ceiling with a lazy smile tugging at her lips.

Then she smelled coffee.

And peach jam.

And something lightly buttery and sinful.

Ella climbed out of bed, shrugged on one of Nicholas’s linen shirts from the night before, and padded barefoot through the villa. The floors were warm with morning sun. Somewhere, a record played softly—a gentle bossa nova tune, like something meant to sway hips and stir smiles.

She stepped out onto the terrace and nearly stopped short.

Nicholas was standing barefoot at the outdoor table, the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up, hair artfully messy, holding a silver coffee pot like he was filming an ad for vacationing billionaires with excellent taste and no shame.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said, pouring her a cup. "I wasn’t sure if you’d come out or just yell breakfast orders from bed."

Ella squinted at him suspiciously. "You made breakfast?"

"I oversaw breakfast."