Chapter 146
Evelyn's POV
The drive took about two hours. Julian drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding mine, while music played softly from the speakers.
Finally, we turned off the main road onto a smaller one lined with beach grass and weathered fences. Julian pulled into the driveway of a small cottage—gray shingles, white trim, a wraparound porch that looked out over the ocean.
"It's perfect," I breathed.
"It's ours." He killed the engine and turned to face me. "For the next seven days, this is our entire world. No phones, no emails, no outside world. Just us."
The cottage was even better inside. Hardwood floors, comfortable furniture, a kitchen that looked out over the water. The bedroom had a massive bed and French doors that opened onto a private deck.
Julian set our bags down and immediately opened all the windows, letting in the sound of the waves and the salt-scented breeze.
"This is amazing," I said, stepping out onto the deck. The ocean stretched out before us, endless and blue. "How did you find this place?"
"I've had it for years." He came up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. "Bought it after my first big contract. Told myself I'd use it to decompress, but I never actually came here. Too busy."
I leaned back against him. "I'm glad you're here now."
"Me too." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "Come on. Let's get settled."
We fell into a rhythm almost immediately.
Julian woke early each morning to make coffee. I'd find him on the porch, watching the sunrise with Ghost curled in his lap. We'd drink our coffee in comfortable silence, then make breakfast together—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast with jam from the local farm stand.
After breakfast, we'd walk on the beach. The shoreline stretched for miles in either direction, mostly deserted this late in the season. Ghost followed us at a distance, picking her way carefully around the waves like they personally offended her.
Julian held my hand as we walked, pointing out shells and seabirds. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we just walked in silence, breathing in the salt air and letting the rhythm of the waves calm us.
One morning, I spotted a piece of sea glass—frosted blue, worn smooth by the ocean.
"It's beautiful," I said, holding it up to the light.
"Keep it." Julian's arms came around me from behind. "A souvenir."
I tucked it into my pocket, already planning to add it to the growing collection of small treasures from this month. The photos from Disney World. The ticket stubs from the Broadway show. The napkin from the diner where Julian had told me about his mother.
Physical proof that this was real. That we were real.
The afternoons were lazy.
We read on the porch, my head in Julian's lap while he absently played with my hair. We played cards and board games, getting competitive over Scrabble and laughing at Ghost's attempts to knock the pieces off the table.
One afternoon, Julian taught me to cook his mother's recipe for tomato sauce.
"It's all about patience," he said, stirring the pot while I chopped basil. "You can't rush it. Has to simmer for at least three hours."
I watched him work, noting the careful precision of his movements. The way he tasted and adjusted the seasoning. The small smile on his face as he worked.
"You miss her," I said softly.
"Every day." He didn't look up from the pot. "She would have liked you, I think. Would have appreciated how you don't take my shit."
"I would have liked her too." I set down the knife and moved to stand beside him. "She raised an extraordinary man."
Julian's hand found mine, squeezing tight. "I'm not that extraordinary."
"You are to me."
He kissed me then, slow and sweet, tasting of tomatoes and basil. When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously bright.
The sauce simmered all afternoon, filling the cottage with rich, savory smells. We ate dinner on the porch as the sun set, twirling pasta and laughing when Ghost tried to steal bites from our plates.
The evenings were my favorite.
We'd build a fire in the fireplace and curl up on the couch together. Julian read to me sometimes—poetry, mostly, which surprised me until I realized how well it suited him. The rhythm and imagery, the way words could be weapons or caresses.
Other nights, we just talked. About everything and nothing. Our childhoods, our dreams, our fears. The things we'd never told anyone else.
One night, Julian asked, "If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?"
I thought about it. "I don't know. I've been to so many places, but always for work. Always looking over my shoulder. I'd like to go somewhere just to see it. To experience it without fear."
"Where?" he pressed.
"Paris, maybe." I traced patterns on his chest. "I've always wanted to see the Louvre properly. Not as a potential escape route, but as art."
"Then we'll go." He said it with such certainty that I almost believed him. "After this month, we'll go to Paris. I'll take you to the Louvre, and we'll spend an entire day there. We'll drink wine at sidewalk cafés and eat croissants and pretend to be tourists."
"That sounds perfect."
"It's a promise." He kissed the top of my head. "Anywhere you want to go, Evelyn. I'll take you there."
The nights were when we truly came alive.
We made love with the windows open, the sound of the waves providing a natural rhythm. Julian learned my body with patient thoroughness—what made me gasp, what made me moan, what made me lose control completely.