Page 18 of The Summer Fling
Logan looks up from the stove. "What would you do differently? If you could."
"I don't know. Work for myself, maybe? Pick my own clients, set my own hours." I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "Listen to me. Classic vacation syndrome—spend five minutes on an island and suddenly think I can change my whole life."
"Why is that classic? Maybe your life needs changing."
The simplicity of his response catches me off guard. No lecture about being practical or realistic. Just the suggestion that maybe, sometimes, vacation clarity is actual clarity.
"What about you?" I ask. "Running a bar on a tiny island—can't imagine that was the most stable career choice at the beginning."
"Probably not." He flips the fish, and it smells incredible. "But it's not just my stability I'm thinking about.Shore Thingemploys twelve people year-round. Eli's been with me for years. He gave up his mainland job to work for me. Maria, in the kitchen, has three kids. Our security guy, Boris, sends money to his parents every month. If I screw this up, it's not just me who pays for it."
"That's a lot of responsibility."
"Yeah, it is." He plates the fish and adds roasted vegetables and garlic. "But, y'know, I'd rather carry that weight doing something I love, than spend forty years in a job that slowly kills me."
That hits closer to home than he probably realizes. I take the plate he hands me, and we move out to the porch where two chairs face the ocean. The sun is setting, painting the water gold and pink.
The last time I watched a sunset, it was reflecting off office building windows.
"This is incredible," I tell him after the first bite. The fish is perfectly cooked, flaky, and sweet, and the vegetables taste like they were grown in actual soil instead of a factory farm.
"Thanks. Cooking's one of those things you pick up when there aren't a lot of options, and fancy restaurants are a forty-minute boat ride away."
We eat and talk as the sky deepens from gold to orange to deep purple. The conversation flows the way it has all day—easy, natural, punctuated by laughter. He tells me about the time Eli got stung by a jellyfish. I tell him about my coworker who steals lunches from the office refrigerator and labels them with other people's names. So the next day, I added extra chili flakes to my dinner, knowing full well he couldn't handle his spice. Safe to say, he had to take the afternoon off.
"You're funny," he says, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his stomach. "I bet you don't get to be funny at work."
"Funny doesn't exactly fit the corporate culture. Neither does happy, or creative, or human."
"That's exactly why I did everything I could to leave my old job. I just woke up one day and thought, I didn't want to do this for the rest of my life."
"Same. Every day, I stare at my bills and grocery list on the fridge for extra motivation. Nothing gets me out of bed faster than poverty and hunger."
He laughs, and the sound makes something warm unfurl in my chest. When was the last time someone really listened when I complained about work? Not just waiting for their turn to talk, but actually hearing me?
My grandparents, maybe, but they always looked forward to my monthly visits, so I didn't have the heart to make those hours about me anymore.
The plates sit empty between us, and neither of us moves to clear them. The ocean rolls in steady, hypnotic waves, and God, the air feels so nice and clean.
I don't want this to end.
The whole day, the way I feel in my own skin when I'm with him is a version of myself that I'd forgotten existed.
My pulse speeds up, but not in a good way. I'm supposed to be here for a week.
A fling, remember?
Fun, just fun, uncomplicated, and easy to walk away from. Just a recharge.
But sitting on his porch, eating food he cooked, talking about real things instead of just flirting—this doesn't feel like a fling. This feels like something I could get used to. Something I could want to keep.
And that terrifies me.
Because it's been two days. Two days! Normal people don't reorganize their entire lives based on a vacation romance with someone they've known for forty-eight hours. Normal people have fun, take some pictures, and go home with good memories. Even if a crush and some physical pleasure were part of the deal.
But maybe that's the problem. Maybe I don't want to be anormalperson.
I shake my head, trying to clear the thought. This is vacation talking. Island magic. The combination of ocean air, good sex, and escape from real life. It's not sustainable. It's not real.
