Ethan had cleared the small wrought-iron table for lunch—simple plates of fresh fruit, crusty bread, and soft cheese. Aria sat across from him in a loose white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair twisted up with a single clip. Sunlight caught the faint gold strands and made her skin glow.
Ethan poured her a glass of chilled sparkling water with a slice of lemon, then filled his own. He watched her for a moment as she tore off a piece of bread and dipped it absently into olive oil.
“You’re thinking about her again,” he said quietly, not an accusation, simply an observation.
Aria glanced up, surprised for half a second, then offered a small smile. “Only because I can’t decide whether to feel sorry for her or keep enjoying watching her unravel.”
He reached across the table and
