Chapter Sixteen: Eric

Layla’s POV

I felt the tap and turned around.

A man was standing behind me, looking down with an easy smile on his face. Tall, broad shouldered, dark hair, the kind of handsome that was immediately obvious and completely uncomplicated.

Not even close to Ian though.

I blinked.

Really? my inner voice said. That is what you are thinking right now?

I ignored it.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m sorry.” He crouched down to my level, his hands loose at his sides, his expression open rather than threatening. “Did I scare you?”

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” I said honestly. “I didn’t hear you coming at all. The beach is quiet and I had my eyes closed so yes — you startled me. Even if I didn’t show it.”

“You really didn’t show it,” he said, with what sounded like genuine admiration. He sat down beside me on the sand — not close enough to be invasive, just close enough for a conversation — and I shifted slightly without thinking about it. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

He smiled wider. “Eric Petrakis.” He extended his hand.

I looked at it for a moment. He seemed decent. His energy was open and his eyes were direct without being aggressive.

I took his hand. “Layla Lawson.”

We shook briefly and released.

“So why did you sneak up on me?” I asked.

“I wasn’t sneaking.” He looked slightly amused. “I saw you come down to the beach and I was sitting over there—” he gestured behind him— “and I didn’t want to miss the chance to talk to a gorgeous woman.” He said it simply, without the particular performance that men sometimes put into compliments. Like he was just stating a fact.

I held up my hand.

The ring. The plain, completely uninspired silver band that Ian had chosen with the thoughtfulness of someone selecting a parking ticket. Still. My ring. Still on my finger.

“I’m married,” I said.

Eric looked at the ring. Then at my face. Something in his expression settled — recalibrating without drama.

“I thought so,” he said. “I’m not trying to be anything other than friendly. I just didn’t want to walk away without saying hello.”

“It came across as flirting,” I said. “I wanted to be clear so you didn’t have the wrong idea.”

He put his hand over his heart. “Ouch.” But he was still smiling. “Has anyone ever told you that you are extremely blunt?”

“You just did,” I said.

He laughed — genuinely, the kind of laugh that arrived without effort. “Fair enough.”

We sat for a moment in the comfortable way of two people who had just figured out the terms of a conversation and were deciding whether to continue it.

“Where is your husband?” he asked.

“At the villa.”

“You came to the beach alone?”

“I came to the beach for some Me time,” I said pointedly. “Which was going well until approximately eight minutes ago.”

He had the grace to look slightly apologetic. “I really am sorry about that, princess.”

I looked at him.

“The name,” I said, “is Layla. I told you that.”

“You did.” He tilted his head. “You just look like a real life princess. It slipped out.”

“We barely know each other. I don’t appreciate pet names from people I barely know.”

“Understood.” He held up both hands briefly. “Layla. I will use Layla. I promise.”

We were quiet for a moment.

“So how is married life?” he asked.

I looked at the ocean.

“I’m not really open to discussing my marriage with someone I have just met,” I said.

“You’ve said some version of that twice now.” He sounded more curious than offended. “I really am just trying to make conversation. Not gather information.”

“I know.” I looked at him. “And I’m not trying to be rude. I genuinely just don’t talk about personal things with people I don’t know. That’s how I am.”

He nodded slowly. Accepted it without pushing.

After that the conversation shifted to him — which I appreciated, because it removed the pressure of reciprocity. He talked and I listened, which was an arrangement I found genuinely comfortable. He was from Spain. He had been in Bora Bora for a week and was leaving tomorrow. He was planning to relocate to New York City within the year for work. He had come out of a long relationship recently and was still figuring out what came next.

He was, I realised as the afternoon moved forward, actually a decent person. His humour was easy and genuine. He did not push on the things I declined to discuss. He was curious about the world in a way that made conversation light rather than heavy.

Not a bad person at all.

The sun was getting lower by the time we both stood up from the sand.

We walked back toward the villas together — the path running parallel to the lagoon, the water going gold in the evening light.

“Layla.” He stopped at the side where our paths separated. “Can we meet again? Breakfast tomorrow morning maybe?”

I looked at him.

“We don’t even live in the same country,” I said.

“We will be in the same resort for one more morning.”

“Eric.” I kept my voice kind but clear. “You are asking a married woman to breakfast while her husband is staying at the same resort. I don’t think that’s appropriate and I think you know that.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You’re right,” he said. “I just—” He stopped. “You are a very attractive woman and I admire how you carry yourself. I respect that you are completely clear about your boundaries. I just wanted to say that.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Genuinely.”

“Can I at least get your number?”

“No,” I said. “I think it’s better if we leave it here, Eric.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded — accepting it cleanly, without sulking, without pushing.

“Take care of yourself, Layla Lawson,” he said.

“You too.”

I turned and walked back toward the villa.

Eric Petrakis was not a bad man. He was charming and funny and reasonably self-aware. Under different circumstances — completely different circumstances, an entirely different version of my life — he might have been someone worth knowing better.

But I was married.

To a man I had not chosen and could not stand most of the time.

And whatever that marriage was, it was mine. And I was not going to disrespect it — not for a charming stranger on a beach, not for anyone.

I pushed open the villa door.

*******