I can only imagine the shock on his face if I were to say, “Hey, I think I’m falling in love with you. That’s why I didn’t stay for brunch.”

I couldn’t pretend his touch wasn’t food to my soul. Or say goodbye to his family. They welcomed me with open arms and…a tear falls down my cheek.

Why did I let myself believe in something that wasn’t real?

“Hey.” I hear his voice and force myself to look up, despite the tears.

He’s wearing a dark T-shirt that hugs his muscular torso and a pair of shorts low on his hips. My heart flips at the sight of him. He takes off his sunglasses, and those beautiful brown eyes shine with the reflection of the ocean. I take off my shades too.

He looks at me with a thoughtful frown. What is he doing here? We’re silent for a few minutes, staring at each other.

“Mr. Archer,” I finally greet him.

“It’s Miller,” he says, squatting down in front of me.

He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. I sigh. Leaning forward, he kisses first one cheek, and then the other. I hold my breath as his lips touch mine lightly.

His arms come around me, and I relax as he engulfs me.

“You left without saying goodbye,” he says, giving me a peck on the lips.

“It was better that way,” I mumble, trying to find some strength within myself to push him away; instead I lean my forehead on his shoulder.

“Look, I know I said a weekend, but we can’t just end what we started.”

“Casual and brief,” I mumble, the words punching me in the gut. “Our time is up. I mean, the sex was great and all, but it’s over.”

He holds my face with both hands to make sure I’m looking at him.

“I miss you,” he says, his voice dropping. “I’ve known you for years—almost three years, Claire. I admire you and have plans for you. But from the moment I saw you in the lounge, you’ve been under my skin. I can’t fucking think straight since I heard you call me Emperor Palpatine.”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking around.

“There’s something happening between us,” he says. “I’m not asking you to marry me today, I just…”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“Can we go out? On a real date,” he says. “We could spend the rest of the week getting to know each other, and then, on Friday when we’re back home, I’ll take you out on a date. Maybe we could get breakfast on Saturday and …”

“You’re staying for a week?” I ask, taken aback by his words.

Our eyes latch with intention, hunger, and I think maybe love.