Chapter 11

Ethan D'Angelo, billionaire extraordinaire, was not a beach bum. He preferred boardrooms to beaches, spreadsheets to seashells. But Sophie, bless her sun-kissed, chaotic soul, had strongly encouraged—okay, bribed—him into this vacation. And now? He was seriously questioning his life choices.

The beach itself wasn't the problem. The waves were pretty, the seagulls were… well, they were seagulls. It was Sophie. Sophie, unleashed. Sophie, in her element. Sophie, a force of nature wielding a beach towel and an infectious giggle.

She was relaxed, free-spirited, and completely, utterly, terrifyingly happy. And that, my friends, was Ethan's personal definition of the apocalypse. Because relaxed Sophie was… well, Sophie times ten. She dragged him, kicking and screaming (mostly kicking), through every single tourist trap the resort offered. Parasailing? Check. Snorkeling (where he almost swallowed a sea urchin)? Check. Sandcastle building competition (which he lost spectacularly to a five-year-old)? Double check. And the pièce de résistance? The spontaneous, wildly inappropriate poolside dance party.

"Come on, Ethan! Loosen up!" Sophie shrieked, yanking him toward a beach volleyball net like a prize-winning chihuahua. "It'll be fun!"

Ethan stared at the sand, his perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitting together in a frown that could curdle milk. He didn't do "fun." "Fun" involved sand in places sand should never be. But Sophie, oblivious to his internal meltdown, was already bouncing on the balls of her feet, radiating pure, unadulterated joy.

The three-legged race was a disaster. He tripped, he fell, he took out a family of four sunbathers (who, surprisingly, found it hilarious). Kayaking? They spun in circles like a couple of deranged otters, the kayak threatening to eject them into the ocean. Ethan, used to controlling every aspect of his life, was drowning in a sea of uncontrolled chaos.

"Isn't it perfect?" Sophie squealed, arms outstretched, gazing at the sky like it was a personal invitation to a never-ending cocktail party.

Ethan, sprawled on a lounge chair, was the opposite of perfect. His sunglasses were perched precariously on his nose (for coolness, of course), his shirt was soaked through, and his neck felt like it was going to spontaneously combust.

Sophie turned to him, her smile as bright as a supernova. "What's wrong, Ethan? You look like you've swallowed a lemon."

Ethan gritted his teeth. "I'm… fine," he muttered, the words tasting like ash.

Sophie raised an eyebrow. "You're not fine. You're sweating more than a marathon runner in a sauna."

He mumbled, "I hate the heat. I hate the sand. I hate… this."

Sophie, bless her oblivious heart, didn't hear a word. She was already dragging him toward the next "fun" activity.

That night, the torture continued. Ethan, half-dressed and staring at his reflection, felt like a gladiator facing a hungry lion. Sophie, meanwhile, was doing a spontaneous interpretive dance in her swimsuit cover-up, her laughter echoing through the room like a joyful tsunami.

"Ethan, you look like you're planning a hostile takeover!" she giggled. "It's just dinner! Relax!"

Dinner. He'd somehow survived dinner. But Sophie's idea of "fun" involved a beachfront restaurant with a live band that played tropical music at a volume that could shatter glass.

"I swear, this band is a bioweapon," Ethan muttered, running a hand through his hair, which was now resembling a bird's nest. But Sophie's smile was like a siren's call, and he found himself dragged back into her whirlwind.

Sophie, oblivious to his impending meltdown, flopped onto the bed, all relaxed and happy. "Ethan, I'm having the best time!" she declared.

Ethan, glaring out the window, retorted, "This is your best time. Mine involves a private jet and a large martini."

Sophie chuckled. "You need to let loose, Ethan! Be spontaneous!"

"Spontaneous?" he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Spontaneous is a word I associate with utter disaster."

Sophie threw a pillow at him. "You're just mad because you lost at volleyball!"

He scowled. "It was a tactical retreat!" he insisted.

"Tactical retreat?" she giggled. "I think the other team called it a 'total wipeout.'"

Her laughter filled the room, and Ethan felt a strange pang in his chest. She was so happy. He'd never seen her like this. Her joy was… alien. He was used to control, to power, to being the cold, distant CEO. But Sophie… she saw the world differently, and it both terrified and intrigued him.

Sophie sat up, her eyes sparkling. "Come on, Ethan. Tonight, we're going to have some real fun. You'll thank me later!"

Sophie's boundless energy was both his impending doom and his unexpected salvation.

Later, at the restaurant, Sophie was laughing, enjoying her meal. Ethan was silently plotting his escape. It wasn't the food, the music, or the scenery. It was Sophie. And it was glorious, terrifying, and completely, utterly chaotic.