Chapter Eight

The hallway was quiet when the elevator opened, their footsteps muffled by plush carpet. A hotel staff escorted them down the long corridor, key card in hand, muttering something about the "last available suite." Alison followed without a word, her suitcase rolling quietly behind her. Ralph didn't look at her. He hadn't since they landed.

"This is the room," the staff said, pausing in front of an elegant white door with a brass number plate. "Apologies again, Mr. Lauren. There was an error in our executive reservation system. But this is our top luxury suite—double occupancy."

Ralph's eyes narrowed. "Double occupancy?"

The staff smiled nervously. "Yes. One suite. Two rooms. But one shared lounge and bathroom. If you prefer—"

"It's fine," Ralph cut in coldly, already sliding the card through the lock. The door clicked open.

Alison stepped in after him, heart hammering.

The suite was breathtaking. A long open lounge stretched out, windows looking over Cape Town's moonlit coast. The sea shimmered in silver shadows. Two bedroom doors—one to the left, one to the right—opened from either end of the space. In the middle: a shared living room with a minibar, a cream L-shaped couch, and a low marble coffee table.

Alison's throat dried. This was too close. Too open. Too private.

He stood in the center of the room, still silent. For a moment, neither of them moved.

"I'll take the left room," he said, finally. Voice rough. "You can take the other."

She nodded once. "Fine."

He didn't look at her as he disappeared into his room and shut the door behind him.

Thirty minutes later, Alison was in the bathroom, steam curling up from the shower. Her hair was damp, and she wore nothing but a soft hotel robe. She opened the door, rubbing her towel over her wet strands—and paused.

Ralph was standing by the minibar, shirt unbuttoned halfway, sleeves rolled up, drinking from a short glass of something amber. His eyes flicked up when he heard her.

The silence was instant. Heavy.

Alison's breath hitched. He looked... undone. The open collar exposed his collarbones, a faint line of hair leading down from his chest. His jaw was tense, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—lingered on her bare legs for just a second too long before returning to his drink.

She tried to move past him, brushing the towel through her hair again.

But as she reached for the bottled water on the minibar counter, her arm grazed his.

A light touch. Skin to skin.

Time stopped.

She froze. So did he.

Neither of them said a word. But the air between them pulsed. Her fingers brushed his as she pulled the bottle away, and she could feel the heat of his body even though they weren't touching anymore.

She walked away—slowly. But she could feel his eyes on her the whole time.

Later that night, Alison lay in the bed, covers pulled to her chest, staring at the ceiling. She could hear the hum of the sea outside, the ticking of a distant clock.

She thought of his hand. His stare. The glass in his fingers. That look in his eyes when she came out of the bathroom.

She turned over, pressing her thighs together under the sheets. She hated how her body remembered him. Hated that he was only a few feet away, on the other side of the suite, probably shirtless in bed. Or not sleeping at all.

Maybe he was thinking about her too. Maybe not.

She closed her eyes. Alison tossed again.

The sheets felt too warm, her skin too alive. She couldn't sleep. With a sigh, she slid out of bed and padded barefoot across the suite, her robe tied loosely at the waist. The moonlight spilled in from the tall glass doors at the far end of the living room, painting silver stripes across the marble floor.

She pushed the curtain aside and stepped quietly onto the balcony. The cool breeze kissed her skin. And then she saw him.

Ralph was already there, leaning against the iron railing, shirtless now, a glass in his hand, the amber liquid nearly gone. His back was to her, but his head turned slightly at the sound of the door.

Their eyes met in the moonlight.

Neither of them spoke.

Alison swallowed, her fingers tightening on the edge of her robe. "Didn't think anyone else was awake," she murmured.

He turned fully now, slowly, eyes resting on her face… then dropping lower for just a second, before snapping back up. "Couldn't sleep."

She hesitated, then stepped forward, wrapping her arms around herself. "Me neither."

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn't empty. It was charged. Intimate. Almost unbearable.

Ralph turned back to the view. "The ocean's louder here."

She moved to the railing beside him. "It's nice."

Her bare shoulder brushed his arm. A light graze. Not even on purpose. But they both went still.

She didn't pull away. Neither did he.

The breeze lifted her hair, and a strand landed against his forearm. Still, neither of them moved.

Alison's breath caught. The heat of him. The smell of him—clean, masculine, spiced with the whiskey in his glass. Every nerve in her body pulled tight.

"You looked…" Ralph began, then stopped.

She turned, gaze catching his profile. "What?"

He took a sip, eyes on the horizon. "You looked different tonight."

"Different how?"

His throat bobbed. "Confident and beautiful".

She blinked, caught off guard. That didn't sound like the Ralph she knew. Not cruel. Not cold. Just... honest.

"And did I?" she asked softly.

He looked at her then. Really looked at her. "Yeah. You did."

A pause. A flicker of something passed between them—uncertainty, vulnerability, longing.

She shifted, but her shoulder brushed his again, and this time, neither of them flinched.

His hand moved slightly, resting on the railing beside hers. Close. So close their fingers almost touched.

Almost.

But he didn't move.

And neither did she.

The air felt thicker now. Every breath slow. Every second a temptation.

Alison looked down at their hands, then back at the horizon. "We should probably sleep."

"Yeah," he said, but his voice was low. Rough. Like he didn't mean it.

She turned to go, body humming with unspoken things, feet bare against the cold marble. But just as her hand brushed the door, her heel caught the edge of the mat.

She stumbled forward with a soft gasp.

"Alison—" Ralph's voice was sharp, sudden.

He moved fast. One arm snaked around her waist, catching her before she could fall. The other gripped the loose lapel of her robe for balance.

It happened so fast neither of them breathed. But in that fraction of a second—something shifted.

Literally.

Her robe slipped.

The knot had loosened at her waist, and as his hand gripped the fabric, it fell slightly open—just enough.

One soft breast, full and bare, was suddenly exposed in the moonlight.

Time stopped. Her breath caught. Ralph froze.

His eyes dropped, just for a second—God help him, just one aching, brutal second—and then snapped away like he'd been burned.

He stepped back, hands up, chest heaving. "Sorry," he muttered, jaw tight.

Alison quickly tugged the robe closed, fingers fumbling with the belt, heart pounding louder than the ocean.

She couldn't speak.

Neither could he.

But something had cracked open between them—something raw and hot and impossible to take back.

She turned away quickly and reached for the door again, this time more careful. "Goodnight," she whispered, voice trembling.

He didn't answer.

And when she slipped back into bed, she could still feel the ghost of his hand on her skin.