Page 46 of When Hearts Unravel (The Orchid #6)

The smile on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but the warmth is there.

That’s the thing with Rex Anderson. He’s like one of those classic movies—Forrest Gump or The Shining—entertaining to watch for the story and the acting.

But when you rewatch it each time, you’ll pick up on something different—a hidden meaning about the human condition, symbolism, or other messages with deeper themes.

And this smile tells me he’s battling both joy and sadness at the same time.

Looking around, I scan for any paparazzi or coworkers. Rhys believed my migraine story, but I think he’s still suspicious, so I need to be extra careful.

We’re standing in a relatively secluded spot, and few people are loitering about since there’s a big party happening on the ship right now.

When I don’t see anyone I recognize, I place my hand on Rex’s cheek, his perfectly groomed scruff scraping my fingers.

He lets out a sigh—a soft one, but I hear it, nonetheless.

“Do you know what’s one of the most common emotions I see in my practice?”

Rex shakes his head, his brow lifting.

“Guilt. Over the past, over what a person should do but isn’t doing. Over not feeling one hundred percent one way, like when you’re happy but also sad, when you’re grateful but also resentful.” I stroke his cheek, watching his breaths quicken, a flush crawling up his face.

Sliding my hand to his neck, I rest my fingers there to feel his pulse.

It’s fluttering rapidly. I’ve hit the mark.

“It’s okay to feel that way. Life isn’t black and white or two-dimensional, and neither are we,” I whisper.

The Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, and he stares at me.

I want to spend forever staring into those gray, mesmerizing pools. I want to know what secrets and hidden meanings they hold.

I want to watch his movie again and again.

A slow smile curves up his lips, and he lifts my hand away from his cheek, turns it over, and presses a soft kiss on the backs of my fingers like a gentleman.

My blood heats from the intimate gesture—the small touch holding so much emotion in it.

In this moment, I’m his forever, the forever he thinks he can’t have, the one I want to give to him.

Why Rex, why are you sabotaging yourself? Why are you rejecting us?

I’m sad and angry. I don’t understand, and I will never understand.

I want to shake him and walk away because I deserve someone who will fight for me.

But I also love him and want to enjoy the last few days with him in our small slice of paradise.

It’s messed up and toxic. It’s beautiful and bittersweet.

And that’s okay.

“Come on,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “Let’s go create some chaos.”

Without warning, he picks me up and deposits me on the back of a motorcycle, chuckling when I shriek and swat at him for scaring the shit out of me.

“You are nuts if you think I’m going with you on…this. Do you even know how to ride this?”

He plucks the pins from my hair, and my bun unravels.

“Hey!” More swatting and chuckling.

“Your bun is in the way and your hair is gorgeous.” He smiles when he fastens a helmet on my head before tightening it.

My heart skips a beat, warmth gathering in my chest. Being this close to him is like I’m staring straight into the sun. But instead of being a shadow cast on the ground, he’s shining his light on me, showing me off to the world.

“I’m a great rider. You think only Maxwell owns the bragging rights to anything with wheels?” His straitlaced brother loves street racing. In fact, that’s how he and Belle met.

Rex climbs onto the bike and slides my hands around his waist. “Well, there was one time when I crashed Ryland’s car in high school, but that was four wheels. Fuck, he was so pissed.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? You crashed something with four wheels and somehow two wheels make this safer?”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to trust me and be brave, huh? What is it you like to say? Carpe diem.”

Without waiting for my response, he twists the throttle and we’re off.

Squealing, I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch his waist in a death grip. I’m sure my nails will leave marks on his stomach.

I try to speak, but he doesn’t hear me, and it’s then I realize the roar of the engine, the rustling of the wind, and the honking and beeping of other vehicles speeding by are eclipsing my words.

I just have to trust him.

And I do.

He laces one hand with mine, giving it a squeeze like he knows I’m terrified, then he pats it as if to say everything will be okay. Slowly, I open my eyes, my pulse racing, my breathing sawing in and out of my lungs.

Rex tugs at my fingers, motioning to the surrounding scenery.

Be brave, Olivia. Be the new you. Embrace new things. Carpe diem.

Blowing out a few quick exhales, I slowly look to the side.

And my breath crystallizes in my throat.

We’re soaring down a winding cliffside road, and the views of C?te d’Azur, the French Riviera, are breathtaking.

With the sun dipping on the horizon, spreading warm embers into the crisp blue of the skies, the ocean glitters like stars far below.

Boats and yachts ebb and flow in the calm waters, small waves gently grazing the golden shores.

I marvel at the lemon trees in bloom, the ancient stone walls twisting around the path, the distinct fuchsia flowers, bougainvillea, draping over wrought iron balconies of estates half hidden by trees.

It’s stunning.

The faint scents of crushed wild thyme and salt are carried by the breeze, mixing with the intoxicating blend of Rex’s cologne, gasoline, and the aged leather on the bike.

My hair flutters to the wind, and in this moment, I want to do something the old me will think is dangerous and nuts.

Thighs clamped tightly around the bike, I let go of Rex and lift my arms, the breeze grazing my fingers.

My heart thunders in my ears, and my stomach swirls. I’ve never felt so alive as right now, at this moment, on the back of a speeding motorcycle in a foreign country with a man I have no business being with.

I laugh, though I can barely hear the sound above the ruckus.

“Wohooo!” I yell when the bike jostles from a bump on the road. Then more laughter spills out of me.

When was the last time I laughed like this, not caring if I looked like a freak to others, my mind not swirling with a never-ending list of things I should do?

I’m free.

Rex reaches back and pats my leg, and I swing my arms back around him again. Then he suddenly swerves and parks at a scenic overlook.

Before I can ask him why we’re stopping, he tugs off our helmets. With one hand gripping the nape of my neck, he smashes his lips with mine.

My heart somersaults, the earlier adrenaline now spiking with lust, love, and exhilaration. I fist his hair, kissing him back, telling him with my lips, teeth, and tongue everything I’m not saying, how I’m finally at home in my skin, how I’m looking at the world with my blindfold off.

It’s all because of him.

“This moment is my forever,” he murmurs against my lips, and my lungs squeeze at the anguish in his voice.

I pull back and trace the planes of his face with my fingertips, and his eyes flutter shut. The masculine brows, the tall, sharp nose, the hollows under his eyes I wish could go away, the masculine angle of his jaw.

I want to memorize him. The way he feels, the husky rasp of his voice, the spice of his scent and the safety it evokes in me even as we do things that are decidedly dangerous.

“Rex…” I swallow, watching as those startling irises look at me. “Thank you. Thank you for seeing me.”

His gaze roves over my face and for a moment, I can only hear cars speeding by or the distant squawking of the seagulls. Rex smiles, his soft lips curving so the wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

A genuine smile.

“I’ve always seen you, Olive. Even when I shouldn’t.”

Then, he puts our helmets back on and whisks us off to God knows where, taking me on a road trip around the city.

He stops at the Formula 1 Grand Prix Circuit where he finagles us a modified F1x2 two-seater race car and tests my ability to let out ear-splitting screams as he swerves on the asphalt, the car nearly kissing the guardrails.

Needless to say, he’s a much better driver than he was in his younger days, but my legs are jelly when I climb out.

He rides by the Casino de Monte Carlo, the grand and iconic coral-colored building, which looks as beautiful in person as in Bond films, with luxury cars parked out front. The charity gala tomorrow will be next door at one of Fleur’s umbrella establishments, the iconic Hotel de France.

For the next few hours, Rex shows me a side of the city I don’t see in movies or guidebooks.

The small nooks and crannies, the private gardens bursting with succulents, off the beaten path neighborhoods where locals lounge in lawn chairs, kids kick soccer balls down the streets, enjoying life after school.

Then finally, he comes to a stop in a nondescript building tucked away in the Condamine district per the signage I saw moments ago. Blue Old-World shutters frame the windows, and laundry hangs from iron balconies.

“What are we doing here?” I ask when he laces his fingers in mine and tugs me toward a partially open door.

Inside, I hear the soft buzzing sound of a needle, smell the distinct scent of antiseptic agents and leather, and see a few chairs and stations in a brightly lit space.

Rex has taken us to a tattoo parlor.

Wide-eyed, I look at him, and he winks before turning to a bald, burly man with two beautiful sleeves of ink. They speak in rapid French because, of course, Rex would know French too.

Then, he pulls me with him as the man leads us to a station in the back.

“Wh-What are you doing?” I watch in bewilderment as Rex sits down. He’s getting a tattoo? Now?

“I should think that’s obvious.” He smirks and rolls up his sleeve, exposing the arm with the scars from his childhood.

The old ache flares again as I imagine a young boy doing this to himself because he holds so much pain inside him, but has no outlet because he thinks his role is to bring happiness to others.

A familiar burning appears behind my eyes, and I smooth my finger over the small marks.

Then I frown, because I notice new black marks over the scars. It’s shaped like a bite mark.

Is that what I think it is? My mind flashes to our romp in my office a week ago, when I bit his wrist in the throes of orgasm, tasting blood. It was feral, messy, and so hot.

My eyes snap to his, finding a smug smile on his lips.

“Just to prove to you what I told you is true, I’m getting my first ever tattoo on this pristine, glorious body for you. You should be honored.”

I swallow, my mouth running dry. “What?”

He shrugs, not elaborating further as the artist comes back and preps Rex’s arm. Then the man begins his work.

An hour passes by as I admire the intricate artwork appearing on his wrist—the bite mark linking with the small scars like vines, followed by one single, lifelike olive. I’m in awe.

Underneath the olive are two words written in script.

My Forever.

My throat prickles as I stare at the image of me inked on his skin.

Me.

Unable to help myself, I press a quick, but thorough kiss on his lips when the artist steps away.

“Rex, I love you,” I whisper.

He freezes, his breath hitching.

“I don’t need you to say it back.” I kiss him again. “This is the new me. Honest and brave. I don’t expect anything. I just want to let you know.”

Rex’s throat works, and he remains silent.

I try not to let it get to me, even though that’s impossible.

But I’m a person who believes in actions over words, and for this man—someone who never settles down, who goes from fling to fling without a care—to put something so permanent on his body, I mean something to him.

Wordlessly, he frames my face with his hands again and presses a searing kiss onto my lips. I lose myself in the pleasure and warmth only he can give me.

This is enough. This has to be enough.