Beyound the schedule

The car ride was painful.

Not because the seats weren't comfortable. Not because the air conditioning wasn't perfect. Not even because I had to lug my own suitcase into the trunk while Lydia got hers handled like she was some goddess descended from the heavens.

No.

It was painful because the chauffeur—let's call him Mr. Smooth Talker—was clearly trying to hit on Lydia.

And Lydia?

Completely. Unbothered.

She sat there, poised, elegant, professional, her green eyes fixed on the passing scenery like she was cataloging every single tree, rock, and grain of sand for future reference.

Meanwhile, Mr. Smooth Talker kept throwing in little flirtations, subtle glances through the mirror, casual offers for "a private tour," and the occasional extra slow smile when he thought I wasn't looking.

I was looking.

And I was not impressed.

I leaned back in my seat, arms crossed, watching the exchange with a growing sense of annoyance. Not that I cared who flirted with Lydia. That wasn't my problem. She was a grown woman; she could handle herself.

But the fact that she hadn't shut it down properly?

That was interesting.

It raised a very, very important question.

Did Lydia Whitmore even have a type?

Because, truthfully, I had never seen her show interest in anyone.

Ever.

She was all business, all the time, too busy color-coding schedules and rolling her eyes at me to even acknowledge things like romance, or dating, or—hell—even casual flirting.

So, what was her deal?

Did she like men?

Women?

Both?

Was Lydia one of those people who was married to her job?

I needed answers.

And since Lydia was clearly not going to offer them up willingly, I was just going to have to ask.

Later.

Because right now, the car was pulling up in front of the villa, and even Lydia—poised, composed, impossible Lydia—looked slightly impressed.

I grinned, stretching as the car rolled to a stop.

"Welcome," I announced dramatically, "to our home for the next two weeks."

The villa was massive.

Sitting right on the coastline, it was all sleek modern design, with floor-to-ceiling windows, white stone walls, and tropical greenery creeping up the edges.

The driveway curved elegantly toward a sprawling entrance, and beyond the house, the ocean stretched endlessly, its waters shimmering under the golden sunlight.

Lydia opened the car door gracefully, stepping out and taking it all in.

She didn't say anything at first.

But I caught the slight way her eyes widened, the small parting of her lips, the quick inhale like she was genuinely impressed.

Then, as if catching herself, she immediately schooled her expression back to neutrality.

"It's… nice," she said finally.

I burst out laughing. "Oh my God. Nice? Lydia, this is a luxury villa on the beach, and all you have to say is 'nice'?"

She gave me a flat look. "What do you want me to say? 'Oh wow, Freya, you're the best for picking such an extravagant place, and I am in awe of your taste'?"

I smirked. "Yes, actually. That would be exactly what I want you to say."

She rolled her eyes, grabbing her suitcase as the chauffeur opened the trunk. "Well, don't hold your breath."

I shrugged, stepping out and breathing in the ocean air. The salty breeze, the warmth of the sun on my skin—it was exactly what I needed.

Two whole weeks of no training, no schedules, no stress.

And, most importantly—

Two whole weeks of loosening Lydia up.

Because, despite what she thought, there was no way she was escaping this trip without having some fun.

The moment I pushed open the villa doors, the first thing that hit me was the sheer luxury of it all.

Spacious. Open. Breathtaking.

The entire place had been designed to show off the view, with massive floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the entire back wall, overlooking the ocean just a few meters away.

The inside was a perfect blend of modern and tropical elegance, with polished white marble floors, warm wooden accents, and splashes of color from well-placed tropical plants.

To the left, a gorgeous bar area sat against the wall, fully stocked with premium liquor, cocktail shakers, and neatly arranged glassware.

The counter was made of sleek black stone, with gold accents that gleamed under the warm lighting.

"Ohhh, now this is what I'm talking about," I grinned, walking toward the bar and running my fingers along the counter. "Lydia, look at this. Fully stocked."

Lydia, who had stepped inside cautiously, glanced around with mild approval, taking in the high ceilings, the tasteful decor, and the unquestionable wealth on display.

"It's… nice," she said again.

I groaned loudly. "Whitmore, you are killing me."

She ignored me, adjusting the strap of her bag as she took a few steps further inside. Her sharp green eyes flicked toward the living area, which was centered around a massive white sectional couch, complete with plush pillows and a low glass coffee table.

Past the living room, an open kitchen gleamed under soft lighting, complete with high-end stainless steel appliances, a sleek island, and a stocked fridge.

Lydia peeked into the kitchen, opening the fridge with curious precision, her brows raising slightly. "There's already food here."

I smirked. "I made sure of it. Can't have you starving, Whitmore."

She gave me a flat look, but I saw the way her lips twitched, like she was fighting the urge to be even slightly impressed.

To the right, a hallway led toward the bedrooms, and I grabbed my suitcase, walking down to check them out.

The first door opened to a stunning room, with a king-sized bed covered in soft white sheets, a private balcony overlooking the ocean, and an en-suite bathroom that looked like something straight out of a spa.

The second room? Exactly the same.

I turned toward Lydia, who was standing in the doorway, scanning the room with a critical eye.

"There are two rooms," I said, grinning. "That means you won't have to suffer sleeping near me."

Lydia exhaled sharply. "That's the best news I've heard all day."

I laughed, rolling my suitcase inside and flopping onto the bed, letting out a content sigh.

"Alright," I said, stretching my arms above my head. "We've got options. We can unpack, settle in, then go out for dinner. Or—" I rolled onto my side, resting my head on my hand, "—I could cook."

Lydia paused, blinking.

"You can cook?"

I sat up, placing a hand over my heart. "Lydia. I'm offended."

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem like someone who cooks."

I scoffed. "Excuse me? I am a fantastic cook."

Lydia crossed her arms, clearly skeptical. "Prove it."

I grinned. "Oh, I will."