Beyound the schedule

The morning sun streamed through the villa's wide windows, casting a warm golden glow over the entire space.

The air was already thick with the scent of salt and hibiscus, and I could hear the distant rush of waves from beyond the palm trees swaying just outside.

I was buzzing with excitement.

We had just finished breakfast, and today—finally—was the day we were going to the beach.

Not just any beach, either.

This was Hawai. The beaches here were stunning, the kind of postcard-perfect paradise people dreamed about.

And me? I was more than ready to sink my feet into the warm sand, dive into the clear blue water, and—most importantly—see Lydia Whitmore in a swimsuit.

The real mystery of the day.

Because despite all of Lydia's controlled composure, her tailored suits, her perfectly crisp blouses, there was no escaping the reality of beachwear.

Would she wear a one-piece? A bikini? Some ridiculously modest, long-sleeved nonsense that made no sense for a tropical climate?

I had to know.

Lydia wasn't in her swimsuit yet, but she was wearing a beautiful sundress, something light and flowy, the fabric clinging slightly at her waist before flaring out just enough to move when she walked.

Soft, elegant, perfectly put-together—so undeniably Lydia that I almost laughed.

She was currently organizing things, going through the painstaking process of making sure we had everything before heading out.

Meanwhile, I had thrown on my swimsuit top, a deep navy halter bikini, paired with a simple pair of light, frayed denim shorts, my sunglasses perched lazily on my head.

"Freya," Lydia called from the kitchen, her voice carrying that sharp, no-nonsense tone. "Do you even know where the sunscreen is?"

I grinned, leaning against the counter. "Do I look like someone who worries about sunscreen?"

She turned, green eyes narrowing instantly. "Yes, actually, because despite all of your reckless behavior, you're a professional athlete. And professional athletes don't risk getting sunburned."

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. "Alright, mom."

Lydia ignored me, producing a bottle of sunscreen like she had been prepared for my irresponsibility all along.

I snickered. "How did I know you'd have that ready?"

She gave me a flat look, tossing it toward me with perfect accuracy. "Because I know you."

I caught it effortlessly, shaking my head. "That's honestly a little scary."

She turned back toward the counter, checking the contents of a small bag one last time, making sure we had towels, extra water, and—because she was Lydia—probably an entire emergency kit in there somewhere.

I watched her, amused, before leaning in slightly. "So…"

She didn't look up. "So what?"

I smirked. "What kind of swimsuit are you wearing?"

Lydia paused, her fingers briefly stilling over the bag's zipper before she resumed like nothing happened.

"A practical one," she said smoothly.

I raised an eyebrow. "Practical?"

She finally looked at me, her expression unreadable. "One that functions as a swimsuit."

I snorted. "Whitmore, that answer means nothing."

She rolled her eyes, clearly done with the conversation, and zipped up the bag with a little more force than necessary. "Are you ready or not?"

I pushed away from the counter, grinning like a menace. "Oh, I'm very ready."

Lydia gave me a long, suspicious look, then shook her head. "Then let's go."

We grabbed our things, stepping out into the warm, sunlit morning, the salty breeze immediately wrapping around us.

The beach wasn't far, just a short walk down a private path lined with tall palm trees, their leaves rustling gently in the wind.

The closer we got, the more I could hear the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves, the occasional bursts of laughter from other beachgoers, the sounds of seagulls calling overhead.

I walked with an extra spring in my step, already soaking in the atmosphere, while Lydia—ever composed, ever elegant—walked beside me with a measured pace, her sundress swaying slightly as she moved.

We reached the end of the path, where the trees finally opened up—

And there it was.

The beach.

Crystal-clear turquoise water stretched out endlessly, waves lapping gently against the shore. The sand was soft, almost white, the kind that felt like silk under your feet.

Sunbathers lounged under colorful umbrellas, surfers carried their boards into the waves, and kids ran along the shore, their laughter blending with the sound of the ocean breeze.

I stopped, taking it all in, grinning like an idiot.

"Now this is what I came for."

The moment we stepped onto the sand, I stretched my arms above my head, inhaling the warm, salty air like I was soaking in every ounce of freedom this vacation had to offer.

The beach was alive—the sound of the waves, the distant chatter of people, the occasional burst of laughter from kids playing near the shore.

But, truthfully?

I was only paying attention to one thing.

Lydia Whitmore.

She walked beside me with perfect posture, her steps measured, the warm breeze catching the edges of her sundress, making the light fabric flutter delicately around her legs.

And while, yes, the ocean was breathtaking—

And yes, the scenery was stunning—

Nothing was more interesting than the mystery of what was under that sundress.

I had never seen Lydia in anything remotely revealing before.

Everything about her screamed structure, elegance, control—her sharp suits, her meticulously tailored shirts, her perfectly put-together image.

But a swimsuit?

A two-piece?

I had no idea what to expect.

Was it going to be a ridiculously modest one-piece? A swim shirt that covered half her body? Some kind of professional wetsuit that completely avoided any level of fun?

I needed answers.

And I was about to get them.

We picked a spot close to the water, not too far from the other beachgoers but still with a bit of space to ourselves. The sun was bright and golden, the sand warm beneath my feet, and the ocean stretched out infinite and inviting.

I dropped my bag down, grabbing a towel and shaking it out before spreading it across the sand.

Lydia, was already unpacking methodically, setting things up in neat order, probably planning this like a military strategy.

I watched her for a moment before finally breaking the silence.

"So, Whitmore," I said casually, stretching out on my towel. "Time to reveal the mystery."

Lydia glanced at me, eyebrow raised. "What mystery?"

I grinned, propping myself up on my elbows. "What you're wearing under that dress."

She paused, her fingers briefly stilling over the bag she was unzipping.

Then, without a word, she stood up, reaching for the tie at the back of her neck.

And in one smooth motion—

She pulled the sundress over her head.

And I forgot how to breathe.

Because—holy. hell.

Lydia Whitmore, in a swimsuit, was not something I had been prepared for.

She wore a two-piece, but not just any two-piece.

It was elegant, stunning, and somehow still so perfectly her—a deep emerald green bikini, the top structured just enough to look effortlessly classy, the fabric hugging her perfectly toned body in a way that made it criminally impossible not to stare.

Her long golden-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the sunlight like she had just stepped out of some expensive vacation ad.

Her skin was smooth, her curves subtle yet undeniable, and the way she stood—calm, poised, entirely unaware of just how ridiculously attractive she looked—was borderline unfair.

I blinked.

Then blinked again.