Chapter One
It wasn’t the first time Clare had left him. But it was the first time she hadn’t told him she was going.
No blazing row, no overwrought email, no sulking endless text war. Just... absence. A vacancy. Not so much a grand exit as a quiet unfollowing of a story that had long since stopped making sense. She’d simply booked the holiday, clicked confirm, and boarded a plane with nothing but suncream, shoes for every eventuality, some cute beachwear, and the faintest whiff of defiance.
Lopud shimmered into view as the traditional wooden boat cut through the gentle blue of the Adriatic. The island was absurdly small, like someone had dropped a rock garden into the sea and built a hotel on it. The kind of place you could walk end to end in twenty minutes, yet still get lost in your own head for days.
The hotel greeted her with the marble quiet of a place designed for couples who no longer spoke at dinner. Clare checked in under the politely baffled gaze of a receptionist clearly suspicious of women who travelled alone and Clare smiled while doing so. Her room was all cool linens and perfectly balanced lighting that made her feel slightly more expensive than she was.
She dropped her bag, peeled off her sweaty London shoes, and padded out to the balcony. The view was almost offensively beautiful - pale stone cascading down the hillside, deep green herbs and shrubs, the sea shimmering like it had secrets to keep.
And yet, she didn’t feel lonely. Not exactly. Just... unaccompanied.
By the second morning, she was ready for something more active. It was either that or melt into a sun lounger for the rest of the week. After a strong coffee on the terrace and a brief internal battle over whether to check her phone (she didn’t), she flicked through the brochure of overpriced excursions designed to fill the hours between dawn and dusk.
One caught her eye: Historic Vineyards of Pelješac. Wine under the guise of culture. A vague sense of purpose. She signed up immediately, avoiding the hopeful gaze of an elderly German couple who had tried to make conversation over breakfast.
Early the next day, a small group gathered at the hotel quayside. Clare stood slightly apart, feeling awkward and out of place. Young couples. Older couples. A family. Overall, a fairly average group. She scanned them, mentally sketching backstories that made her grin. The adorable American newlyweds, romance still shiny and smug. A mother-daughter duo locked in silent passive-aggression. That kind of day.
Then he arrived.
“Hello! I’m Goran,” the guide announced with breezy warmth. “But please, call me Gordon if that’s easier.”
Clare rolled her eyes. Not even trying to hide it. She hated this need to soften, to appease, to bend. If the name is Goran, then say Goran. Make an effort, people.
She almost said it aloud.
The bus ride up the Pelješac peninsula was long and slow, winding through olive groves and rocky, unforgiving hills. Goran, meanwhile, wove local history and half-true stories like vines through a trellis. She liked the way he told them, charming but unpolished. There were gaps and tangents, like a record skipping mid-ballad. He didn’t seem to care if people were listening or not.
Clare, naturally, was. Always watching. Always listening. Even when pretending not to.
At the vineyard, they sipped wine and nodded over quiet chatter. Wines with names that lingered on the tongue were served in the cool cellars, away from the sun’s relentless glare. There were fresh figs and tasty cheese to nibble on, and in the courtyard, a man with suspiciously few teeth was selling lavender in tiny bags.
Clare let herself be drawn into some light nonsense chat. Just a little. She laughed once, fully, at something a Dutchman said. She might even have flirted with a smile.
But it wasn’t until the bus ride home that something shifted.
The heat was thick and drowsy. People leaned into their seats, wine-drunk and sun-lulled. Goran moved down the aisle with a small bottle and a conspiratorial grin.
Šljivovica. Clare had heard of it - plum brandy, homemade, fiercely Balkan. Not for tourists. A wink of something wilder.
“Homemade,” he said, holding it up. “Šljivovica. Just a sip.”
Clare raised an eyebrow. “Is this in the tasting notes?”
He grinned. “No. But neither are you.”
She took the tiny cup, warm from his hand, and lifted it in mock solemnity.
“Živili,” she said, careful with the pronunciation.
Goran’s eyes sparkled. “Perfect! You have a good tongue.”
She blinked. He blinked. He flushed.
“Pronunciation,” he clarified quickly, half-laughing.
Clare sipped. It burned like shame and satisfaction in equal measure, and settled somewhere suspiciously familiar.
“Clare,” she said, offering her hand as if they hadn’t spent the day within arm’s reach. “Or just Clare, if that’s too difficult.”
He took it. Warm palm, firm grip. No lingering squeeze, no invitation, just contact.
They rode in silence the rest of the way. Not touching. Not speaking. And it didn’t matter. The flirtation hung between them, light as a veil. It wasn’t going anywhere and that was the whole point.
Because Clare knew herself. Or at least, she was learning to learn.
Sex had always been her undoing. Her shortcut. Her detour. Her misfiring compass.
Not this time.
This time, she would let the fire smoulder and walk away from the heat.
Back at the hotel, freshly showered, she poured herself a glass of cold white wine and sat on the balcony, watching the sun slip behind the horizon, beyond the distant islands. The sea exhaled, the sky softened, and - for once - Clare Bright didn’t think about her ex-boyfriend.
She didn’t need a single thing more than what she had.
Tomorrow would arrive, as it always did.
But tonight, she was enough.
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