“I don’t want to go to another department. I want to stay on Sunset Harbor.”
Well,that’s something I’ll never understand. It’s kind of like Grams. She says she’ll never leave the island, but she’s never lived anywhere else. “How do you know if you haven’t tried?”
“I have.” He glances at me. “I was with the Miami PD for five years after finishing at the academy.”
I have no response. I’d assumed he’d been here since high school like so many other people. I try to picture Beau patrolling the dark, sketchy streets of Miami, a friendly smile on his face.
“Almost there,” he says as we come to a place where the island juts out into the water. It’s covered in mangroves whose branches and trunks are indistinguishable from each other as they reach down into the green water.
Beau guides the boat around, slowing the engine so there’s no wake.
“Are we in the preserve?” I ask. The very north side of the island houses the Belacourt family’s fancy-shmancy resort, the golf course, and a nature preserve.
He nods as we round a promontory, and the view opens up to a small bay with a stretch of secluded beach. With the glow of the sun behind, illuminating the outline of the palms and making the crystalline water shimmer, my breath catches.
Beau smiles at my reaction.
“Don’t get excited,” I warn. “It’s pretty, but it’s a mere grain of sand weighed on a scale against a mountain of boulders.”
“One grain at a time,” he says.
The boat glides toward the beach, and Beau kills the engine, activates the switch to tilt it up, then hefts the anchor over. I watch for a few seconds, impressed by how good boating looks on him.
“Are you okay to get a bit wet?” He slings a backpack over his shoulders, then pulls the towel over like a graduation stole. “Or will that move our cherished grain of sand over to the other side of the scale?”
Now that we’re stopped, the humidity is building, only kept at bay by a minor breeze. Getting my legs wet sounds a little bit perfect. But I won’t let him know that.
“I’ll allow it.”
He chuckles, then hops over the side of the boat, making enough of a splash that a few drops hit me in the face and on my shirt.
“Oops,” he says with zero remorse. “Can you hand me the bag of food?”
I give it to him, then slip off my sandals and swing over the edge of the boat. I do my best to minimize my splash, and Beau smiles from behind the hand he’s using to shield himself.
“Unexpected,” he muses, lowering his hand and looking impressed. “I thought you’d do a cannonball to drench me again.”
I make my way toward shore through the warm water and look back at him over my shoulder. “I had to protect the food.”
I secretly marvel at the way I can see my feet perfectly in the glimmering water, despite being in up to my calves. It’s a welcome change from the LA beaches I’m used to, where getting into the ocean requires both mental prep for the coldanda leap of faith that nothing lethal is hanging around your legs in the murky water.
Beau sets the food on the only rock on the beach, then takes off his backpack and rifles through it, bringing out a black andcream Turkish towel. He shakes it out, and I grab the other side.
His gaze darts to mine, like I’ve taken him by surprise. He clearly doesn’t think much of me if I can shock him by helping lay out a beach blanket. I guess it’s not a bad thing to have a super-low bar for impressing someone.
Not that I’m trying to impress Beau.
He straightens the edge of the blanket and sets the bag of food right in the middle. I look out at the sparkling water, then around the secluded beach, with its perfect palm trees and soft, white sand.
It definitely gives date vibes. If Grams showed up right now—heaven forbid—she would accuse me of high treason. I’d be guillotined first thing in the morning.
But what am I supposed to do? Beau says it’s not a date, and insisting that it seems like one doesn’t sound like a great idea—or a good look. The right thing to do is chill out and stop noticing things about Beau that a person on a date with him would notice.
I sit on the towel on the other side of the food bag, leaning back on the heels of my hands.
“Ready for some good food, Gemma?”
I look at him and cock an eyebrow. “I’vebeenready, Beau.” His hair has dried most of the way, and it has the slightest wave thanks to the chaos of the forced swim and the wind. It glints in the sunlight too.
