“Here,” he replies. “On this beach. Making poor life choices. With me.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s not a pretty laugh. It’s the kind that bubbles up when you’re teetering between anxiety and hysteria and you’re not sure which way you’ll fall.
“This is definitely a poor life choice,” I agree.
“The worst,” he says.
Someone left champagne on the beach table. I notice it now, sitting there like an invitation.
Or a trap.
Probably the latter.
“Yours?” I ask, nodding toward it. “The champagne?”
“It was supposed to be for the fireworks,” he explains.
“Uh huh,” I taunt. “So that woman with you... she’s just ‘no one’ huh? A resort guest who asked you to watch the fireworks, and you just so happened to supply an expensive bottle of champagne?”
“It seemed the polite thing to do,” he comments wryly. “Speaking of which...” He stands, walks over, picks up the bottle. “Want some?”
I should absolutely say no. “Sure.”
He twists the cork. It releases with a soft pop. No glasses, so he takes a sip straight from the bottle before passing it to me.
I wipe the rim with my thumb before drinking. Not because I’m worried about germs. Because the intimacy of sharing a bottle feels dangerous and I need the extra second to prepare myself.
The champagne is warm. Slightly flat, as if it was opened already. Exactly what you’d expect from a bottle left sitting on a beach for who knows how long.
“Terrible,” I say, passing it back.
“Completely.” But he drinks again and sets the bottle in the sand between us.
After a moment he says, “The stars here are incredible.”
He tips his head back.
I follow his gaze. “Better than Manhattan, that’s for sure.”
“Manhattan has stars?”
I giggle. “Allegedly. I think I saw one once. Turned out to be a plane.”
That gets a small laugh out of him. “When was the last time you left the city?”
I turn to look at him. “Define ‘left.’”
“Traveled somewhere,” he replies. “As in, for more than a weekend.”
I have to think about it. “Jess’s wedding. Two years ago. Also in the Bahamas, actually. Different island.”
“You didn’t take any vacation time between then and now?” he sounds surprised.
“I took plenty of vacation time,” I comment dryly. “I just spent it working from my apartment instead of the office.”
He shakes his head, passing me the bottle. “That doesn’t count.”
“Says the man who probably answers emails at three AM,” I mock.
