Vincent’s seated in the sand with his guitar balanced on his lap, Max lounging next to him, not far from Steven and Aurora.
As soon as we arrived, I switched on the stereo and slid in a CD of my favorite compilation. It has been looping ever since, filling the air with familiar notes.
When I climb out of the water, I sprint toward the umbrellas to grab a towel. The belt around my waist—a gift from Aurora and Max, strung with pearls and dangling shells—rattles against my skin as I run.
But before I make it to my towel, I trip and tumble face-first into the sand—right in front of Vincent and Max.
Sputtering, I push myself onto my knees, aware of all their eyes checking on me.
"You’re covered in sand. We don’t have tissues, do we?" Vincent murmurs, setting his guitar aside.
I shake my head, and he immediately starts pulling off his shirt. My eyes betray me, roaming over his lean, lightly muscled chest, the sun-kissed skin freckled across his shoulders.
From under the umbrellas, Maggie and Sam exchange amused glances but return quickly to their conversation. Steven and Aurora keep talking quietly, and Will has plopped down next to Max, already chatting away. Within ten minutes, he has decided Max is Barry Allen and Aurora’s Iris West.
I glance back toward Vincent—and freeze. His eyes are fixed on me. He’s wearing dark red swim shorts, holding his discarded T-shirt in one hand and a blue water bottle painted with clouds in the other. He wets the shirt and gently presses it to my face and arms, wiping away the sand clinging to my skin.
That’s when I notice it. A mark on his arm. A tattoo.
I lean closer to study it—a constellation inked in black, with a single dot at its center. It fits him perfectly, as if his skin had been made for it.
I think he notices that I’m checking him out because I see the raise of a smirk on his lips.
His gaze flickers lower, lingering on the tattoo beneath my breast. At sixteen, I’d had a cluster of purple stars inked between and just below them—he’d been with me then. His eyes burn against my skin, but the heat doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Worse. It feels good.
I clear my throat and take the shirt from his hand, continuing the job myself.
"Have you had it long?" I ask, curious.
His dark eyes meet mine. "Hmm?"
"The tattoo. When did you get it?"
He shrugs. " I got it last year. March 15.”
I flop onto my stomach in the middle of the beach, anything to escape his gaze. Who cares about the sand on the skin? That’s what the beach is for. Better to be dirty than to drown in Vincent Cooper’s eyes right now.
"How do you even remember the date?" I press, pretending my voice’s steady.
Vincent chuckles and stretches out beside me. "It’s just an important date for me. I think that’s why."
Our fingers brush, and the jolt rushes through both of us. Of course. He always does this.
He was born to confuse me, to drag the past back up, to make it impossible for me to move on. I know he’s not doing it deliberately—not to hurt me, not to wedge himself between me and Steven—but it happens anyway.
I need to talk to someone. To sit down, reflect and clear my head once and for all.
My eyes drift to Maggie. She’s pacing with a phone pressed to her ear, looking furious. Sam’s sunglasses are perched on her head, and she gestures wildly, cursing under her breath.
"I don’t give a flying fuck about men. You can all rot in hell for all I care—every last one of you dickheads,” she spits into the receiver.
Maggie’s sweet, isn’t it? That’s why we all love her.
She likes to call herself a ball-buster, but I prefer the term“femme fatale.”
Maggie’s one of the most beautiful women in the world. She has a magnetic—and equally dangerous—charm, but also a huge heart. Sure, she enjoys messing with shitty men, but can you really blame her?
I like to picture her as a blonde version of Eva Green inCasino Royale.
