“We tossed around the idea of visiting the places I mentioned in my novel earlier while we made the trek here. So, do we want to walk the beach? Maybe check the cabanas and umbrella chairs?”
Ashton rolls up his sleeves. “Yeah, let’s do that. But first I’d like to change into my swim shorts.” He looks over at me and scrunches his nose as if he’s thinking of doing something he ought not to do.
Better run, sweetheart,fictional Noah teases.
My eyes widen in terror as I start to creep backward with my pointer finger up and out. “Nikhil Ashton Prewitt, don’t you dare—”
My words are cut short as I tumble into the ocean.
***
“You know what they say about payback.” I tighten my ponytail as we walk along the hot sand, the setting sun creating a road across the ocean.
“That’s why I needed to change into my swim trunks.”
I shove him lightly, but it’s like trying to move a wall. My stomach growls, and my hand flies to it as if that will make the stridulant noise stop.
“Should we press pause on our search and get something to eat?” Ashton asks. So far, we’ve found no trace of Noah. We’ve asked employees as we’ve passed them, snooped inside ofcabanas, and searched the faces of relaxed humans lounging in beachside chairs. Nothing.
I sigh, fanning myself. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”
“Let’s check out that restaurant you mention in the book. What was it called?”
I open the pamphlet and find the name of the Mediterranean restaurant I thought I’d made up. “Puaiti Moana.”
Ashton opens his mouth, and I peg him with a glare. “Don’t do it.”
A wicked smile stretches across his face as he starts to belt, “See the line where the—”
“Ashton!” Though I shout his name in flustered embarrassment as my eyes cut to onlookers, I laugh. Seeing him so open and free, as if he’s shaken off his responsibilities and burdens, warms my heart. I think that’s what I did last year. Shed the uptight version of myself in favor of a go-with-the-flow type of woman. My stomach grumbles again, so I grab Ashton by the forearm and haul him toward the restaurant.
There is only one wall in the building, the rest being floor-to-ceiling windows. Woven branches of wood meander around the columns that support the building with lights interspersed throughout. It’s a romantic, dimly lit dining area with white Tahitian gardenias serving as centerpieces on the small, meant-for-two, round, wooden tables.
“Wow,” Ashton and I remark at the same time as we take our seats and receive our menus from a waitress. We look over the options and make small talk while we wait for someone to take our orders.
“I think I’ll have the mango fish tacos,” I say with a knowing smile. It’s one of the dishes I wrote about in my book.
Ashton runs his finger down the menu before stopping and pointing to a dish he can’t pronounce. We thank the waitress, and she leaves.
“Yeah, I’m so jealous my brother got to experience all this without me.” That strange, regretful sadness tinges his voice once more. I thought he had left it back on the plane, but it seems something caused it to come creeping back.
I take a sip of my lemon water before asking, “Why didn’t you come with him a year ago? Don’t the two of you do practically everything together?”
A grimace paints Ashton’s face, and he looks away, taking a drink of his water. I don’t pressure him. I wait quietly until he turns back to me, sets down his cup, and sighs. “Noah wasn’t the only Prewitt to fall into a whirlwind romance last year.”
The way he spoke of passionate love only two days ago races into my mind. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, he knits his brows. “Not really, though Branda says it would do me good to tell someone. I haven’t even told my family anything outside of the obvious—that Georgiana and I broke up.”
Georgiana.I store the name away to social stalk later. “Branda’s right, you know. Lord knows I’ve dumped my mess on you. Now’s your chance for your emotional vomiting payback while you await my ocean-centered payback.”
Ashton laughs, letting his hands fall to this lap. He’s quiet for a moment before he meets my eyes. “Georgiana Beaufort spun into my life like the hurricane she’s named after.” He pauses, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “She’s the epitome of a Southern belle. Ever seenHart of Dixie?”
“I love that show!”
“Georgiana is the equivalent to season one Lemon Breeland.”
“And you are just sweet ole George Tucker, aren’t you?” I snort. But then I remember there is heartache at the end of this story. “No. You’re not George Tucker. You’re Lavon Hayes.”
