“Dangerously,” I whispered back, heat pooling low in my belly. “Behave.”
“Absolutely not,” he said, smug.
Lucy gasped and clasped her hands together. “We’re our very own Breakfast Club,” she breathed. “Detention in paradise. This is my dream.”
Marco perked up immediately. “Dibs on the criminal,” he said.
“Obviously,” Ivy muttered. “I’m the brain. Kimi’s the basket case.”
Kimi lifted a shoulder. “I prefer ‘enigmatic,’ but okay.”
Lucy pointed at herself. “Tragically, I’m the virgin. Typecasting at its finest.” Her gaze slid to me and Callum, still wrapped around each other in the sand. “And you two are… whatever happens when the athlete and the princess make out in the supply closet and never stop.”
I huffed a laugh. “Joke’s on you, we’ve upgraded to kitchen counters.”
Callum’s thumb traced another lazy circle against my skin. “And beaches,” he murmured.
Kimi made a small noise of amusement. “You two are disgusting.”
“And you’re jealous,” I shot back.
He didn’t deny it. Just took a sip of his wine and watched the waves.
The conversation drifted for a while, carried on by the wine and the waves. We discussed their flight (terrible), the connecting airport (also terrible), the merits of European airplane food versus American airplane food (horrible in different fonts). Marco reenacted the moment Ivy allegedly threatened to tranquilize him in the middle of Heathrow. Ivy reenacted the moment Marco nearly got them kicked out of the lounge for shouting about “double penetration” when he meant double points.
“It was an innocent mistake,” he insisted.
“You were talking about strategy,” Ivy said. “To a stranger. At the bar.”
“Semantics.”
All the while, Callum kept slowly, shamelessly winding me up. Nothing obvious. Just idle fingertip grazes and slow shifts of his hand, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch me most. One minute his thumb drew lazy arcs on my stomach; the next, his knuckles skimmed the outside of my thigh, just far enough from anything dangerous to be deniable. He nosed at my hair now and then, dropping soft kisses into it, the scruff of his jaw brushing my temple. Every absentminded stroke, every warm exhale against my ear, made my body hum on a frequency no one else seemed tuned into.
Lucy eventually relaxed enough to lean back on her hands, tilting her face up to the stars. Under the moonlight, she looked younger than she did on magazine covers, more girl thanpolished persona. She dug her toes into the sand like she was trying to ground herself physically. Maybe metaphorically, too.
“Okay,” she said at one point, breaking into a lull. “I have to ask.”
“No, you can’t lose your virginity here,” Marco said immediately.
Lucy choked. “Marco.”
“Jesus Christ, Bianchi,” Ivy groaned, throwing a handful of sand at him.
“I meant—” Lucy flailed her hands for a second, then dropped them. “Not—oh my God. That is not what I was going to ask.”
“Go on then,” Callum said, voice amused. I felt his fingers trace idle circles on my forearm.
She exhaled through her nose. “I was going to ask if you’re scared,” she said. “About… all of this.” Her gaze flicked to my hand, where the ring gleamed faintly even in low light. “The engagement. The elopement. The fallout. You keep saying it’s your bubble, your rules.” She chewed her bottom lip. “But bubbles pop.”
The wine sat low and warm in my stomach. The sand was cool through the fabric of the towel. Callum’s heartbeat thudded against my spine.
I thought about lying. About making a quip. About saying, “Non, I’m très chillée,” and waving it off.
“I’m terrified,” I said instead.
Her eyes widened a little.
“Not of marrying him,” I added quickly. “That part feels like the easiest decision I’ve ever made. Even when he’s being insufferable.” I tipped my head back so I could look up at him. “Which is always.”
