The boy does just that. Rights the boat on his second try, and flops back into it. His whoop of triumph echoes across the water.
Pride swells in my chest. This place exists because of everything I survived, and because Avery gave me the encouragement to see it through to fruition. These families are here healing, rebuilding, learning to trust again because we both wanted kids like these to have somewhere safe to go. The resort, the sailing school, the cottages designed for privacy and peace—all of it is borne from the wreckage of what was done to me, repurposed into something good. Something that might make a difference.
The dark-haired boy—Jaylen—sails a wobbly figure-eight now, his confidence growing with every tack. I find myself grinning as he navigates through a sudden gust that grabs his sail and nearly tips him again. He adjusts, compensates, keeps moving forward. I applaud him from where I watch, and he gives me an enthusiastic wave before focusing on his boat once more.
Will I be a good father?
The question surfaces unbidden, the way it does a dozen times a day now, and I don't have an answer. Don't know if I ever will. All I have is the fierce, desperate certainty that I will be different from what I had growing up. That my child will never know fear in their own home. That my hands will only ever be gentle. And that I will be the father helping his son right an overturned boat instead of the one who taught him to flinch.
I want that so badly it sits like an open wound in my chest.
Before my thoughts spiral any darker, a hint of movement stirs at the edge of my vision. Avery. Walking toward me across the sand, a smile already curving her lips the instant our gazes collide.
Holy. Shit.
She’s wearing a red bikini, small triangles and long strings that make my fingers twitch with the desire to unfasten them. The color is bright against her soft skin, scant scraps of fabric that show off her long limbs and gorgeous curves. A sheer sarong tied at her hip, more suggestion than coverage. Her blonde hair piled in a loose bun, still damp from the shower, strands escaping to catch the light as she approaches.
My blood heats at the sight of her. Every thought in my head empties out. There's only her and that sexy-as-fuck bikini.
Her smile widens as she reaches me. "Sorry I took so long."
"Totally worth it."
She settles onto the beach bed beside me, close enough that her thigh brushes mine and the warmth of her skin sends a pulse of want straight through my bloodstream. She looks rested. Refreshed. The morning's nausea is clearly behind her now, and my chest eases to know she's not fighting her own body anymore.
"I feel human again. Finally."
"You look it." My gaze travels down her body without apology. "You look like a lot of things right now."
She gives me a knowing grin. "I thought the red might get your attention."
I chuckle. "You have my full attention." I reach for her hand, placing it over the bulge in my swim trunks. "And if we weren't surrounded by families and children right now, I'd already have those strings untied and my mouth on every inch of you."
Her answering laugh is easy, unburdened. This getaway is already worth the effort and expense just to hear her laugh again. I stare at her, soaking in every nuance of her expression, gratified by the look of calm I see in her eyes.
She reaches into the bag she dropped beside the bed and pulls out a bottle of sunscreen. Holds it out to me.
"Here. Make yourself useful."
I take the bottle. She turns her back to me, pulls the sarong aside, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
Her shoulders first. The lotion is cool against my palm, but her skin is like silk beneath my hands, and I work it slowly across her shoulders, down her arms, the curve where her neck meets her back. She makes a soft sound of pleasure as my thumbs find the knots of tension she carries there, and I take my time easing them loose.
Her head drops forward as my hands move lower. Her breathing changes as my lotion application turns into a caress that follows the graceful line of her spine, the dip at the small of her back, the place where sun-warmed skin meets the edge of red fabric.
I tell myself this is caretaking. Protection from the sun. The responsible thing to do for a pregnant woman spending a day on the beach.
But my fingers slip beneath the waistband of her bikini bottoms. Just an inch. Just enough to feel the swell of her hip, the softness there. One flick of those flimsy bikini ties is all it would take to have her naked. She inhales sharply, and I lean forward to press my mouth against her shoulder, tasting salt and coconut andher.
"Nick." My name comes out half warning, half want. Her hand finds my wrist, not pushing me away, just holding me still. "We're on a public beach."
"I'm aware." I don't move my hand, don't retreat. Just let my lips graze the curve of her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath my mouth.
"Surrounded by children," she adds, even as the air leaves her lungs on a trembly sigh.
"Also aware." My thumb traces a slow circle against her hip bone, dangerously close to the meager knot that’s holding herbikini bottoms together. "You came out here looking like this and handed me a tube of lotion." My voice has dropped, gone rough at the edges. "What did you expect?"
She laughs under her breath. "Maybe a little self-control?"
