Not the cheap kind.
We sit across from each other at a small table on the deck while the chef delivers dish after dish with quiet precision. The breeze moves through the open air, carrying the smell of the ocean and the distant hum of traffic from the causeway.
He watches me take the first bite like he’s waiting on a verdict.
“Well?” he asks.
I chew slowly, letting the flavor settle.
“It’s perfect.”
Satisfaction flashes through his eyes.
He looks different tonight. The tension that usually lives in his shoulders has eased. His jacket hangs open as he leans back, skyline reflections faint in his dark eyes.
“I didn’t know how to be both,” he says after a moment.
“Both what?”
“Prez and yours.”
The vulnerability in his voice hits harder than the luxury surrounding us.
“You chose,” I remind him.
“I chose survival.”
“And what am I?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“The only thing that ever made me want more than survival.”
The words settle into the quiet between us like something fragile.
Night spreads slowly across the bay. One by one, city lights flicker on until Miami glows like a field of stars.
When dinner ends, he stands and holds out his hand again.
“Come here.”
I swallow hard, and give him my hand.
I let him pull me toward the bow of the yacht. Wind lifts strands of my hair as the boat cuts through the water. Behind us the skyline stretches bright and seductive against the dark sky.
He steps behind me.
His hands slide gently to my waist.
Not grabbing.
Holding.
His chin brushes my shoulder.
“Three years,” he murmurs. “And you still fit right here.”
My body leans back into him before my pride can stop it.
