She offers a small smile. “Don’t worry, Carmichael. I can handle difficult men.”
“I know you can.” I hold her gaze a moment longer than necessary. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
She gives a knowing nod before she turns to let Dylan in.I retreat to my bedroom, but not before hearing her greet the crew with genuine warmth.
I change out of my work clothes, trying not to think about how right Jess looked in my hoodie or how much of myself I just revealed to a woman who, until recently, I considered a professional adversary. And who, with every passing moment, feels more and more like my wife.
fifteen
. . .
Jess
The Pacific glitterslike scattered diamonds in the early morning light as I trudge up the beach with my surfboard tucked under my arm and salt water dripping from my wetsuit. My muscles burn with the pleasant fatigue that only comes from battling waves for two hours straight.
Austin jogs up beside me, looking annoyingly fresh despite our early surf session. At twenty-six, my younger brother is the picture of athletic prime. Or he would be, if not for the surgical scar on his elbow.
“Admit it.” Grinning, he shakes water from his hair like an oversized golden retriever. “You missed this.”
“The surfing or your insufferable gloating when you catch more waves than me?” Being in the water together has always been our safe space, our shared language since the days after Mom died.
“Both.” He bumps my shoulder. “You’re rusty. Too many mornings in bed with that husband of yours instead of paddling out.”
I hope the flush in my cheeks can be attributed to exertion rather than the sudden image of mornings in bed with Lucas.
“Dad’s making his famous pancakes. Garrett is there, too. Come have breakfast?”
I hesitate. Family breakfast means questions about Lucas, about our marriage—questions I’m not prepared to answer without carefully constructed half-truths.
“Dad’s been asking about you,” Austin adds, his expression softening. “He misses you.”
Guilt tugs at me. I’ve been avoiding my family since Vegas, using work and the documentary as excuses. “Ok, but I can’t stay long. I’ve got?—”
“Stuff with Lucas, I know.” Austin tosses his board into the back of his Jeep. “The newlywed bubble. I’ll get you back home before he can miss you.”
I climb into the passenger seat, peeling back my wetsuit to let my skin breathe. “How’s the arm feeling?”
Austin flexes his elbow carefully. “Better. Doc says I’m ahead of schedule, but I’m still looking at another four months of rehab before I can even think about throwing again.”
“Must be driving you crazy being sidelined.”
“You have no idea.” He starts the car, and the familiar rumble of the engine is comforting in its consistency. “Tampa’s off to a strong start this season, and I’m stuck doing resistance bands and watching from the couch.”
His frustration is palpable. Austin’s been the golden boy of baseball since he could hold a bat. He was a high schoolphenom, college all-star, and first-round draft pick. Being injured is foreign territory for him.
“At least you’re using the time wisely,” I say. “Taking those sports management classes, right?”
He nods. “Yeah, figured I should have a backup plan. Not everyone gets to play until they’re forty.”
“Smart.” I study his profile as he drives, noticing the subtle changes since he moved to Florida three years ago. He’s more confident, more mature, but still with that easy optimism that’s always been his defining quality. “You seeing anyone? Dad mentioned something about a model from South Beach.”
Austin laughs. “That was nothing. Just some PR setup the team arranged.”
“No one special, then?”
“Nah.” He flicks on his turn signal. “I’m not in a rush. When it happens, I want it to be real, you know? Not just convenient or expected.”
“My brother the romantic,” I tease.
