I wave them on, watching as the twins take off skipping ahead of my mom and the rest of the ladies.
“Your mom’s been great,” Beckett says into the sudden quiet.
It isn’t quiet, exactly—there’s still the distant roar of boats and jet skis, a few gulls overhead, the occasional burst of laughter from the resort pool—but somehow, the silence is oddly loud.
Here we are, alone again.
And since Luna and Noah took a handful of the other guests off to some tequila tasting and a taco tour in the city, it’s unlikely we’ll be interrupted.
“Yeah,” I respond, a little belatedly, half-hearted.
Stretched out on a chaise in the shade of our cabana, I stare at my toes, pretending to appreciate my pedicure. Beckett is a few feet away, still crouched in the sand where the boys had been digging earlier.
“You should finish building it for them, then take a picture. They’d love that.”
“They would.” He slides me a sideways glance. “Come down here and help me.”
The boys’ half-finished sculpture isn’t just a castle—it’s a multi-level fortress with a moat, towers, and what looks like a drawbridge fashioned from driftwood and seashells.
“We need more water,” Beckett says, lifting the bucket. “Without it, the sand is too dry, and as Max informed me, it will lack structural integrity.” He gives me a look that’s way too proud for someone quoting a seven-year-old.
“Oh really?” I shouldn’t be entertaining this. I should pull out my list. Make a few phone calls…
Beckett doesn’t look up, just scoops another handful of sand like he does this every day. “Unless you want to risk catastrophic tower failure.” His voice is casual, but I see the slight curve at the corner of his mouth.
“We can’t have that,” I murmur.
I should reach for my cover-up if I’m going to be coming out from under the cabana, but I don’t.
I rise—slowly—feeling the sun on my bare skin, the stretch of yet another new swimsuit I wasn’t sure I had the nerve to wear. This one is hot pink, with flirty little ruffles and lace, and… I know he’s watching. I feel his eyes like a warm current trailing over every inch of me.
So I stretch—long and lazy—arms overhead, back arched just enough to tease. I pretend not to notice the way Beckett’s hands still, how his gaze lingers as I take the neon-blue bucket and sashay toward the waves.
I time it wrong, of course, and the first wave soaks my thighs, cool water splashing up my front. I laugh, breathless, digging the bucket into the retreating tide and filling it.
It sloshes as I carry it back, water spilling down my legs.
And oh, Lord, I feel… sexy.
Like, truly sexy.
Not put-together-for-the-PTA or trying-too-hard-for-date-night sexy.
But bad-decision, maybe-I-still-got-it sexy.
It feels good.
Beckett doesn’t stop watching me, and I feel a quiet heat, not on my skin, but inside.
All over.
I drop to my knees beside him and pretend to analyze my boys’ work of art. “Where do you want me?” My voice comes out a little breathless.
His jaw flexes. His eyes cut to mine.
“Wherever you want to be.”
I feel his eyes skim my shoulder, my wrist, my mouth—but pretend not to notice as I kneel in the sand and get comfortable.
