Something I hadn’t seen before.
Relief? Pleading?
But just when I think he’s going to open up, he goes silent again.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “You’ve been working nonstop. Days, evenings, weekends. You missed the twins’ birthday forthem, for God’s sake.” Our anniversary. Holidays. And all those special moments you can’t put a name to.“You barely come up for air. They can’t just?—”
“Ash.” His tone is quiet.
“No.Don’t you ‘Ash’ me. You can’t tell me you’d never stop fighting for us one minute, but that you’re losing your job, and then go silent again. I need more, Beckett. How long have you known?”
“A while now.”
“How long is a while?”
“It’s—I can’t… I can’t say.”
“Are you serious?”
My pulse stumbles. Everything that is logical is screaming in my head to walk away, go back to the ship alone.Get out before he hurts you again. This is just more of the same.
Isn’t it?
Trouble is, my heart, God, my heart…
It’s telling me to hold on.
And honestly, it’s pissing me off.
I’ve already made really, really hard decisions. Like picking up the phone and calling a divorce lawyer. And then, following their advice and telling my husband of eleven years he has to move out. And those decisions, they weren’t easy to make.
He’s shirtless, a little sandy, his skin glowing bronze from the sun, and his inky hair’s a mess—pushed back in that careless, familiar way that always used to undo me.
And maybe it still does.
But that’s not what makes my stomach twist.
He’s sitting cross-legged in the sand, his back slightly hunched like he’s holding something heavy. His arms rest on his knees, but his hands aren’t relaxed—they’re flexing, thumb rubbing against his palm like he’s working through a dozen thoughts he can’t say out loud.
And those damn crystal blue eyes of his.
He’s looking straight at me, like he’s trying to make sure I see him. Not just the Beckett I’ve been fighting with, not the man who missed bedtimes and forgot anniversaries—but the one I married. The one I believed in.
Damn it.
“I’ll tell you more when I can. I swear.” His voice strains. “But for now, you can’t say anything about me leaving Midtown. Not to anyone.”
“There isn’t much to say. Just that you’re getting… fired?”
“I mean it, Ash. Please.”
I narrow my gaze, searching his. “Because it’ll put a damper on the wedding?” I ask, even though the second the words are out, I know it’s more than that.
His grimace confirms it. “Well, yeah. That too.” He swallows hard, eyes flicking to mine again. “But mostly… please.”
That word again—please. It’s quiet. Desperate.
Like he’s afraid that if he says any more, it’ll all come tumbling out.
