But all good things must come to an end. And even though I know I should start packing up my things to get back to the ship, I don’t move.
He glances toward the water, where the sun is starting its slow descent, casting everything in a warm, gold-tinted haze. “You know,” he says, “the restaurant at the resort is Michelin rated.”
I blink up at him. “Does Luna know that?”
“If she did, I doubt she’d have gone on a taco tour,” he says.
But then he adds: “Figured we could try it. Celebrate your death-defying flight?”
I look down at my not-so-bright swimsuit, and my skin, sticky from sunscreen and sand and salt. “I’m not exactly dressed for fine dining.”
“We’re on vacation,” he counters.
“Wouldn’t they have a dress code, though?” I step away from him, and then gesture at his swim shorts.
Just then, a resort staffer carrying a tray of drinks stops. “You’re with the cruise ship, no? Your excursion comes with a room for the day—shower, towels, everything.”
Beckett looks at me. He’s giving me the option.
And for like the hundredth time today, butterflies swirl around in my chest.
“Sure,” I hear myself say.
We gather our things—my beach bag filled with all the unfinished business I’d intended to tackle today, and Beckett, stuffing the boys’ toys and plastic molds into his backpack.
He shoves his sunglasses on to the top of his head and gives the castle one last glance. “Want to leave it?”
“And let just anyone maraud and plunder?” I say, lifting my chin. “Not on your life.”
Beckett grins. “That’s my girl.”
And then we’re both at it—kicking, stomping, and smoothing… It feels ridiculous and right and a little cathartic, undoing what we made together before anyone else can.
Beckett snaps one last picture of the wreckage—a barely-there scar cutting into the windswept beach—and then we sling our bags over our shoulders.
We don’t look back.
Instead, we walk side by side toward the reception desk while Beckett checks us in.
The lobby is cool and quiet, a soft hush after the wind and sun outside. A flat-screen TV mounted in the corner plays a muted business news segment.
I’m not paying much attention… until something on the ticker at the bottom catches my eye.
Midtown Investments…
More resignations expected?
Heightened scrutiny…
I squint, trying to catch the full sentence. My brain latches onto it before I can stop it.
“Here we are.” Beckett slips an envelope into my hand—our key cards. “You go up first. I’ve got a couple things to take care of.”
He pockets his own card and shifts slightly, stepping between me and the TV.
I glance up at him.
There’s nothing overt. Just… a flicker. A twitch of something he hides quickly.
