The boys are with Mom. The breeze is soft.
And then… something shifts.
A subtle ripple in the air.
When I open my eyes, I see Beckett approaching one of the poolside bars—tall, maddeningly self-assured, wearing a baseball cap over his jet-black hair. Backwards.
I’ll never not notice that man.
I shift in my chair, hoping to shake it off.
A moment later, Noah joins Beckett at the bar.
They talk. Order.
Drinks are poured, passed across the counter.
Then both men turn and, each balancing two margaritas, they start back across the deck—casual, unhurried, like this really is just another vacation.
If Beckett brought a carry-on, I have absolutely no idea where it is now.
But that’s not my problem.
“No salt.” Beckett hands me a massive bowl of hazy green liquid.
He ghosted me on my last birthday, but now he remembers how I like my margarita.
I take the drink, thanking him, then make myself busy stuffing my phone in the waterproof case around my neck.
Beckett is kicking his sandals off and honestly, it kind of bothers me that without my help, he remembered to wear his swim trunks onto the ship. Over those, he’s wearing a colorful button-up shirt, one I’d bought for another vacation, with those aviators hooked at the collar.
Instead of unbuttoning the shirt like any normal person, he reaches for the hem.
And then, against my better judgment, my gaze follows the fabric as it slides up, revealing olive skin that I know will turn a perfect bronze in about fifteen minutes.
What I’m not familiar with, however, are… the definition in his abs. A year ago, those abs were a little soft.
I swallow hard.
He catches me looking. Of course he does.
“Did you remember to bring sunscreen?” I ask, aiming for casual, but instead sounding a little passive aggressive.
He rubs a hand along his jaw. “Ran out of time.”
“Bex is helpless without you,” Luna declares from my other side. She and Noah have moved their chairs together, his hand tracing lazy circles on her thigh.
I grab my drink, lift it to my mouth, and crunch on a piece of ice.
“He manages.” For a few seconds, we sit there in the sunlight, side by side—me stiff, Beckett… Annoyingly quiet.
I’m mid-sip when a bright voice cuts through the hum of chatter around us.
“Excuse me! You’re with the Faraday-Grady wedding party, right? We definitely need a few shots of the bride- and groom-to-be.” She winks, camera already in hand.
Of course. The ship's photographer. I’ve heard about this. It’s a thing.
“We are!” Luna sits up, tugging Noah toward her.
