His tone is so casual it almost flattens the moment—no surprise, no delight.
But I refuse to let him“yuck my yum”, as Luna would say. For the first time in weeks, I actually giggle. “This is… incredible.”
And then the scent hits me.
Not the usual clean, anonymous hotel-room smell, but something delicate. Sweet. Familiar.
I turn, and my breath catches.
On the dresser sits a glass vase brimming with blue jasmine—bright, star-shaped blossoms tangled together in an artful cluster. The scent is fresh and a little dizzying, honey and citrus mixed with something wild.
Blue jasmine. My favorite.
We’d had them at our wedding—woven into my bouquet, tucked into the centerpieces, trailing down the staircase of the reception hall.
I loved them as much for their scent and color as I did for their meaning.Honesty and trust.
It feels like a trick of the universe. A particularly cruel one.
Beside them, a chilled bottle of champagne waits in a silver ice bucket, two flutes gleaming, and a neat tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries sits beneath aParadise Cruisescard embossed in gold.
I laugh softly, the sound coming out a little uneven. “Crazy.”
He says nothing. Does he remember? Of course he remembers, he’s sent me blue jasmine every year for my birthday.
Until this year.
“Must’ve been part of the upgrade,” I add quickly, before he thinks I’m affected by it. Because I’m not.
I’m definitely not.
“Yeah,” Beckett says.
I shake it off, moving toward the balcony before I do something stupid.
Like burst into tears.
When I open the door, the breeze catches my hair, straightened and styled earlier that morning. The silky strands whip across my mouth and I reach to tuck them behind my ear.
The ship’s horn lets out a deep, resonant note.
We’re moving now, busy docks and parked boats and ships sliding slowly past us as we begin our journey out of the bay.
Beckett joins me, leaning his forearms on the rail beside mine. “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.” His voice is soft enough that it nearly disappears in the wind.
I don’t want to think about what he’s saying. Enjoying any part of this, time spent withhim.I can’t.
“I hope that sofa pulls out into a bed,” I say.
“If that’s what you want.”
It isn’t even close to what I want.
Wanted. Past tense.
But I refuse to dwell on that right now.
Feeling his eyes on me, I watch the shipping containers slowly drift away, and then the bridge, along with the tiny vehicles crossing it.
