Wait. What?
“Expecting?” My eyes snap to her. “Are you?—?”
Luna blinks. Then snorts, laughter bubbling out of her. “No! Oh my God, no. Not me. I was just… curious.” Her gaze flicks, quick and unmistakable, to Tay.
Tay suddenly becomes very invested in her cuticles.
Ah.
The attendant smiles smoothly. “If there’s any chance someone might be pregnant, we don’t recommend the sauna. High heat can raise core body temperature. But we’re happy to skip it or substitute another service.”
Luna looks to Tay again.
There’s nothing wrong with a woman having a baby on her own. Nothing at all. And if that’s what this is, it’s Tay’s business. Not mine to probe or accidentally expose.
“Let’s skip it,” I say easily. “I’m not really in a sauna mood anyway.”
“No problem, no problem at all. In that case, we’ll move things right along…”
An awkward relief falls on our group, and the three of us trail behind her as if nothing just happened.
Manicures and pedicures come next—luxurious, yes, but also practical. One more thing checked off. I go pink-tipped. Luna chooses red. Tay picks purple.
Then facials. Something called Oceanic Renewal, which sounds peaceful but feels suspiciously like being smothered by chilled seaweed. Apparently, it’s worth $140.
I lie there with my eyes closed, letting the soft music and low murmurs blur together. My thoughts drift to Tay—what this might mean for her, how quietly and completely it could reshape her life. It’s not my business to wonder whether she wanted a baby or not, but contemplating someone else's future is easier—safer—than contemplating mine.
By the time we’re led into the Eucalyptus Room—dim lighting, cucumber water, warm towels rolled into neat spirals—that heavy feeling I woke up with finally eases.
For the first time today, my shoulders loosen. Just a little.
I focus on the water. On breathing. On not thinking about Beckett, who is probably still in our cabin, sleeping off whatever last night turned into.
It’s not my job to worry about him anymore.
That doesn’t mean I’m not annoyed.
So when I get back to the suite—scrubbed, polished, and moisturized within an inch of my life—I don’t bother tiptoeing. The door shuts with a decisive click. My toiletry bag lands on thecounter with a satisfying thwack. I might even hum, loudly, just to make a point.
The groan that follows is pathetic.
Beckett looks like hell—bloodshot eyes, hair sticking up at odd angles, jaw shadowed.
He blinks at me. Squints.
“What time is it?” he asks, then immediately winces at the sound of his own voice.
“Noon,” I say, hanging my robe. “I texted Mom earlier to push the go-karts with the boys to after lunch.” I glance at my phone. “Which means you have exactly one hour to make yourself human.”
“Shit. Yeah. Thanks.” He drags his palms down his face.
“Want me to order you coffee?”
He goes even paler. “Maybe later.”
He shuffles toward the bathroom, shoulders slumped, clearly miserable.
I watch him go—far more irritated than I should be that even half-dead, hungover, and squinting at the light, he’s still stupidly, infuriatingly gorgeous.
