It guts me.
We stand there in silence.
Then I say, quietly, “We can do this, Ash.”
Her head lifts, eyes locking on mine. For a heartbeat, neither of us breathes.
Us. Working like a team.
And maybe more.
She remembers the kiss. I see it in her eyes.
And all I can think is how badly I want another chance to make her remember everything else.
A NIGHT OUT
ASHLEY
The chef—well, technically the teppan master—bangs his spatulas together like drumsticks and belts out, “Happy happy, tasty tasty!”
The rest of the staff joins in, a chorus of laughter and rhythmic clanging filling the air. Flames leap from the grill in front of us, reflecting off the stainless hood and making everyone’s faces glow.
We’re seated shoulder to shoulder around the hibachi table—eight total. Luna and Noah are at the far end, leaning into one another. Next to them, Tay’s pretending to ignore Rocky, who’s been flirting and teasing her since he sat down, and Simon is chatting easily with Noah’s ex-wife—because apparently this cruise isn’t complicated enough already.
Beckett sits beside me, close enough that I can smell his stupidly irresistible cologne. The one I used to buy for him. The one I stopped buying… until he apparently started buying it for himself.
His arm brushes mine every time I reach for my drink, a virgin… something. Pineapple, I think. The “pregnancy pretense” drink. Fantastic.
But then, when no one is looking, Beckett casually swaps his drink with mine. Like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t driven me absolutely insane for the last year.
I don’t react. Not outwardly.
The chef flips a boiled egg straight into his hat and the table erupts in applause. “For the bride and groom!” he announces, pointing at Luna and Noah. They beam.
Then his attention swings down the grill to us.
“Let me guess, a special anniversary?”
“Uh, just here for the wedding,” I say.
“Not a second honeymoon?” The chef scrapes his spatula on the grill and I feel Luna watching us.
“Maybe.” My cheeks burn.
I paste on a smile—small, controlled, hopefully convincing enough. Beckett plays along too… a little too well. His hand slides onto my thigh beneath the table.
My breath stutters.
I don’t pull away.
Instead—God help me—I shift just enough that our knees brush. Not intentionally. Not really.
The chef keeps up his chatter—jokes about love, loyalty, onions being aphrodisiacs. “You feed him, he stay loyal forever!” he says to me, plopping a bowl of rice in front of Beckett.
Everyone laughs. Even me.
Halfway through dinner, when the waiter brings out another round, Beckett swaps out our drinks again, smooth. Nobody notices.
