“Don’t.” The way he says it makes my chest ache—not angry, not sharp, just… hurt.
“But I?—”
His arms slide around me from behind, careful, almost tentative.
“Lean on me, Ash.” His voice is a low rumble near my ear. “Please?”
I’m torn between just letting him hold me, and pushing him away.
“Oh! I’m taking a picture of this! It’s just like that scene in the Titanic!”
I jerk around at the sound of Luna’s voice. She’s holding her camera, with Tay and Courtney flanking her like backup singers.
“Put your arms out!” Courtney calls from behind us.
A ripple of laughter follows, phones lifting, the moment instantly turning into a spectacle.
Beckett huffs a quiet laugh beside me. “You know how this goes,” he murmurs.
Before I can answer, he winds his arms more tightly around my waist.
“King of the world,” he adds under his breath, not even trying to sound serious.
I force a smile and lift my arms, letting the wind whip up my hair.
This must look incredibly romantic, but inside, something cold slides through me.
Because ultimately, Rose and Jack didn’t get a happy ending.
No, they hit an iceberg…
I drop my arms, curling my fingers around the wobbly railing so hard my knuckles ache. Because the Titanic is not a romance. And love, well, it wasn’t enough to keep Jack from drowning.
TEQUILA SHOTS
ASHLEY
True, everyone started out pretty charmed by Captain Julio and his beloved submarine and arch experience—for the first couple of hours, anyway. But once we tried to turn around and the engine coughed, sputtered, and then fully gave up on life, the whole vibe shifted.
The swells picked up.
The sun got hotter.
The questionable tacos we’d eaten earlier launched a coordinated attack.
And the drinks handed out like Halloween candy?
Yeah. Not helpful.
“No worries! Brief intermission!” Captain Julio shouts before promptly vanishing into the tiny pilot’s hut for what feels like an eternity.
By the time the engine finally roars back to life and the boat begins crawling back to the docks, my poor sister—the bride who should’ve been basking in the glow of a luxurious Cabo excursion—has wilted in one of the few scraps of shade to be found, clutching a barf bag. Her third, if I wasn’t mistaken.
Noah, bless that man, stays glued to her side, gently fending off well-meaning questions and pressing a bag of ice from the “bar” to the back of her neck.
As for me, having seen enough arches, rock formations, and turquoise ocean to last a lifetime, I drop onto a cracked plastic bench near the pilot’s hut—one of the only other spots I can find with intermittent shade.
Intermittent being the key word, because every time the boat shifts, so does the sun.
