Iwatch my boys disappear toward the beach with Beckett, Babs, my mom, and the rest of Luna’s bus friends, each of them carting towels, sunscreen, and a level of enthusiasm I absolutely do not have today.
We may be at a ritzy resort in Mazatlán, but I have work to do.
I claim a shady table near the pool’s edge and wipe it down with a disposable wipe.
With that taken care of, I line up my day planner, notepad, pencil, pen, highlighter, and my phone. Everything in its place. I didn’t risk bringing my laptop, but I don’t need it—not for this. Vendor confirmations, seating chart revisions, contingency plans in case of a floral catastrophe. I even downloaded a romance novel to my Kindle app—as a reward for being efficient.
Disciplined. Focused. Responsible. That’s who I am.
Usually.
Because once I sit down? I do none of it.
I tap my pen against the edge of the planner for five whole minutes, read over my list twice, and scribble one half-hearted to-do on a sticky note—which immediately lifts off in the breeze and lands face-up in the pool.
I stare at it, watching it drift across the turquoise water.
It’s not the resort that’s distracting me. Not the soft island music, not the sound of splashing water or distant laughter, or the waiter offering guests another round of margaritas.
It’s Beckett.
Beckett, who’s out there on the beach with our boys, acting like everything is perfectly normal.
Maybe he’s just better at this, at pretending, than I am.
He hasn’t tried to talk to me since last night—but I know he’s wanted to. I’ve felt it. In the quiet looks, in the way he hovered near me while we stood around waiting for our shuttle.
But I didn’t give him an opening. I wouldn’t let him pull me aside.
Because if he tries to talk, I might listen. And if he tells me the same thing again, I might just break.
So…
No.
Just no.
I am fine. I have work to do.
Even if my chest is tight and my head is spinning and my throat is doing that weird thing like I’m about to cry, even though nothing’s happened.
I snap the planner shut and force myself to take a deep breath.
Get it together.
I absolutely should not dwell on last night, before the call, when Beckett had been so sweet, so giving…so…
God,so sexy—but then answered his phone and walked away.
I slip off my coverup, toss it over the back of my chair, and wade into the pool to try and find my wayward post-it note. I can’t find it. And when my sunglasses slide down my nose asI half walk, half float through the water, I find myself moving towards the festive little hut at the other end.
A few seconds later, I’m perched at the swim-up bar, enjoying a pretty spectacular view of the beach.
“Buenas tardes, señorita!”The bartender greets me like I’m the best thing to happen to him all day. His name tag says “Alphonso” and his teeth flash white against his tanned skin. “You let Alphonso put a smile on your pretty face today, yes?”
I don’t actually roll my eyes, but I’m close. “Just a drink.” I eye the sodas, the vodka… “I’ll have a?—”
“I know what you need… the Alphonso Special.”
