"I was not narrating. I was... working through a scene. It's a writing technique."
"Talking to yourself on a beach?"
"It's a respected writing technique."
She delivers this with a conviction that suggests she's had to defend it before. Maybe to herself. The curl breaks free from behind her ear again, and she shoves it back with an impatient hand.
"So does she?" I press. Gently, because something in me needs to know the answer. "Go after him?"
Her face changes. The armor slips, just a fraction, and underneath is something that looks like honest confusion. She glances down at her phone—blank screen, blinking cursor.
"I don't know yet. She's stuck."
"Stuck how?"
"She's scared. That if she goes after him, she's admitting she needs something. And she's spent the whole book proving she doesn't need anyone."
The words land heavier than she probably intends. Or maybe exactly as heavy as she intends. Hard to tell with writers—they build sentences like other people build IEDs, layered and precise, designed to detonate at the right moment.
"Sometimes the bravest thing isn't proving you don't need anyone," I say. "Sometimes it's admitting you do."
She stares at me. Not the polite social stare from the veranda—this is the full attention of someone who just heard something they didn't expect. Her lips part, and for one second the mask is completely down, and the woman underneath is startling. Open and searching and a little bit broken and trying so hard not to show it.
"You should put that on a T-shirt," she says.
There she goes. Sarcasm like a door slamming shut. But she's smiling when she says it, a real one this time, and my ribs tighten like tumblers falling into place.
"Just an observation," I manage.
The ocean fills the silence between us. Not awkward silence—both of us in the same moment, aware of it.
"I should head back," she says, sliding off the rock.
"Need an escort? It's getting dark."
"I think I can survive fifty yards of beach."
"Copy that."
She starts walking, then turns. The wind catches her dress, and the curl is loose again, and the whole scene looks like the cover of one of those books she writes.
"Tucker?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for carrying my bags earlier. And sorry I thought you were the bellhop."
"Don't worry about it. I've been called worse."
She walks away, and I watch her go because it's my job to ensure she reaches the house safely. That's the reason. The only reason.
My phone buzzes.
Riggs: well??
Decker: dude. leave him alone.
Riggs: i just want to know if any of them are cute
