“I did.”
“What was it?”
“I'm working on it.”
She almost laughs. Her mouth twitches, her eyes crinkle, and she presses her lips together to hold it in. She's trying not to laugh at me, and she should. I'm standing on a beach with wet hair and sand in my ear, trying to remember how to be a person who speaks on purpose.
“You have sand in your ear,” she says.
“Your son and his associates were thorough.”
“Hisassociates.” Now she does laugh—short andbright. “You make them sound like a crime syndicate.”
“They operate like one. The tall twin is the strategist. The short one handles logistics. Your son provides the creative vision. I didn't stand a chance.”
“You could have said no.”
“I did say no. They heardplease continue asking in slightly different ways until my resistance crumbles,which took approximately ninety seconds.”
She's smiling, full and wide, and my chest goes tight. My pulse is loud in my ears, which is ridiculous because I'm in good shape and this is not exertion.
This is Emma Mills smiling at me, and I don't know what to do with that.
I have not had a feeling in ten years. Opinions and frustrations, sure. Strong preferences about dock cleats. But not whatever this is.
“You have—” I say, and then I do the stupid thing.
I reach out and brush the sand off her collarbone.
It's practical. She has sand on her. I'm removing it. It's a service. I fix things. I remove debris. I maintain surfaces.
This is not maintenance.
My fingers touchher skin and every lie I've been telling myself catches fire in about half a second. Her skin is warm. Sun-warm. The sand brushes away under my thumb and I should pull my hand back, but my hand is resting on her shoulder like it belongs there.
My hand thinks it belongs there, which is wrong, but it's also not moving.
Emma goes still. Not frozen—still the way the water goes right before sunrise, when everything is holding its breath.
"Paul." Quieter now, the voice you use when regular volume feels too loud for the space between two people.
“Yeah.”
“That's my shoulder.”
“I know.”
“Your hand is on it.”
“I know that too.”
“Are you planning to move it?”
“No. Not yet.”
Her eyes widen. Just a fraction. But I see it because I've been watching this woman for months—the way I used to watch Holly, the way I watch things that matter, things I can't look away from even when looking is dangerous.
“Okay,” she whispers.
