“I’m kidding!” I snort loud enough for Millie and Ezra to stop arguing. “You should see the look on your face right now.”
“You jerk,” he teases, leaning back in his seat. He takes a swig from his second old-fashioned. “How’s LA, then?”
“Actually…” Should I tell him I relocated?
I’m still pondering the implications when Millie pipes in. “She’s living in the city with me now.”
Guess we’re telling him, then.
“What city?” He turns his head and watches me as he brings his lowball glass to his lips again.
“Thecity,” Millie answers so very helpfully. “Manhattan.”
Cam rocks forward and nearly spits out his drink. “For how long?”
“It’ll be a year next week,” I say, lifting my chin and brushing a stray strand of hair from my face.
“You’ve been in the city this whole time?” His eyes are wide, and there goes that slack jaw again. “You’ve been in the city this whole time and never told me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. How was I supposed to contact you to let you know? Telepathically maybe? Or via carrier pigeon?” I deadpan. “It’s not like we traded digits or handles.”
He huffs. “You’re right.” With his focus still locked on me, he digs his phone from his back pocket. “What’s your number?”
“Nah, I’m good,” I say, shaking my empty glass in the air to signal to the passing server that I’d like a refill.
“What?” He puts a hand to my forearm and lowers it. “Why not? We’re practically neighbors now.”
I take a deep breath and collect my thoughts before speaking. “Look, I don’t know why the hell we’re back on this island at the same time, but you made it pretty clear what we had was a one-time thing.”
“Joey,” Millie interjects. “It might be good to have his number. You never know when you might need it. Like for an emergency.” She sounds reasonable, but the glee in her eyes tells a different story.
“Exactly.” Cam smiles at her with a similar level of excitement. “Thank you, Millie.”
Before I can come up with an excuse for why I won’t give him my number or social media info, she snags his phone, holds it up to his face to unlock the screen, and punches in my number.
“Traitor.” I stick my tongue out.
When she hands him back his phone, he says my full name for the first time. God, it sounds good coming from his lips.
“Josefine Beckham,” he murmurs. He gives me a long, thoughtful look, then sucks in a breath and changes the subject. “So, what’s with the matching tattoos? Was that like a drunken best friends’ Truth-or-Dare thing?”
My heart leaps at the mention of Truth or Dare and the memories that flood my mind.
“More like a pair of cousins honoring their dad and uncle sort of thing,” Millie responds.
It’s so subtle I almost miss it, but his fingertips tenderly caress the top of my shoulder. I squeeze my arms to ward off the goose bumps threatening to erupt across my skin.
“Ah. Cousins. Makes sense,” he says, rotating toward me. “How old were you when your dad died?”
“Ten.” I keep my answer short and rack my brain for ways to roll this conversation into something more chipper.
But he tips closer, his irises swimming with anguish and his lips downturned. “I understand big losses like that at such a young age.”
My expression must morph fromcan we just change the subjecttoI’m confused, tell me more, because he continues. “My sister died when I was ten.”
“I thought—” I drop an elbow to the table and shift so I’m looking at him head-on. Last year, he told me his sister had gifted him the camera he’d brought along.
“I was ten, Claire was six,” he explains, lowering his head. “Our sister Chloe was two weeks old when she suddenly died in her sleep.” He brings his drink to his lips but holds it there. “Mymom was never the same after that. I did everything I could to make her happy, but it was never enough to fill the void left behind when Chloe was gone.”
