“Wife?”
“No.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
A pair of girls from the dinner table drifted over before I could answer. Sorority types. Young enough to think a man staring at the ocean alone meant he needed saving by giggles and lip gloss. Old enough that there would have been a time I wouldn’t have cared what their names were as long as they were legal, willing, and gone by morning.
One of them wore a pink bikini top under a white crochet thing that pretended to be a shirt. The other had glitter on her cheekbones and a margarita in one hand.
“There you are,” glitter girl said. “Nate said you were boring, but I thought he was just jealous.”
“I am boring.”
Pink bikini smiled. “I don’t believe that.”
“You should.”
The blonde on my other side laughed. “Honey, don’t waste your time. I saw him first.”
Great.
Perfect.
I had become contested property at a beach bar.
Once upon a time, this would have been my kind of night.
Women circling. Liquor flowing. Music low and dirty. No promises required. No hearts involved. No morning-after guilt because everyone knew the deal going in. Bodies were easy. Bodies didn’t ask about your childhood. Bodies didn’t care whether your hands were clean as long as they felt good in the dark.
There had been a time when I would have leaned back, smiled slow, and let the night pick which trouble came home with me.
But tonight, their attention felt like fingers closing around my throat.
The blonde touched my arm.
I moved it away.
Pink bikini pouted. “No fun.”
“Been told.”
Glitter girl leaned in closer, her voice dropping. “Are you really going to sit here alone all night?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Sad plan.”
“Still the plan.”
The blonde made a soft, annoyed sound, then grabbed my chin before I saw it coming and kissed the side of my neck.
Fast.
Wet.
Deliberate.
Her tongue touched my skin, and her body pressed close enough that coconut and vanilla filled my lungs.
