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I freeze as I feel a flush creep up my neck. “I’m not sure about this one,” I say. “The color is wrong. It makes me look like I’ve been living in a cave.”

Sebastian steps closer and opens the door, giving me a once-over.

“You’re wrong about that,” he says.

“No, you were right. This was a silly idea. We need to get back to work.” I move to shut the door so I can take the suit off and get dressed. This was such an enormous mistake.

But Sebastian’s hand catches mine, keeping me from closing the door.

“No, this was an excellent idea.” He takes a step into the fitting room; his gaze still trained directly on me.

“I look pale and exhausted, Sebastian.”

“You’re looking at the wrong things, Isabella.” His voice is low, and there’s a light in his eyes that sends a shiver of desire through me. “You’re looking at the shadows. Do you know what I see when I look at you in this bathing suit?”

“What?” I whisper.

“I see the way your skin catches the light,” he says, coming to stand behind me in the mirror. “I see the curve of your waist and think about how perfectly my hands fit there. I see long, beautiful legs,” he drops his voice further, his lips hovering near my ear, “that wrap perfectly around me. I see a woman who doesn't realize that the flaws she’s obsessing over are the very things that drive this man to distraction.”

I have no words with which to respond.

“Others,” he continues, “would see the way you’re taking yourself apart and wonder exactly why.”

The air between us is electric. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. The insecurity I felt a moment ago is scorched away by the heat in Sebastian’s gaze.

“Buy the suit, Isabella. It’s perfect.”

He turns and walks back toward the front of the shop before I can find my voice. I stand there for a moment longer, staring at my reflection. I don’t look tired anymore. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes are bright, and the green suit looks fabulous.

When I come out of the dressing room, fully dressed and clutching the suit, Sebastian is already at the counter and handing his card to the clerk.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, though I don’t protest too hard.

“Think of it as an investment,” he says. “I don’t want to have to rip apart that flooring in the library. Do you know how much trouble my mom went through to source it?”

I laugh, happy to hear him referencing my joke from before. But as we step back out into the humidity and the crush of people, the heat from the dressing room lingers, simmering just below the surface, making every brush of our shoulders as we navigate the crowd feel like a lightning strike.

Suddenly, Sebastian stops in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the disgruntled teenager who has to dodge around him, and I nearly run into him. He looks at me, and though I can’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, I can tell he’s no longer in work mode.

“You’re right. The spreadsheets can wait until tonight.”

I blink, surprised. “They can?”

“Yes.” He checks his watch, then looks back at me. “I’m starving. There’s a place three blocks up I think you’ll like. Do you want to get lunch? Or are you too eager to get to the pool?”

“Lunch sounds good,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. “I think the pool can wait an hour.”

“Good,” he says, reaching out to lightly catch my elbow to lead me through the crowd. “Because I have a feeling I’m going to need the energy.”

22

ISABELLA

Sebastian leads me away from the sea of tourists. He doesn’t take me to a fancy place with white tablecloths and a stuffy atmosphere. Instead, he maneuvers the car down a narrow, sun-bleached road toward the water, eventually pulling into a gravel lot packed with dusty Jeeps and bikes.

It's a fried clam stand, a weathered gray shack with a large service window and a cluster of wooden picnic tables topped with faded blue umbrellas. It looks out on a local marina filled with sailboats, wave runners, and ski boats, instead of yachts and other expensive watercraft. A little farther down, I can see the dunes and the Atlantic Ocean crashing just beyond the tall grass.

The breeze smells of salt, seawater, and frying oil. It makes the halyards hit the masts with a bright ring that mixes with the call of seabirds, the low hum of conversation of the diners, and the distant sound of waves.