Page 62

“Blame the sea air.” He starts gathering up the remnants of lunch before tossing them into a nearby trash can. “I have a plan.”

I grab the box with my perfectly wrapped new suit and cover-up and slip into the bathroom around the corner of the clam shack. The only light is from the vent outside, and the mirror is old and hazy, but I can still catch my reflection. I feel different, and I like what I see. I pull the tie out of my hair and let it fall over my shoulders, the salty sea air and humidity giving it soft waves.

I step out, feeling the sun hit my shoulders. Sebastian is leaning against his car. He’s switched out his cargo shorts for a pair of navy-blue swim trunks, and he's holding a canvas beach bag, one that’s definitely seen better days. It's faded, with a frayed strap and a logo that's too worn to read. I spot two striped beach towels peeking out.

“A beach bag?” I ask, eyebrows raised. “I didn't think you owned anything that wasn't made of Italian leather.”

There's a ghost of a smile on his face as he jerks his head in the direction of the beach. “This is always in my trunk. Once I was able to drive, I always had a beach bag ready, so I could go whenever the moment struck. Summers home from Stanford, I'd come out here with a few guys from the rowing team. We'd surf, drink beer, and screw around. I rarely use it anymore, but it came in handy today.”

We walk to the beach, the warm sand slipping over my toes as we take the path through the dunes. The beach is crowded; there’s a patchwork of umbrellas and colorful blankets as far as the eye can see. Fourth of July energy is in full swing: portable speakers play classic rock, dogs chase frisbees, children screech in delight as they run in and out of the water, and there’s the rhythmic sound of the waves rolling onto the shore and back again.

We find a spot near the water's edge. Sebastian spreads the towels with practiced efficiency, and I sit down, feeling the heat of the sand through the fabric. Sebastian sits beside me. For the first time since we started working together, the silence isn't filled with the ghost of impending doom. It's just comfortable.

“You're remarkably good at this whole relaxing thing,” I say, leaning back on my elbows, the cover-up falling off one shoulder. “I thought you might start twitching if you were away from a Wi-Fi signal for more than twenty minutes.”

Sebastian looks out at the water; the sun and sand reflected in his dark sunglasses.

“The ocean has always calmed me down. For once, my brain isn't constantly running, trying to solve the next problem or come up with new ways to do things. It's always been that way. I look at the water, and I remember that the ocean doesn't care about business. It's been doing what it does for billions of years, and it will still be doing it long after the company is nothing more than a footnote in a history book.”

He looks at me, admiration in his eyes. “And I have something right here that is much more interesting than a computer screen.”

That familiar, dangerous electricity sparks back to life. I'm grateful there are so many people around to act as a buffer for the feelings growing between us. I’m just about to reply when a voice cuts through the air.

“God, some people really have no shame, do they?”

The voice is high and nasal, and dripping with that specific brand of Hamptons condescension. I look over. A few feet away, a woman in an oversized straw hat and a sheer white cover-up is lounging on a designer blanket. She's staring directly at me with a sneer on her face, her eyes tracking up and down my body. She's ostensibly talking to her friend, but she's projecting loud enough for everyone around her to hear.

“They should have a dress code for this part of the beach,” the woman continues. “Some people look so desperate, especially when they don't have the skin tone for it and don't know how to blend in.”

The friend giggles, a cruel, unpleasant sound.

I flush hot with humiliation, which is followed by a frigid, cold flash of anger. I get ready to push myself up, the New York girl in me ready to come out and give these women a taste of exactly what it means to have grown up in a tough Harlem neighborhood.

But I don't get the chance.

Sebastian gets up, unfolding himself with a predatory grace that makes the two women go instantly silent. He stands, his height and the sheer physical presence of his anger casting a shadow over their expensive setup.

When he speaks, his voice is a low, dangerous whisper that carries far more weight than raising his voice would.

“Is there a problem here?”

The woman in the hat removes her sunglasses and blinks flirtatiously, her bravado flickering. “Why, we were just talking⁠—”

“I heard what you said, and I know exactly what you were implying,” Sebastian interrupts sharply, stepping closer. “And I find it fascinating that someone who spends so much money trying to look refined could be so fundamentally classless.”

The woman's face turns an angry red. “Excuse me, do you know who⁠—”

“I don't care who you are,” Sebastian snaps, his voice sounding like ice cracking. “I care that you're cluttering this beach with your mediocrity. The woman you're referring to is the most stunning thing on this coastline, and the fact that you feel the need to disparage her only proves how threatened you are of someone who doesn't need Botox or the latest couture hat to have a personality.”

The women stare at Sebastian, open-mouthed.

“If I hear another offensive word out of either of you, I will make it my personal mission to find out which club your husbands belong to and ensure your social calendar becomes very, very empty. Am I clear?”

The two women look like they've been struck by lightning. They don't say a word but turn away from him, as though they want to pretend he doesn't exist, like a kid pulling the covers over their head during a thunderstorm.

Sebastian watches them for a second longer, his shoulders tight with a lingering, protective fury. When he turns back to me, the transformation is instantaneous. The ice melts, and his expression is softer, gentler. He sinks back onto the towel next to me.

“Isabella—"