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Don narrows his eyes from below. “We’re going to get the worst seats on the boat.”

Paul clears his throat. “Hold our place.”

“I’m not missing the buffet for whatever this is,” Don shouts. “Just so you’re aware.”

Paul winces. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

The line keeps moving behind him. Don looks over his shoulder, clearly torn between loyalty and appetizers.

“I’m boarding,” he calls. “If you get arrested, text me before they take your phones.”

Paul watches him go.

For a second, his smile fades at the edges. Not gone. Just aware again.

The dolphin squeaks behind us. Paul turns back, his eyes still bright.

I hold up a finger. “One more throw?”

He looks down at the ball.

“We’ve got time,” he says.

Probably not true, but I like the idea.

Chapter twenty-six

Pizza, Cake, or Swim

Paul

Icome through the front door carrying the birthday cake I stole from Don’s fridge. This is not who I thought I would become at forty-two—forty-three in a day—but life is full of surprises.

The cake was supposed to be a surprise for me after the show, so I’m not sure if it’s technically stealing. I left Don half, because I’m not pure evil.

The house is dark except for the patio light and the soft blue glow from the pool. I close the door quietly behind me, absurdly careful, as if I’m sneaking into my own home after curfew. My heart is still moving too fast from the dock, the dolphins, Clint’s laughter, the decision not to try and salvage the night.

We missed the boat to the show, and somehow, I feel lighter.

I set the cake on the kitchen counter and glance through the sliding glass doors.

Relief hits immediately. Clint is at the patio table, one bare foot hooked around the chair leg, pizza box open in front of him, phone in one hand. He didn’t disappear into his room.

He has changed into swim trunks, though. No shirt, of course.

He laughs at something on the phone. My phone. That should give me pause. One wrong swipe and everything ends. But his laughter moves through the glass, and I don’t feel my need to be careful.

He looks up and sees me. His grin stays.

“Did you get it?” he calls through the glass.

I lift the cake.

His grin widens. “Nice.”

Clint has the phone angled toward him when I step onto the patio.

“These videos,” he says, laughing before I’ve even sat down. “The show is cool, but the commentary is the best.”