Page 49

WEST

Evening has fallen on Liberty and now that the cookout is over and everything is cleaned up, we’re all gathered in a loose circle around the fire pit, sunk into some collapsible camp chairs we hauled down the winding steps to the beach because we’re all still teenagers at heart.

The flames crackle, casting a soft orange glow that makes the driftwood shine and the beer bottles glint. Far across the bay, the last ferry hums toward the mainland, its lights blinking like a string of distant fireflies.

My eyes seek out Eden, like I have ever since she hurt her hand earlier. She’s sitting a little apart from the others, cross-legged in one of the sagging chairs, her hair pulled up in some kind of messy knot. Loose strands catch the firelight like threads of gold.

Even though her hand is bandaged, she’s braiding Ayda’s hair and laughing at something her niece said. Her head tips back, exposing the soft line of her throat, and I swallow hard.

For the last twenty years I’ve dated beautiful women. But Eden... she’s not even trying. There’s sand on her shins, the biggest Band-Aid on her hand, and a hole in the side of her cut offs. Yet she looks like she belongs here – in this light, on this island, in this moment.

And for reasons I can’t explain, that gets to me more than anything polished ever has.

I rub the heel of my hand over my face, because this has to be the beer talking. And the lack of sex. Yes, I’ve jerked off a fewtimes, but it’s not the same. In fact, it’s pretty miserable knowing I’m not alone in the house.

That she’s always there, in the room across the hall.

And it’s not that I want to fuck her. It’s that I like sex. I love it. I love the intimacy, the pleasure, both receiving and giving.

Especially giving.

Asher appears from the shadows, a six-pack dangling from his hand. He tosses a fresh can at Parker, hands one to me, then flops into a chair beside Hudson.

“Anyone seen my wife?” Asher asks, looking at her empty chair.

“Francie went with Skyler to walk the baby along the shore,” Hudson replies, accepting a beer. “You missed the crab show. There were a few of them skittering along the beach.”

“Crab show, huh?” Parker grins. “Remember when that meant something else? Something dirty?”

“Something fucking awful,” Asher says. “And don’t tell me you got crabs when you were younger.”

“Of course I didn’t.” Parker grimaces at the thought. “My girlfriends were high class.”

“Yeah,” Hudson drawls, taking a swig from his bottle. “High class girls who liked back seats and bad decisions.”

Parker smirks. “Says the man who had sex in a church confessional.”

“Is this what fatherhood does to you?” I mutter, lifting my beer. “You lose all sense of decency and turn into dirty nostalgia machines?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Asher replies.

“All I’m saying is that if you were having more sex, you’d need to talk about it less.”

“You’re wrong,” Parker says, grinning. “Marriage is amazing, man. You get to wake up with the person you love every singlemorning.” He glances over at Asher. “Or if you’re him, you get to watch her through security cameras.”

Asher shoots him a dark look. “Get out of here.”

The fire cracks. I take a slow pull of beer. The conversation moves onto baseball, which means Parker is leaning forward like he’s head of the debate team.

“Um, hello?”

A low voice floats our way from the edge of the beach. I glance up and spot a tall, gangly kid hovering at the edge of the firelight. He’s clutching a messenger bag against his chest like a shield.

“Sorry,” he says, louder this time. “I’m looking for… uh,” he checks his phone screen. “Mr. and Mrs. Abbott?”

The chatter stops immediately.

Luckily, I react right away. The version of me who handles mergers and multimillion-dollar crises stands up, smooth as hell.