The St. Regis Bora Bora Resort, French Polynesia.
The water here is not blue.
To call it "blue" is a statistical error. It is cyan. It is turquoise. It is a gradient of saturation that defies the standard RGB colour model. If I were at the hospital, I would attempt to categorize it. I would try to find a file folder that matches this specific shade of impossible clarity.
But I am not at the hospital. I am five thousand miles away from the Board, the Foundation, and the concept of "urgent care."
I am sitting on the deck of an overwater bungalow. The air is exactly 82 degrees Fahrenheit. The humidity is 65%.
It is optimal.
"Stop calculating the wind speed, Max."
I look up. Jax is climbing up the ladder from the ocean, water streaming off his skin. He is wearing swim trunks that are distractingly short—a purchase influenced, no doubt, by Preston. He is tanned, smiling, and holding a starfish like it’sa trophy.
"I wasn't calculating wind speed," I lie, putting down my book (The physics of fluid dynamics). "I was calculating the probability of Luke drowning Preston."
We look out toward the lagoon.
Fifty yards away, on a pair of jet skis, my brother and his husband are engaging in what appears to be naval warfare.
Luke is screaming, driving his jet ski in tight, chaotic circles, spraying water everywhere. Preston, usually the picture of dignified restraint, is chasing him, laughing so hard he nearly falls off his vehicle.
"They are having a good time," Jax says, dropping the starfish back into the water gently. He walks over to me, dripping saltwater onto the teak deck. "And so are we. Technically."
"Technically," I agree. "Although, a joint honeymoon is... unconventional."
"We’re an unconventional family," Jax reminds me. He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair, trapping me. He smells like salt and coconut sunscreen. "Besides, if we left them alone, Preston would try to organize the room service menu by caloric density and Luke would accidentally join a pirate crew."
"True," I admit. I reach up, running my hand through his wet hair. "It is a preventative measure."
"Exactly." Jax kisses me. It is slow, lazy, and tastes of the ocean. Then he bites my lower lip, a sharp, sudden spark of heat that makes my breath hitch.
"Come inside," Jax growls against my mouth. "The sun is getting high. You’re going to burn."
"I am wearing SPF 50," I argue weakly.
"I know," Jax grins, that wicked, 'Trauma Cowboy' glint in his eye. "But I want to reapply it. Everywhere."
I stand up. The book is forgotten.
"That seems... medically necessary," I say.
The bedroom is cool, shadowed by the thatched roof, but the air between us is heavy and hot.
As soon as the glass door slides shut, Jax pushes me backward. I stumble until the back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall onto the white linens. Jax doesn't hesitate. He crawls over me, caging me in, his wet swim trunks dripping onto my thighs.
"You’re thinking too much," Jax whispers, hovering over me. He traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to make me tilt my head back. "I can hear the gears turning, Max. Turn them off."
"It is difficult," I confess, looking up at him. "My brain is wired for analysis. I am currently analyzing the friction coefficient of the sheets versus?—"
Jax silences me with a kiss that is bruising and claiming. He grinds his hips down against mine, the hard ridge of his erection pressing through the damp fabric of our swimwear.
"No numbers," Jax orders, breaking the kiss but keeping his mouth close to mine. "Just this."
He sits back and rips his trunks off, tossing them onto the floor. Then he grabs the waistband of mine.
"Lift," he commands.
