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Shame burns beneath my skin as his own flashes across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by sheer anger, and he charges toward me. He pulls on the top blanket, yanking and yanking until I’m before him.
His nostrils flare, his jaw flexing repeatedly.
I shouldn’t, but I know what comes next, and it takes effort I refuse to acknowledge to keep my shoulders high and my face blank.
Ransom stalks away.
With a low exhale, I climb from the back of the truck and step toward my car, but Beretta catches my arm as I pass, halting me.
“You can’t leave.” He frowns.
“Beretta, seriously?” My eyes widen. “I shouldn’t be here right now.”
“He doesn’t want you to go.”
A scoffed laugh escapes before I can stop it and his gaze narrows farther. I falter. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
He says nothing and I tug my arms free, glancing where Ransom disappeared and back. “Beretta...”
“If he wanted you gone, he would have no problem saying it.” The creases framing his hazel eyes deepen. “Just... give him a minute. He gets like this when he’s forced to go home.”
Forced to go home?
He doesn’t go home?
Where does he...
I glance over my shoulder at the mattress and blankets I just climbed off of, remembering the ones tucked into the corner of the beach cave. The take-out boxes and recent fire.
He can’t... no.
I shake my head, looking away, but when a light knock echoes to the side, we both follow the sound.
Arsen holds a paddle board in one hand, the paddle in the other. He shrugs.
“Yeah, perfect. It’s been a minute.” Beretta grabs my hands, pulling me to him. “You’re in, right? Ransom loves the water.”
He does?
Arsen lifts and carries two boards toward his car, and I watch as he wedges them into the back seat, the ends sticking over the side.
“Jameson.”
I shake my head. “Look, I—”
Ransom comes from behind the garage.
He avoids everyone’s eyes, but heads straight for where the other boards are leaning against the wall. He grabs two, walking toward Arsen’s car, and as he passes, his eyes flick to mine.
I don’t realize I’m nodding until Beretta claps beside me.
I guess we’re going paddle boarding.
Within minutes, we’re off.
Beretta rides with me and when he tells me to turn onto Nineteenth Street, where the most commonly used loading dock in the peninsula is located, I do, but not without hesitation.
He senses it, glancing from me to where several men with power scooters are delivering a load of boards to the vacationers.
“What’s wrong?” he pushes.
A yacht blew up seconds after I climbed from it twenty feet ahead.
I park, get out, and say, “Nothing.”
Without my asking, the boys carry my things into the water while I open my trunk for a swimsuit and slip it on beneath my dress before peeling my heels from my feet.
I don’t bother swapping for my spa sandals; I just walk toward the water.
Beretta has already stepped out and onto his board, but he’s yet to start paddling. He waits for Arsen, and once he’s ready, they both look to me.
Ransom hasn’t said a word, but silently peels his clothes from his back, and slowly, the others begin to paddle right.
I strap the board to my ankle and start in a sitting position, getting myself a few feet into deeper water, the paddle carefully tucked between my feet. I start to pull my hair up, wrapping it into a bun on top of my head when a hand grabs at my elbow.
I look over my shoulder.
Ransom stands there, his body half hidden beneath the cool ocean water.
I hate that I know what he wants, and more that I give it to him by allowing my hair to fall to my back again.
He pulls a small strand into his hand, running his fingers along the newly added peekaboos, two times darker than my natural shade, and I don’t know if he realizes it, but the corner of his mouth hitches the smallest bit.
We stare at each other, but after a moment, I have to look away, and for some reason, I slip forward on the board. Though he has his own, Ransom pulls mine closer to the shore, and I grip the sides as he climbs on behind me.
I stay sitting on my knees, passing him the paddle, and he stands, directing us out into the peninsula.
Instead of following the others’ path, he cuts straight across the water, where the yachts are tied down in the center, and weaves us in and out.
The board wobbles beneath us when he lowers himself. When it stops shaking, I peek at him.
Ransom lies on his stomach, his arms folded beneath his head, his lower half hanging in the water.
Sensing me, his eyes open, and I maneuver my body to mirror his, but I prop myself up on my elbows.
“Do you ever want to do the same?” he asks suddenly, slowly gliding his eyes my way. “Buy a one-way ticket to the bottom of the ocean?”
