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He squeezes a slice of lemon into his tea.
“I didn’t deserve her,” he says.
“What happened?” I know better than to pry, but the pain in his tone tells me he’s not done unloading.
“I, uh,” he begins to say before exhaling. “I almost cheated on her. Got caught. Don’t know what I was thinking—actually, I wasn’t thinking. I’d been planning the proposal for months, and in the weeks leading up to it, something came over me. Cold feet maybe. I don’t know. I downloaded this dating app. I didn’t swipe or message or make plans to meet anyone, but I did browse. Somehow, she found it on my phone but didn’t tell me. She did, however, tell her best friend—the one who’d been helping me plan the proposal.”
“I thought she ran off with some actor.”
“That’s the story she gave the public. She wanted to control the narrative. Her meeting someone better makes her look better. No one wants to be the one who got cheated on.”
“So it’s better to look like the one who did the cheating?” I lift a brow. It’s not that either option is appealing, but damn.
“I’m guessing her PR firm suggested the strategy. They planted blind items all over the gossip sites about her leveling up, though from what I hear, it’s a stunt on the actor’s end too. He’s headlining some new show on Broadway, and they’re riding each other’s coattails. I don’t even think he’s straight. It’s a whole thing.”
It sounds unnecessarily complicated, but I can’t relate.
“Have you reached out to her at all? Since she left?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “What would I say? What can I say that I haven’t already said? She’s not going to suddenly change her mind because I’m apologizing for the millionth time.”
“You never know.”
I won’t tell Burke this, but shitty circumstances aside, this is hands down the best conversation we’ve had to date. I’m enjoying seeing this broken-down, authentic side of him. I only hope there’s more where this came from because something tells me his bark is worse than his bite.
“Think we’re all heading to the beach in a little bit,” I say when I climb off the bed. “Wish you could join us.”
He picks up a triangle of toast before dropping it back on his plate. “Yeah, me too.”
Grabbing my tote, I throw in a bottle of sunscreen, a hat, and a book before heading to the bathroom to change into my bathing suit. It’s a splashy neon-yellow number with an open back and cutouts on the sides. I found it on clearance online and picked it up because everything else I had was either too revealing or too matronly.
Ten minutes later, I meet the rest of the family in the foyer: Nicola and Dashiell with their matching straw visors and his-and-hers marine-striped bathing suits, the children already slathered in thick white sunscreen, and Redmond in a floral button-down shirt, leather sandals, Wayfarer sunglasses, and navy swim trunks . . .
And then there’s Dorian.
Shirtless.
Skin damp with coconut-scented tanning oil.
Hair messy and shoved back with a pair of smudged aviators on top of his head.
Sun-faded fluorescent-yellow board shorts so low on his hips that the thoughts running through my head make me blush.
He looks like he doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of him—much like the night we met—and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t stir something up in the depths of my soul.
“What?” Dorian asks when he realizes we’re all staring at him, though I suspect we each have differing reasons.
“Really?” Nicola sniffs as she looks him up and down. Who knows what she’s huffing about—it could be anything at this rate. “I thought your luggage finally arrived.”
“It did.” Dorian slides his sunglasses over his nose, giving her a devil-may-care sniff.
“Can we go now, please, Mommy?” Augustine asks, tugging her mother’s hand.
“Yes, my littlest love,” Redmond answers for his daughter, gesturing to the front door with his cane. “Our chariot awaits.”
We file out, one by one, Dorian walking so close behind me that his suntan lotion scent invades my lungs. It’s as if a part of him is touching me, but at the same time, we’re a world apart.
There’s an awareness on my back, heavy and electric.
I convince myself I’m imagining it.
Outside, a golf cart with six seats idles in the circular drive.
Redmond slides into the driver’s seat, and the children squeeze in next to him. Nicola and Dashiell take the center row, leaving the back for Dorian and me.
The drive to the beach is rough once we get to the grassy path, jostling me against my seatmate with every bump. With a death grip on the skinny metal rail beside me, I clutch my tote bag between my knees and ignore the fact that every time my arm brushes against Dorian’s I forget to breathe.
