Page 104 of The Beach Trap

“Of course.” He says it like it’s no big deal. “I would do it now, but I have a feeling you’d freak out.”

He’s not wrong; a couple of days ago he brought up the possibility of looking for a job near me and I started spiraling into a panic. It seemed like a lot of pressure if he moved for me and things didn’t work out between us. I’m still struggling to overcome my distrust that men will stick around.Thanks for that, Dad.

“I like your plan,” I say. “We’ll see each other every weekend—”

“And when we’re not together, we’ll have hot phone sex every night,” he finishes.

I laugh, because that does sound fun. But it also scares me a little, allowing him in like this. I do like his idea; it’s a way to take things slow for a few months, allowing room for our relationship to grow, with the understanding that we’re not doing long-distance forever.

“Will your parents be okay with that?” I ask, settling against him again, my back to his chest. “You not coming to work for the family again?”

He takes a sip of his coffee before answering. “They won’t be thrilled, but it’s my decision. I don’t want to be part of the Rooney business, but I do want to be part of the Rooney family, so hopefully they’ll understand. Honestly, what I enjoyed most about developing the UnderRooneys line was getting it off the ground, and that’s what I’ll be doing with Will at his company.”

I can hear the excitement in his voice, and it makes me smile. “It sounds like a perfect fit.”

“What about you?” he asks. “If you could do anything for a career, what would your perfect fit be?”

I’ve spent plenty of time thinking about this since the first time he asked, and I’m still having trouble coming up with an answer.

“What I’ve done this summer has been the most enjoyable work I’ve experienced,” I say. “Renovating this house, making things with my hands, seeing the result of my efforts in real time. I just can’t figure out how to turn that into an actual job.”

My granddad loved being a general contractor, but I don’t have the skills to do that and I don’t have the foggiest idea how to get there. Plus, I need a job with a reliable salary; I don’t have the luxury of spending months without a paycheck while I figure things out.

“The house looks amazing. It’s too bad you can’t keep it.” Then he straightens up, his voice sounding excited: “Hang on. My dad owes me some of the UnderRooney profits—I haven’t accepted it because it feels tainted somehow, but I would love to use that to help pay for your grandfather’s place. I’d feel like the money was going to something worthwhile.”

My heart swells almost to bursting. It’s the sweetest, most generous thing he could say, even though there’s no way I can let him do that.

“I appreciate the gesture,” I tell him, linking his hand in mine, “but it’s my responsibility to take care of my granddad, like he always did for me.”

He kisses my cheek. “I figured you’d say that. But still. I know you don’t need me to take care of you—you’re one of the most independent people I’ve ever met—but you matter to me. If I can take some weight off your shoulders”—he kisses my shoulder, then my neck and jaw, making my skin flush and tingle—“that’ll mean you have more energy for the bedroom, and I have alotmore things I want to do to you.”

Laughing, I set my coffee down on the sand and twist around, expecting to see a smirk on his face. But he’s gazing at me with so much tenderness that my own eyes prick with tears. I’m imagining lazy mornings like this stretching into the future; long walks after work where we both decompress from a stressful day; movie nights and home improvement projects; holidays and birthdays. A dog—ourowndog. And maybe, someday, a little boy or girl with Noah’s cheeky grin.

That all seems too good to be true. Permanence, stability—I’ve been longing for that since I lost both parents in one fell swoop. I’m worn out from years of guarding my heart, trying to prevent it from being bruised and battered again.

“I hope you still like me in six months,” I say. It’s the closest I can come to telling him how I feel. The intensity of it scares me.

He shakes his head. “The six months is for you, not for me. I’m so far gone, Blake. I’m not coming back from this. I’m all yours.”

His words fill me to the brim, and I shift my weight so I’m nestled in the crook of his arm. He kisses the top of my head and holds me as I soak it in: Noah’s warm skin, the soft breeze, the rhythmic waves against sand.

I close my eyes and tell my weary heart that it can finally, finally rest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

KAT

The next week, I’m sitting in my new favorite place: next to Henry, wherever he happens to be. At the moment, that’s on his front porch swing, my legs resting on his lap. He’s got one hand on my knee and the other holding a book he’s reading on toxic masculinity, while I read the mountain of paperwork comprised of the Worthington contract and everything for the transfer of funds.

At the sound of the floorboard creaking just inside the front door, I slide my legs off Henry’s lap, and Sunny steps outside.

My smile falls at the sight of her sad little face. She’s carrying Nuh-Nuh. Henry told me the well-loved bunny had been a gift from her mother, which explains the sentimentality.

“Daddy,” Sunny says, her voice wobbling as she holds Nuh-Nuh out toward Henry. The bunny’s body is in one hand, and its ear is in the other. “I think it’s time for me to give Nuh-Nuh up.”

I suck in a breath, sad for both Sunny and her bunny. This feels like a moment where I don’t belong, but I’m afraid to move and call attention to myself.

“Are you sure?” Henry asks.

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