Page 29 of The All-Inclusive

He’s searching my eyes, breathless and wild with a strange sort of rage I’ve never seen in this man. I thought I knew Trent inside and out. Sure, he had secrets. What Navy SEAL doesn’t?

But I never imagined his secrets extended to this.

“I—”

“We want different things.” Trent sits back in his chair, defeated and smug at the same time. “I’ve fought this forever, but it’s just who I am and you deserve better. You deserve that goddamn marshmallow house. The kids and the candlelit dinners and that rocking chair for two. You deserve to have everything you want, but I can’t be the man who gives it to you, Sara. I tried and I failed, and I walked away because one of us had to, okay?”

Swallowing hard, I struggle to find my own voice. To process his words and this new information that’s so far beyond what I pictured.

Tell him what you want.

Camille’s words ring in the back of my brain, but I have no idea what to say. What do I want in this moment? From this man I believed was my husband-to-be.

From the life I pictured for us both.

I’m shaking so hard I can no longer hide it. Not just my hands, but my shoulders and knees and the jaw I’m clenching so hard my teeth squeak. Tears clog my throat, surging up as they threaten to spill down my cheeks.

I know what I want.

I want to escape.

Chalk it up as one more thing Trent and I have in common.

I stand up so quickly my seat topples back. Trent jumps up, too, moving to reset the chair. To cut off my exit or urge me to share what I’m feeling.

But even a SEAL can only do two things once. By the time he reaches my side of the table, I’m running, sprinting, tripping my way out the door, down the walkway, over the pool deck. Wind whips my hair as I race for the beach as a rustle of palm fronds applauds my escape. The slosh of the sea sounds like laughter as my stupid high heels sink into the sand. I bend at the waist, tears spilling into my cleavage as I yank at the buckles on my shoes.

Holy shit.

I can’t call my friends. Eve and Camille would probably not bat an eyelash at the sex stuff. They’re both open-minded, and the stories they’ve shared about their own escapades sounded wild to my young virgin ears.

But this isTrentwe’re talking about.

MyTrent.

The boy who threw out his best pal’sPenthousebecause he found it disrespectful to women.

The son who takes his mother to church every Sunday he’s in town.

The SEAL who dove into the pool at a Bible study barbecue to rescue a child who’d tripped into the deep end.

The man who insisted we wait until marriage for sex. Even when I begged for it, when I threw myself at him four weeks ago.

How did he hide all those secrets?

And how do I reconcilethatTrent with the one I just met in that room?

“Sara?”

I’m braced to see Trent, but I look up and find it’s Logan coming toward me. He’s barefoot and windblown with his hands in his pockets and that big, jagged scar on his thigh.

Concern creases his brow as he crouches beside me in the sand. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head slowly, gulping back big waves of tears. “I’m not.”

“Are you hurt?” Alarm fills his eyes. “I’ll kill him if?—”

“I’m not hurt. Not like that, anyway.” God, what a mess. I glance back and forth up the beach, but there’s no sign of Trent anywhere. Maybe the guards held him back.

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