Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The first thing Bea’s mother said when they walked out into the arrivals hall was, “This country smells different.”
Bea adjusted her grip on the handle of Claire’s suitcase. “Welcome to the UR, Umma. We have oxygen too.”
She’d planned everything. Uber XL to the apartment, drop Claire’s bags, walk her parents to their hotel. Low-key, normal. Nothing that testified, Yes, hello, I am accidentally on purpose embroiled in whatever Rafael Griffin is.
Which was exactly why her stomach fell through the asphalt when she spotted him.
He was waiting by his matte-black Lamborghini Urus, which was parked at the curb, wearing sunglasses like some kind of advert for brooding billionaire chauffeurs of your steamiest dreams.
Oh no. She wasn’t prepared. And she definitely hadn’t prepared them.
Claire, of course, noticed instantly. “Please tell me that specimen is here for us.”
Bea made a choking sound. “He’s—not. He—Don’t—”
Words malfunctioned. Sentences? Never heard of them.
“Bea.” Rafael’s voice slid across the noise of rolling luggage and honking taxis. Deep, smooth, and entirely sure she’d heard him.
Heat flared in places she’d prefer not to think about in front of her parents.
“Hi. You’re back.” It came out bright for their audience. She moved closer, and added through gritted teeth, for him alone, “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t actually think I’d let your family Uber.”
Oh, she was going to murder him. Slowly. But only after she survived this moment.
Umma approached, polite curiosity already loading the chamber. “And you are…?”
“Rafael Griffin, ma’am.” He extended a hand. Not obsequious, not arrogant; just enough charm to register. “Your driver. It’s good to meet you.”
Claire, behind Umma’s shoulder, mouthed urgently: WHAT THE HELL. HE’S RAFAEL?!
Papa shook his hand, unimpressed by the money but delighted in the way only men could be about a shade of black. “That’s not stock paint. Look at that finish. Beautiful.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What’s under the hood?”
“Four-liter twin-turbo V-eight,” Rafael replied.
Bea’s father practically purred.
Within five minutes, they were loaded into the Urus.
Bea was trapped in the passenger seat, seatbelt a vise across her chest, while Rafael’s presence filled every cubic inch of air between them.
Papa was quizzing him on torque and handling.
Claire, in the middle, was busy staring at Bea in a way that she was studiously avoiding.
Umma was gazing out the window and drinking in the view, exactly the way Bea had done when she’d first arrived in Northgate.
Then Claire shrieked. “Beya Slaya! Arctic Monkeys.”
Bea peered out of the glass at the hundred-foot, glowing billboard. She sighed. “In another lifetime, Claire Bear.”
At the hotel, Rafael got out first, circling the car to lift her parents’ luggage out of the boot, and passing it to the waiting porters.
Claire sidled close while Umma dug around for passports and documents, and Rafael made small talk with Papa.
“Why didn’t you tell me Rafael Griffin looks like that?” she whispered furiously.
“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Bea hissed back.
“How is it not relevant? That would have put him at the absolute top of my spreadsheet for you. You know you have a thing for men who look like they could chop firewood shirtless and then bench press you.”
Bea clapped a hand over her mouth. “Shhh!” If he’d caught even a syllable of that, she’d have hurled herself into oncoming traffic.
She dropped her hand just in time to hear him say, “Tomorrow looks clear. Warm. I heard you love the beach. I’ll take you.”
Bea froze, limbs forgetting how to move.
“I hope we’re not troubling you, Rafael,” Umma said.
“Not at all, ma’am.” His voice was smooth, assured. He turned to her father. “Do you fish, sir?”
Papa nodded. “Whenever I can.”
“Perfect. I’ll bring some gear. Pick you up at nine.”
By the time she made it the half-dozen steps, her parents were booked and scheduled.
She was dead. Buried.
Resurrected only to die again when Umma inevitably asked how long this chauffeur arrangement had been going on.
Claire had asked, sometime around two a.m., whether Bea thought Rafael’s stubble was intentional or just the kind of genetic lottery where hair follicles obeyed his jawline like military orders.
Bea had rolled over, stuffed a pillow over her head, and groused something about death being preferable to continuing this conversation.
Claire had not taken the hint. Which explained why her eyes felt gritty and her nerves were already frayed when Rafael pulled up the next morning looking well rested, devastating, and extremely pleased with himself.
“Beya Slaya,” she stage-whispered as they climbed in, “I forgive you for keeping him from me, but only because this car makes me feel like I’m in a music video.”
“Sit down before the seat ejects you,” Bea muttered, buckling herself in.
Passenger seat. Next to him, again. It’s not like there wasn’t enough space—he wasn’t even close to touching her—but somehow his nearness sucked up all the oxygen anyway.
Her parents were already waiting for them in the hotel lobby, and they slid into the back with a warm Good morning.
The silence didn’t kill her, but it came close.
Bea jabbed at the console. “Music. Let’s have music.”
Her fingers fumbled across the screen, accidentally blasting the opening bars of some local hip-hop station before she hissed in apology and stabbed at another button. Jazz. Too sultry. Switch. Pop. Too perky. Switch.
Rafael’s hand slid in. Not elegant. Long fingers, but rough in a way that looked made to build—and break. Little scars crisscrossed his knuckles.
“Relax, little Bea,” he said, voice pitched low but audible to everyone in the car. She knew they’d heard it, the name heavy with familiarity.
With two taps, he pulled up his own playlist. A bluesy guitar line threaded through the silence like cool water. “How about this?”
“Sounds great,” she said, staring hard out the window, cheeks hot.
The music was a lifesaver. So was the view. An hour skimming the coast, the city giving way to cliffs and scrub, the ocean flashing blue between. No one else seemed uncomfortable, and conversation flowed easily enough. Which only made her more aware of her own pulse.
The car crunched to a stop on sandy gravel.
The air that spilled in when she opened her door was salt-sweet, threaded with eucalyptus from the scrub above.
The beach stretched below, a secret crescent carved between cliffs.
Not empty, but nearly—scattered families, a dog chasing gulls.
No ice cream vans, no boardwalk. Just ocean and sky.
She kicked off her sandals the second they hit the sand, wriggling her toes down into warm, superfine grains.
Yes. This.
“See?” she said proudly, glancing back at her parents as if she’d conjured the entire view. “We don’t get beaches like this in Canada.”
Umma smiled, wide and real. Papa tipped his chin toward the water, already pleased.
Rafael opened the trunk and hauled out fishing rods, tackle, a family-sized cooler. “Let’s try our luck,” he said, handing a rod toward Papa.
“Oh-ho,” Papa said, lighting up. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Claire trailed after them as they went to set up. She was oddly intrigued by stringing lifeless sea creatures to hooks.
Which left Bea and Umma to spread towels and wrestle with the umbrella.
Bea jabbed it into the sand with more force than necessary, her heart still skittering from that first glimpse of Rafael barefoot on the sand.
His calves were far too beautifully shaped for a man. Thankfully, he still had his shirt on.
“So,” Umma said lightly, smoothing a towel flat. “This is Rafael.”
Bea smacked her lips together. “Yeah. That’s him.”
“He’s tall. And I already thought Gage was.”
“The population has a tall average. They’re descended from the Dutch.”
“And he brought fishing rods for Papa.” Umma flapped sand off the corners of the towel. “That’s very considerate, no?”
Bea flopped down on the towel, took a long swig from her water bottle. “He can be.”
“Is he another one of those…St. Ives boys?”
“He was, but he’s not a student anymore,” she said. “He’s the son of the owner of Griffin Ventures.”
From the blank look on Umma’s face, it didn’t ring a bell.
“It’s a development company,” Bea said, trying to think how to explain it simply. “A big one.”
Umma didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then—“At least your taste is consistent.”
Bea snorted a laugh. “That’s just how they come here. Tall and backed by an empire.”
Umma’s eyes twinkled. “And handsome.”
What Umma said was, objectively, undeniable. But it had been ages since she’d thought of Rafael as handsome. That was a word for prom dates and toothpaste ads. Or the guy who rang up your groceries.
Rafael was something felt. He looked like…hunger and ruin and every fantasy she wasn’t supposed to have.
Her mother’s voice cut through her spiraling. “Has he always called you little Bea?”
Actually, yes. Since the first time I met him and was knocked flat by those green eyes.
“He thinks it’s funny. I’m not even that little.”
“Funny,” Umma echoed, eyes glinting. “Then why does it sound like an endearment?”
Bea nearly swallowed her tongue. Because it was an endearment. She’d always known it, even when the term rankled. Now whenever he said it, it dragged like a brush across her skin, leaving her tingling after.
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Ah. Is there anything more you’d like your mother to know?” Umma’s face was neutral. Her eyes were not.
Nope. Nooooope.
“I’ll tell you, Umma…when there is.”
Waves lapped, gulls wheeled. Papa and Rafael waded shin-deep with their rods, chatting on occasion, while Claire commented, excitedly announcing every pull of the line was a bite. Umma and Bea talked about school, books, and gossip from Toronto.