Chapter 26
AVERY
I don't remember the last time I felt this light.
Two days of sun and salt air and Nick’s hands on me whenever we're alone—sometimes even when we’re not—has been exactly what I needed. I’d forgotten what it felt like to wake up without the low hum of anxiety that's become so familiar over the past several weeks.
The knot I've carried in the pit of my stomach since the tabloid siege, since the paparazzi trapped me in my car outside our building, since the trip to the ER and the doctor’s voice saying eliminate stress isn’t gone completely, but it has loosened its hold on me.
As night falls following the cookout gathering on the sand, I sink into my beach chair near the shoreline and simply take a moment to breathe.
The resort’s guest families have drifted back to their cottages, carrying sleepy children and the quiet contentment that settles over people after a good day.
The beach empties slowly, because nothing here happens in a hurry. That's the point, after all. That's what Nick has built here.
I watched him all afternoon, feeling both warmed and amazed by him.
He wasn’t the billionaire philanthropist making an appearance.
Today, he was just Nick. Crouched beside a little boy at the grill, patiently explaining how to tell when a burger needs flipping.
Laughing—actually laughing, head thrown back—when the kid sent a patty sailing into the sand.
Then, later, sitting in the shade with a young mother whose haunted eyes held the exhaustion of someone rebuilding a life from wreckage, talking with her in that low voice he uses when he wants someone to feel heard.
It’s gratifying to see him like this, with his guard down and his armor removed.
I know how much this place means to him.
As with the Chelsea recreation center, Nick has poured himself into every facet of the resort.
This place may mean even more to him than the rec center, considering it was built on the same land where Nick grew up.
He’s constructed something good over the scars of his past. But I know he’s still healing, as much as anyone here.
I glance up and find him walking toward me over the moonlit sand.
“I brought you water and snacks,” he says, offering me the cup. Holding a plate of grilled chicken wings and roasted vegetables in his free hand, he takes the empty chair beside me.
“I don’t know if I have room for another bite.” I glance at the food, and even though I’ve been eating all afternoon, I can’t resist the aroma. “Serena’s going to have to let out my dress again if I keep eating like this.”
Nick shrugs. “You could wear a burlap sack to marry me. I wouldn’t care.”
I peer at him while I polish off the last bite of chicken wing, then reach for another. “I think you really mean that.”
“Couldn’t be more serious.”
The warmth of him saying it, the way his eyes hold mine, steady and certain, spreads through me like the last of the day's sun soaking into my skin. This man who could give me anything, and has, yet what he wants me to know is that none of it matters to him.
Only me. Only us.
I lean forward and kiss him. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
He smiles, pulling me closer. "I have some idea. But feel free to keep reminding me."
Setting the plate aside, he wraps his arms around me and kisses me deeper. I struggle against him, laughing as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. “Nick, stop. My lips are coated with chicken grease.”
“I don’t care.” He makes a hungry sound and keeps kissing me. “You taste delicious to me. I want to eat you up.”
We’re still laughing and kissing as music starts up behind us. Steel drum first, bright, syncopated, unmistakably tropical. Then guitar weaving underneath, bass holding the bottom, keyboards filling the spaces between.
"The instructors aren’t ready to call it a night yet," Nick says. "Bonfire. Live music, dancing. You up for it?"
I nod. “Sounds perfect.”
With the half-eaten plate of food in one hand, his other hand resting lightly at the small of my back, we walk toward the group.
There are perhaps a dozen people gathered, some standing with drinks in hand, a few already moving to the music.
Rusty is there, beer bottle catching firelight as he gestures through some story that has his audience grinning.
An older woman with silver-threaded hair and the deep tan of someone who lives in the sun bursts out laughing at whatever he just said.
We're spotted before we reach them. Rusty breaks off mid-sentence, raises his beer in greeting. "Hey, glad you’re joining us. Avery, have you met Linda yet? She’s one of the kids’ favorite instructors."
The silver-haired woman extends a hand, her grip warm and firm. "Don't let Rusty oversell it. I’m a former teacher, retired now. I know how to work a classroom full of squirming young people." Her eyes are kind, crinkled at the corners. "It's good to finally meet you, Ms. Ross."
“Just Avery,” I say.
“Would you like a drink, Avery?” She gestures toward a collection of coolers, where some of the other instructors are plucking out bottles of beer and cans of soda.
I hold up my cup. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with water for now.”
Nick sets my plate down on a nearby table and accepts a beer from Rusty. “Great job on today’s cookout,” he says, including everyone who’s begun gathering around us. “The guests all seemed to enjoy it, and we did too.”
I nod in agreement, glancing at each of the warm, friendly faces of the instructors. “I’m really glad we were able to participate. Thanks for including us.”
“Anytime,” Rusty says. “Don’t think you can only come down for special occasions.”
“Special occasions?”
Nick pointedly clears his throat and Rusty rushes to clarify. “I mean it’s a special occasion for us because it’s the first time you’ve been here since we’ve open for guests.”
He’s not quite convincing, but Nick nods in agreement and quickly changes the subject. “I got a chance to watch some of the sailing instructions this morning. Looks like that’s going well.”
“Yeah,” Rusty says. He motions for another instructor to come forward. “This is Franklin. He’s been teaching the younger kids.”
Franklin moves to the front of the small group.
I guess him to be in his early twenties, with floppy, sun-bleached hair and a big, easy grin.
We exchange hellos, then he and Nick fall into conversation about a kid named Jaylen who's apparently a favorite with the instructor.
I let the words wash over me, my attention drifting to the larger scene.
This is what it looks like. What Nick built from the wreckage of his own childhood. Now, it’s music and firelight and people who show up every week because they believe in something. Families healing. Kids learning that the world can be safe.
Our child will never know the fear that shaped Nick's early years and my own. We'll make sure of that. Nick will make sure we’re all protected and secure, with the same fierce devotion I've watched him pour into this place, these families, and me.
But I don't want our child to grow up behind walls, either.
The thought surfaces gently, carried by the music and the laughter and the sense of freedom in the air tonight.
In New York, there's Kelsey and Vaughn tracking my movements.
The constant, quiet presence of people paid to keep me safe.
Nick needs that. He needs to know I'm protected when he can't be beside me. I understand that.
But this is what life without fear looks like. Easy. Unhurried. People moving through an evening without scanning for threats or checking sightlines. Kids who ran around all afternoon without a single security professional hovering at the edges.
A beautiful night like this, in fact, all of the past two days, makes me wish we never have to leave.
The steel drum shifts into something slower, and the guitarist follows, the rhythm softening into a sway.
Nick and I stand there for a while, watching as our little group begins to drift toward an open patch of beach in front of the musicians.
Linda pulls Franklin out with her. Rusty grabs one of the female instructors and they begin swaying to the beat and singing along.
Others soon follow, laughter and voices bright against the music.
Nick's hand slides from my back to my hip. “Dance with me.”
I nod, smiling. But instead of taking me to the sand where the rest of the group is, he gathers me close right where we’re standing.
His chest is against mine, his thigh sliding between my legs.
With one hand splayed across my lower back, the other finds the curve of my waist. I feel surrounded by him.
The heat of his body seeps through the thin layers of clothing between us until I'm not sure where the warmth of the night ends and the warmth of him begins.
We move together. Not really dancing but swaying, finding a rhythm that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the way we've learned to fit against each other.
His hand slides down, settles at the base of my spine, fingertips just brushing the curve of my ass. A claiming touch. A promise.
I loop my arms around his neck, and his eyes darken at the press of my breasts against his chest. My nipples tighten at the contact, even through fabric. My hips roll forward, seeking his friction, seeking him.
"You're beautiful tonight." His mouth brushes my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
"You're beautiful every night. But right now, with the firelight on your skin and my baby in your belly—" He stops.
Swallows. His hand presses harder against my lower back.
"I keep thinking about getting you back to that cottage.
About what I want to do to you once we're alone. "