Chapter 27 A Truce
A TRUCE
ASHLEY
By the time Beckett finally emerges from the bathroom, I’ve rolled the room service cart onto our balcony, and I’m halfway through my second glass of wine.
The blaze of the sunset has long since given way to the blue light of the moon. Not too far away, a hundred tiny lights flicker along the coast like fallen stars. Laughter and music drift across the water, echoing from the shore, a reminder that somewhere out there, the party continues on.
Honestly, just thinking about it is exhausting.
I’m much happier right here tonight, having enjoyed a slice of pizza, three bites of hamburger, half a side of fries, and two pieces of sushi.
Beckett apparently ordered one of everything that I’ve ever mentioned liking. Appetizers, entrees, and desserts. Along with two bottles of wine. One white, one red.
And I wholeheartedly approve.
I was now making my way through an indecently large dish of chocolate mousse, and did I mention this was my third glass of wine?
Honestly, who gives a damn?
Good thing everyone’s wrong about me being in a “delicate condition”.
The room was silent, but when I hear a drawer close and glance over my shoulder—I freeze.
Beckett is wearing a towel. Only a towel.
Which, considering he took so long, is totally unacceptable. He ought to be fully dressed, shaved even.
I narrow my eyes, mostly to pretend I’m not staring.
“I saved some salad for you,” I say.
He pauses, looking up from his suitcase, and just arches a brow. Beckett has this uncanny ability to look calm under all circumstances, something that’s infuriating and comforting at the same time.
The man could be naked in a hurricane and still look composed.
Unfair.
A quiet ache starts to bloom, one I remember far too well.
And I could blame that ache on the wine, but I know that’s not why I feel so drawn to him.
It’s because this is the Beckett I fell in love with. My very sexy best friend, husband, and lover.
The one that makes me forget all the reasons I’m so damn mad at him.
I can’t help but sigh. Because, yeah… so unfair.
His skin’s still damp, bronzed from the sun, and that towel is riding low… dangerously low.
Still, there is no evidence of any tattoo.
And then—just like that—he lets the towel fall.
No warning. No pause. No apology.
A flash of silver. Just a glint, where I was once so intimately familiar.
I should look away. Really, I should look away.
I don’t.
Because this… is new.
I think it winks at me and my brain blanks completely.
There is no protocol for this.
A low ache clenches inside me, and my mouth goes dry.
And God help me, it’s… stupidly beautiful.
When Beckett glances up, meets my eyes, I don’t even try to pretend I wasn’t staring.
“So,” I manage, “not a tattoo.”
He stands up, the towel dangling from his hand, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “No,” he says. And, oh my God.
I.
Have.
So many questions!
And yet, I’m just sitting here, drinking my wine.
“Of course,” I say.
But… I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from that silver glint. Even right out of the shower, Beckett’s penis is mildly impressive. Poke a piece of jewelry through the tip and…
“Does it hurt?” I ask, as casually as if we were talking about a sunburn.
As if he was fully clothed.
Beckett glances down, utterly unfazed, before lifting his gaze again.
“You don’t want to know,” he says.
“Oh.”
I take another sip of wine, because what else does a woman do when confronted with her almost ex-husband’s newly pierced… situation? I mean, I’m still processing that he did something so…
Reckless. Insane.
Sexy?
But also… why? What on earth would make him do something so… unBeckettlike?
The balcony door is wide open, and he’s just a few feet away, and for a few seconds, it’s easy to pretend this is normal: him getting dressed, me sipping wine, the world outside glittering with what feels like a manic kind of festival happening in the streets of Cabo San Lucas.
And I hate where we are.
I really, really hate it.
It means that his new accessory, well, it’s none of my business.
He steps into gray sweats, the fabric clinging just enough to remind me exactly what’s underneath.
And even though he isn’t looking in my direction, I know he knows I’m watching while he pulls a soft t-shirt over his head.
Still barefoot, sharp and clean-smelling, Beckett steps outside and sits down beside me.
I pour out some more wine and, because I can’t help myself, I make it my business.
“I’ve read about them.” I flick my gaze to his lap.
“When would you read about penis piercings?” He leans forward.
“In romance novels,” I clarify. “I didn’t think it was something you could just have done spur of the moment, though.”
“Well.” Beckett leans back in his chair, and then shifts a little. “Some of us learn that the hard way.”
This time, I’m the one with a cocked brow.
“It wasn’t the plan,” he says. “At all. But Arlo was showing us pictures of some of his work, and it was just there.” Beckett picks up a fry and pops it into his mouth.
“Who is Arlo?”
“The tattoo artist.”
“And you saw pictures of penises that had been impaled and you were like, that. I want that.”
Despite himself, he sends me a little grin. “Something like that. And, technically, Arlo said he doesn’t normally do them on the ship. Rocky says I was very persuasive.”
“Did Rocky get one?”
“I think he said he had one already. Not sure I’d remember if he did, I was pretty, well…” Beckett turns and stares at the view, which is slowly receding now… I hadn’t even realized we were moving again.
“Because of what I said?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
He’s silent for too long.
And then, finally, he says—
“Everything.”
That’s all. Just that one word. And yet it knocks the air out of me.
Everything.
And now I can’t unsee it: the way he shifts in his seat a little too carefully, the faint tightness in his jaw, the not-quite-there focus in his eyes.
He did this because he was unraveling.
Because he didn’t think it mattered anymore.
Did he not think that he mattered?
I smooth the napkin over my lap, grounding myself.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” And, because I’m me, I tack on, “Are you taking care of it right?” And then, “Does everyone else know? Am I the only one who didn’t—”
“No!” Beckett looks at me again, sharply. “Just the… guys. And only because they were there. Honestly, it’s all kind of blurry. And I didn’t tell you because…” He exhales hard. “Hell, Ashley. I didn’t think it was something you’d want to hear about.”
“Oh.”
Beckett takes a drink of his wine, and the silence between us isn’t comfortable anymore.
And me, I don’t want to hang out in this painful space any longer than necessary, but I don’t know what to say.
He must feel the same way, because he changes the subject. And it’s just the right thing to get my mind off of us. Or, more accurately. Not us.
“So, I take it that wasn’t the private charter you had in mind for today?”
“Not even close. First thing tomorrow I’m calling that agency.”
I meet his stare for half a second, then fling a hand toward the dark horizon like it personally wronged me.
“I mean—okay—maybe the price was a little too good to be true. But there were pictures, Beckett. Pictures. A forty-foot motor yacht with cushioned lounge chairs, shaded decking, a little bar setup, with a legit bartender. There was even supposed to be a man who played the violin while we cruised past the Arch. I read the fine print, Beckett. I’m not an idiot. ”
My voice pitches higher.
“And yes, I know about internet scams. I know people get duped all the time. But they don’t scam me. They don’t scam careful, always-reads-the-terms-and-conditions me.”
He doesn’t say anything, just listens. Grabs a slice of the pizza.
“Oh God, my poor sister,” I groan, pressing the flats of my hands into my eyes.
“She looked green. I thought Noah was going to have to carry her off the boat. By all rights, she should hate me for the rest of her life. She should fire me as maid of honor for—hiccup—for dereliction of duty. For hardship, pain, and suffering.”
Beckett nods, watching me, chewing his pizza.
Absorbing my frustration.
I take another swallow of wine and keep going.
“I did everything right, you know?” My voice catches, but I plow on.
“Followed the rules. College. Marriage. Kids. I read the articles. I took care of myself, kept the house perfect, paid the bills on time, remembered birthdays, packed everyone’s lunches with notes, for God’s sake—who does that anymore?
I thought if I did everything you’re supposed to, I wouldn’t end up…
in the middle of the ocean on a boat built in the fifties with a crew running around like paparazzi, telling you to smile while you hold up your barf bag.
“Instead of the perfect party, we ended up with what?” I demand.
“Drinking warm peach margaritas rimmed with salt, eating tacos that tasted great, sure—but who knows what was in the water they washed those pans with? We’ll be lucky if no one catches malaria or some tropical disease.
And all because I didn’t check their Better Business Bureau rating. ”
I look at him then, because I can’t help it. “The website lied.” The wine makes the words feel soft and sloshy.
I take another swallow, the glass clinking as I set it down. “What if the winery in Ensenada isn’t legit either? What if we all end up on some true-crime documentary about the bridal party that—”
“Ash.” His voice cuts clean through the noise, quiet but final. But that’s not why I fall silent.
His hand is on mine, warm, anchoring me when everything inside is spinning.
Beckett, in this moment, makes me feel safe—even knowing there are still things he hasn’t told me. And it’s… scary.
“The winery’s legit,” he says softly. “Remember? Luna and Noah went down there last winter.”
“Oh.” I blink, my brain catching up. “Right. I guess.”
He isn’t dismissing me. He isn’t even disagreeing. He’s just… looking at me. Giving me one hundred percent of his attention.
I smile, tired. “I like you like this, Beckett. Without your head buried in your laptop. Without your phone glued to your ear.”
For a second, something flickers across his face—like he’s standing at the edge of a confession. His jaw tightens.
“You think you’re too smart to fall for it,” he says.
“What?” He’s lost me.
“Scammers. Lies.” His voice is low. Then quieter, almost to himself: “Until you do.”
I tilt my head, wishing I maybe hadn’t had that third glass of wine. What am I missing here?
But he’s already looking away, clearing his throat.
“Anyway,” he says, “You don’t need to worry about your sister.
According to Luna, you are not only the best maid-of-honor a girl could have, but also the best sister in the world.
She was having fun, babe. Didn’t you see her doing the limbo?
And your mom’s friend—Babs? God, that was hilarious. ”
I almost smile. “That was before the barf bags came out.”
He grins faintly. “Yeah, well, there’s no pleasure without pain, right?”
I roll my eyes, but he squeezes my hand again before letting go.
“Your sister knows how much you love her,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out small.
He nods once, stares out at the water, and then exhales.
“So… what’s up next, and what can I do to help?
Blow up balloons? Make centerpieces? Consider me all yours.
Except for tomorrow morning ‘cause I promised the boys we could go on the go-karts again.” He smiles proudly.
“They’re both actually pretty good drivers.
We have a couple Mario Andrettis in the family. ”
“Oh, God. I refuse to think that far ahead.”
But then Beckett grows serious again. “I mean it, Ash. You’ve taken on a lot. What can I do?”
And that pulls me right back to the reason we’re here. Luna’s wedding.
“Hold that thought.”