Chapter 35 Like a First Date
LIKE A FIRST DATE
ASHLEY
I spot him almost immediately. Of course I do. It’s like we’re tuned to the same frequency, even when we’re not speaking. Maybe that’s just what happens when you’ve spent more than half your life tangled up—emotionally, physically, chaotically—with someone.
Still, despite feeling less unraveled than I did earlier, I feel them, the moment I see him.
Butterflies.
Honestly, they should know better by now.
He’s leaning against one of the wooden posts near the fountain, looking effortlessly... edible. A short-sleeved button-down shirt, open at the collar, and clean slacks. No jacket, no tie. Just relaxed confidence and sun-kissed forearms.
It feels like a first date.
But not with someone new—with someone I used to know, and maybe… don’t fully know anymore.
I start walking toward him, and I feel it—that quiet pull between us. The way his eyes are on me.
Not just watching. Admiring.
And just like that, I’m hyper-aware of everything:
The soft brush of fabric against my hips.
The sway of the dress as I move.
The fact that… I’m not wearing anything underneath it.
I hadn’t packed for a fancy dinner tonight. And the bottoms of my swimsuit showed right through.
So here I am. Commando. In the dress he picked.
It’s weird, feeling this nervous.
Weirder still to kind of like it.
When I reach him, I clear my throat. “You went shopping?”
He doesn’t answer—just raises one brow and lets his gaze drift, slow and deliberate, back down my body. “You’re beautiful,” he says, without hesitation.
It was a compliment he’s given me hundreds of times before, but tonight, it just hits me differently.
“You look nice too.” I hike up my bag on my shoulder. “When did you—?”
“I got a second room.”
Oh…
But it’s like he hears all my doubts.
“I wanted to give you some privacy.”
Then he takes my arm.
And, oh ship. I’m feeling tingles. Everywhere.
The restaurant is set right on the beach, the outdoor patio strung with fairy lights, the sound of a mariachi band drifting over the hush of the waves.
We’re seated at a candlelit table just as the sky begins to blush pink and tangerine. We don’t say anything until the hostess finishes pouring our water and walks away.
I clear my throat.
“The boys texted—on mom’s phone. Max says my turret was crooked, but otherwise, they gave it a thumbs-up.”
“What did they say about the moat?” Beckett says, leaning forward.
I can’t help but laugh. “They said it was lame.”
And just like that, whatever nerves I’d brought with me dissolve.
We talk about how the sunset, over the ocean, just hits differently.
About parasailing.
About how Max says he’ll try it when he’s older and Blakey insists he’ll “supervise” from the sand.
We talk about places we’ve been.
Our honeymoon in Hawaii.
Family trips, a few long weekends squeezed in over the years.
And places we haven’t been.
As we swap out salad plates for our entrees, both of us now on our second glass of wine, Beckett surprises me.
“I think I’d like to go to Ireland,” he says.
My fork is halfway to my mouth, but I pause. “Why Ireland?”
Beckett’s gaze catches on the pasta I’m rolling around the silver tines, and then moves to my mouth.
He shifts in his seat before answering.
“Why Ireland?” he repeats, then pauses, like he’s never actually said it out loud. “I don’t mean the cities. Not Dublin. I mean the wild parts. The cliffs. The wind. All that green.”
His voice softens, almost wistful.
“It seems simple. Stripped down. Like all that matters is whether you’ve got food, shelter, maybe a fire going. Maybe someone who wants to sit beside you.”
He glances at me. “No reason to pretend. No reason to put on a show.”
Who is this man?
“So, not Dubai?” He’d mentioned the modern city more than once. That he’d wanted to see the tallest building in the world. Experience places leaning into the most innovative technology.
He shrugs. There’s something quieter about him this week.
Less glitter. More grit.
This thing he’s going through—whatever it is—it’s changing him.
Or rather, it’s changed him.
And I’d missed it somehow.
He glances up, catching me watching him. “What about you?”
My instinct is to say I’m happy at home. That until the boys are grown, I’m most comfortable where everything's predictable, normal. That the boys have their friends and school and routines…
But then I think about flying.
“I think…” I say slowly, surprising even myself, “I’d like to go on a safari.”
Beckett blinks, then laughs—warm, delighted, not mocking at all. “That’s… that’s a pretty adventurous pick. For you.”
I meet his gaze. “I don’t need to be safe all the time.”
He watches me. Quiet. Considering.
“Do you think I’m fragile?” I ask. Is that why he didn’t share his problems at work with me?
He sits back, eyes still locked on mine.
“It’s not that you’re fragile,” he says slowly.
“In fact, you’re the strongest person I know.
But… when we found out you were having twins, something shifted for me.
I looked at you—and life got more serious.
You were the most precious thing in my life.
All of you… Ash, I have never seen you as fragile.
More like… priceless. Like if I failed you—I couldn’t live with myself. ”
Something squeezes my chest.
Not because it hurts. But because it’s the most vulnerable thing he’s said to me in over a year.
“Then don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t fail me.”
His hand reaches across the table, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over my knuckles.
“I’m trying not to,” he says, low and steady.
“An after-dinner drink, Senor, Senorita? More wine, perhaps?” our waiter asks as he removes the dessert we’d shared.
I pull my hand back. “No more for me.”
The waiter doesn’t miss a beat. “Ah… then perhaps something smooth?” His tone softens. “Some Vino de Tequila, then? You are in Mexico, after all.”
My eyes flick to Beckett’s, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. Cabo. Captain Julio. The way tequila had been the answer to everything.
The waiter gives a knowing nod. “Si? Clase Azul?”
Beckett lets out a low laugh. “We’ll take two. Neat.”
“Excellent choice.” The waiter disappears with a wink, and in the silence that follows, Beckett meets my gaze again.
I rest my elbow on the table, tilt my head, and smile. “So… you saw me looking at the dress, then? Earlier?”
Beckett doesn’t blink. “Of course.”
He hasn’t paid me that kind of attention for a long time. Before I can answer though, the waiter returns to place two crystal tumblers between us—doubles, definitely. Not shots. This is sipping tequila, served neat, with wedges of lime and a small dish of salt on the side.
He gives a little bow. “Para los amantes del amor,” he says, with a wink. For lovers of love.
Beckett’s eyes lock with mine. “What should we drink to?” I can’t help the way my stomach flips.
I want to drink to “us”, I really do, but I can’t. Not yet.
“To Luna and Noah,” I say. “The newlyweds.”
We clink. We drink.
The tequila is smooth. Almost syrupy. It tastes hot and golden, and warmth immediately blooms inside me.
“I love the dress,” I say. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “It obviously loves you.”
And just like that, my husband's stolen my breath.
Again.
Oh, how I’ve missed that smile. Confident. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Am I blushing? Definitely not.
I take another sip of the tequila and lick my lips.
Then, before I can stop myself, I say, “Gauzy… but not too gauzy. Considering I, uh… didn’t have anything to wear underneath.”
Beckett chokes on his drink. “Ash…”
I shrug, all innocence. “My swimsuit was still wet.”
His brow lifts. “So you’re not wearing—?”
“Nope.” I cross my legs slowly under the table. My toes graze his shin. “It feels good. Breezy.”
And just like that, he’s signaling for the check.