Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The first thing Bea learned about Westhelm was that it did not believe in modesty.
“You could land a helicopter on that lawn,” Lillian said, craning her neck out of the window of the luxury minivan that had arrived to pick them up.
Naomi’s house rose behind the gates with the serene confidence of something that had nothing left to prove. It was made of stately red brick, with dark shutters and symmetry that bordered on pompous.
Bea stepped out into a chorus of voices, luggage thudding onto gravel, heels scraping.
Isabel pulled her into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and airport air.
Georgina materialized beside her, dragging a tote that must have bullied its way past airline policy. Lillian was already filming the scene.
“Okay, I feel underdressed,” Bea announced.
“Yeah, the hedges are definitely judging us,” Isabel agreed.
“They’ve seen worse,” Naomi said, coming down the front steps, wearing a cream knee-length sheath dress that gave serious first lady vibes.
Charles followed in his business shirt, jacket draped over one arm like he’d just arrived home in time to greet them. He shook hands with Rafael, Max, Laurent, Hunter—and Cassian, whose presence at the terminal had been unexpected.
Bea felt Rafael behind her like a sixth sense. He joined the conversation, the greetings, but the hair on the back of her neck prickled, telling her his attention never fully left her.
Charles motioned toward the door. “Come inside before all our security starts twitching.”
She glanced back at the human wall surrounding them. Cain, Channing, and Voss held their formation. Every one of her friends, except Lillian, had one or two of their own. It was nearly comedic that this was her life now.
Naomi led them through the foyer into a living room with wood-paneled ceilings. Built-ins lined the walls filled with porcelain that read as inherited rather than curated, and light poured in from twelve-foot-tall windows.
“So this is how the other half lives,” Bea breathed.
“It’s not a hundred feet from the surf,” Charles said wryly, with a sidelong look at Rafael. “But we make do.”
They moved as a loose, bright tide through the home. Bea trailed her fingers along banisters worn smooth by decades of powerful hands. The terrace stretched wide all the way along the back of the house.
“That’s a pool,” Max commented. “Just shy of Olympic regulation.”
By the time they looped back to the central hall, the women’s energy had climbed by decibels. Plans were being made, far more than their three-night stay could accommodate. The men listened with practiced patience. They were used to this.
Naomi clapped her hands. “Rooms.”
Bea’s first, mildly cynical thought was that this was technically Charles’ house, but he didn’t interrupt as she assigned them. The two single men had ground-floor apartments. Lillian’s was in the upstairs corner, with Isabel’s across the hall. Georgie and Hunter were in the suite with the balcony.
“Ground floor?” Laurent lifted a brow. “You’re not worried I’ll raid the wine cellar at midnight?”
Charles gave Naomi the floor.
“If you do,” Naomi said calmly, “you’re cleaning the pool in the morning.”
Laurent grinned. “Understood.”
Naomi led them to a door at the far end of the upstairs hall. “You and Rafael are in here,” she said. “Fiancés get the most privacy.”
Bea stiffened. Her eyes darted to Rafael. He wasn’t looking at the room, he was looking at her. His expression was calm, but the upward slant at his cheeks said everything.
She turned, half ready to object—
His hand closed firmly around hers and her fingers curled back before she could think. “Thanks, Naomi. This is perfect.” He tugged her inside.
“Come down in an hour for some fun,” Naomi called after them. Then, teasing, “Or if you’re already having fun…don’t come down at all.”
Rafael shut the door behind them and set the bags on the dresser.
Bea took in the room in a single, helpless sweep. The bed was wide enough to fit three grown adults. And yet every part of her knew: they’d find the center.
“We should talk about this arrangement.” At least her voice sounded steady.
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Lingered. Moved lower. Came all the way back up. Like he was deciding where to start if she let him.
“Which part?” he asked.
“The part where we agreed to abstain.”
“We agreed no sex.” He faced her fully. “We didn’t say no proximity.”
She pointed to the offending furniture. “You really think we can sleep in that bed without crossing a line?”
She didn’t even know what she wanted him to say. Her whole body felt like a tripwire.
Rafael stepped closer. “I’m not crossing a line by sleeping beside the woman I’m marrying.”
Her pulse jumped as the room had narrowed to the inch between them. The soft threat of the bed behind her, the fact that no one would interrupt.
“You know I don’t like it when I can’t think,” she muttered.
“Then stop trying to outthink what you feel.” His hand came up, slow enough to ask, sure enough to assume, and his thumb brushed the underside of her jaw. “Distance isn’t helping either of us. And it’s the only thing here that’s hurting you.”
The air between them crackled.
“So we’re going to enjoy this weekend,” he continued, other hand settling at her waist. “And we’re going to sleep in the same bed. You feel worse when I’m not there.”
It was unfair how true that was. Her thighs squeezed together without warning, her breath catching as his touch tightened by a fraction, as if he’d felt it too.
He waited, patient in the way that wasn’t patience at all.
She exhaled. “Fine.”
Bea paused at the top of the terrace steps, one hand on the stone rail. Half a dozen bodies already dotted through the pool, splashing and calling to one another. In the UR, summer liked to linger, which made swimming possible even with dinnertime creeping closer.
She tugged once at the waistband of her board shorts. She’d almost left them off. Had stood in the bathroom debating it like it was a moral dilemma. Georgina, Isabel, and Naomi were exactly as expected in their bikinis. The men were shirtless, confidence worn as easily as skin.
She spotted Lillian floating past on an oversized flamingo. Since it wasn’t peak UV hour, she’d left off her rashguard and wore a one-piece swimsuit, but she also had board shorts on. Bea sighed, wanting to thump her chest in solidarity. Good old Lils.
“Bey!” Georgie called. “What took you so long?”
Courage. Mental preparation. She called back: “Wardrobe.”
She started down the steps. Rafael was at the edge closest to the house, one knee bent, forearm hooked behind him. Sun lit up the long lines of his body—tanned, lean, impossible to ignore. His eyes tracked her. Her knees gave a traitorous little wobble but she forced them to keep moving.
For half a second she considered detouring toward Isabel, who was lounging on a pool bed across the way.
Not because she really wanted the separation, but because denying Rafael closeness had become a perverse kind of survival reflex.
Except…it had been weeks since she’d seen that much of him, and what she really wanted to do was sit in his lap.
So of course she did the thing which made zero sense and hovered awkwardly in the middle.
“Game time,” Laurent announced, dragging a hand through his dark blond hair, droplets scattering in the late sun.
Groans and protests rose at once.
“No,” Isabel said. “Whatever it is, no.”
“Relax,” Laurent replied. “It’s an easy one. Piggyback race in the shallow end. One carrier, one rider.”
Georgina gasped. “Oh, I love this game.”
Hunter grinned. “You would.”
“Everyone in?”
Agreement rippled through the pool.
Laurent lifted one finger. “Girls carry.”
The pool went quiet.
“Equality, right, ladies?” he prodded.
Charles cleared his throat. “My wife’s never carried me.”
Naomi pushed wet hair off her forehead and tapped her husband on the shoulder. “Are you suggesting I can’t?”
Charles’ nostrils flared like he was holding back those exact words. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Georgie rallied. “Ladies, if Pilates has ever meant anything, it’s meant for this moment.”
Bea turned to Rafael. Six foot three of solid muscle. Her core attempted to flee the premises.
That familiar, lethal amusement surfaced. “You don’t have to.”
“Of course I do,” she said, already marching over to him. They hit the water, cool snapping around her ribs. Rafael moved in behind her without splashing, hands hovering at her hips but not touching yet.
“Pair up!” Laurent ordered. “Unless you’re not man enough to be carried by a girl.”
It was a ridiculous taunt. It worked immediately.
Bea scanned around her, then doubled back in surprise.
Cassian Montenegro was taking off his glasses. He set them carefully on a nearby chair, then crossed the deck, without hurrying, straight to Lillian’s flamingo.
“Looks like you’re carrying me,” he said. It wasn’t phrased as a question.
Lillian stared at him, lips parting. Whatever she’d been about to say seemed to evaporate under his gaze. “I—what?”
Cassian crouched, forearms braced on his knees. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Bea bit her tongue.
“No. I can.” It didn’t come out as a squeak.
Well done, Lils.
“Positions!” Isabel called.
“Rafael, do try not to squash Bea,” Georgie instructed brightly. “She’s travel-sized.”
“Hey! I’m standing right here,” Bea protested.
“I trust you with my weight,” she overheard Max say to Isabel.
“At least one of us does,” Isabel deadpanned, turning around. “If anything happens, don’t let me get lowballed by Naomi’s insurance.”
Bea turned and, because she had no self-respect, let her gaze drop.
Rafael’s torso was carved, brutal; the veins lining his arms were their own siren song.
Had he been doing extra reps? She made a mental note to buy herself a very comfortable chair for the gym at their beach house, because she intended to spend a lot of time in it watching him work out.