Chapter 12
Knox
“I made a huge mistake.”
My jaw tightens, the urge to hang up nearly boiling over. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
“I should’ve asked for more time.” Jenna The Ex whines, sounding even more high-pitched than I care to remember. “The movers can’t get me out until October. I didn’t plan for—”
“Jenna…” I exhale, stepping through Seaside Market’s automatic doors as a blast of A/C hits, useless against the heat rising under my skin. “We had a deal.”
“You expect me to have some moving truck parked outside the penthouse during peak wedding season? People will talk. I can’t risk my brand getting dragged through mud because of…what happened.”
What happened?
Like I didn’t walk in and see it for myself. As though her betrayal was some vague, unfortunate event; a PR crisis one of her friends could spin away.
I grab a basket and head for the produce aisle, jaw tighter, heart thudding in time with my steps.
“You’ve been given the entire summer to find a new place, pack up, and leave,” I say, clipped yet somehow calm.
“Everything but your antique chest’s already been sold by the brokers—per the divorce decree you agreed to.
We’ll split all proceeds, remember? Buyers come the first week of September, so unless a moving truck will be hauling your shoes, coats, and designer bags, I’m not sure what you’ll need one for. ”
She’s quiet on the other end, but I can picture her now: hand at her temple, eyes closed, already scripting a version where she’s forced to vacate too soon by her cold, unyielding ex.
Classic Jenna. Forever the victim, never the architect, always preserving perception over impact.
She once canceled our anniversary dinner at the last minute because L’Abeille’s decor didn’t match her brand palette.
As far as I’m concerned, you don’t spin a breach. You face it. Calculate the damage. Move. Forward.
Which is exactly what this summer in Crystal Cove is about.
Me moving on. Me letting go. And now…with Cami, finally feeling something for someone actually worthy of it.
She doesn’t stage her feelings. Doesn’t flinch from the truth.
And being around her doesn’t feel like a risk.
It feels like a relief. Even if only temporary.
“You sold it…all?” Jenna finally asks, her tone brittle with disbelief.
Her feigned surprise shouldn’t shock me, but it does.
Did she honestly think I’d hold on? That some part of me would stay tethered to our once-was?
Like I’m supposed to leave remnants of our life untouched, lying in wait, just in case I ever decide to forgive her and crawl back to the glossy lie we called a marriage?
Truth is, I let go the second I walked into our kitchen and saw someone else’s hands cupping my wife’s breasts.
The crystal-clear moment when the life I believed in got ambushed by a grenade.
The moment I stopped being her loving partner and became her sworn enemy.
Her wedding-planner brand. Her curated lifestyle. None of it was about the work. It was about the image.
And cheating on me? That wasn’t about what I’d lacked.
All of it was—still is—about feeding her ego.
Power, control, manipulation, all wrapped in plastic smiles, overpriced venues, and bespoke hashtags.
Her infidelity ended up being the best-worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Yes, sold it all,” I answer, ready to end our call. “Because there’s no sense living in the past, Jenna.”
“Wow. Figured you’d at least let me keep a few things. But I guess you’re still bitter.”
She waits on the line, as if on standby for a response, but I’ve nothing more to offer.
Jenna sighs, the kind meant to be heard. “I’ll be out by the end of August.”
I don’t respond. Just end the call and slip my phone into my back pocket, the hum of overhead lights and classic rock music pulling my focus to the dairy aisle.
Jenna fades to static, a dull interference not worth tuning into.
What is worth tuning into? Tonight.
Beach. Wine. Cami.
Our second date.
I grab a pint of heavy cream and toss it into the basket beside garlic, linguine, lemon, and a small bouquet of tulips. I don’t know if Cami’s a shrimp person or a clams person, but after watching her inhale that lobster roll like a convert at a seafood revival, either one will work.
Still, I should check.
I pull out my phone to send her a text. Then pause.
That’s right.
No phone numbers. One of our rules.
Only now, I really want to text her.
Ask her what she prefers. Send a photo of a few options.
Simply…connect.
In the checkout line, my gaze catches a display of prepaid flip phones. Talk and text. No browser. No apps. No strings.
Perfect for a summer bubble.
I grab two. One silver. One black.
I’m not sure if this makes me nostalgic or pathetic. Probably both.
But bending the rules isn’t the same as breaking them.
Cami answers the door, more radiant than ever in a black bikini top and matching sheer skirt, ebony waves cascading over her bare, bronzed shoulders.
“Can’t believe you’re actually picking me up. We’re only walking down to the beach.”
With one shoulder leaning against the door frame, I let my gaze sweep over her. “Call me old-school. I believe a man should pick his date up at the door.”
She arches her brow. “So…is this the part where you hand me a corsage?”
I reach behind my back and reveal a small bouquet of pink tulips, stems still cool from Seaside Market’s fridge. “Close enough?”
Her eyes light up as she takes them, fingers grazing mine, stirring something low in my gut. “Lucky for you, tulips are my favorite.”
She glances down at the flowers, then back up at me with a look that lingers a beat too long. “Come in. I don’t know where Ms. Palmer keeps her vases, but there’s no way I’m letting these beauties rot on the counter.”
I follow her inside, citrus-scented air wrapping around us as she heads toward the kitchen. My eyes lock on the sheer, black skirt, the bikini thong beneath accentuating every smooth curve of her ass—so tempting, it makes my cock twitch.
Cami opens a few cabinets, shrugs, then grabs a tall glass. “Not exactly Pinterest-worthy, but it works.” She fills it with water and arranges the tulips with quiet focus.
“I bet you’d make a rusted coffee tin look like art.” I step in behind her, my declaration brushing her ear.
I slide my arms around her waist, palms splaying against her stomach, as I draw her gently back against me.
She sets the glass down and slowly turns, eyes lifting to meet mine.
Her fingers trail across my chest, a barely-there touch that makes the air crackle between us.
“Thank you for the flowers. And for picking me up at the door,” she says, long lashes fluttering.
Cami’s gaze holds mine, tender, like she’s weighing what might happen if she leans in just one inch more.
Her breath catches between us, and we hover close, lingering until our lips meet, unhurried, a whisper of what we both want but aren’t letting ourselves have.
Not yet, anyway.
My hands tighten at her waist, our bodies drawn tight together.
For a beat, neither of us moves, like we’re silently daring the other to cross a line neither of us agreed to.
“You ready?” I ask.
She exhales, just as wrecked. “Lead the way, handsome.”
Side by side, we walk downhill, the familiar crunch of sand underfoot, a sliver of moonlight carving silver across the water.
Shadow and Stripe’s playpen is already staked near the dunes, the spoiled kittens curled inside with a couple of plush toys and a tiny dish of formula. Yesterday’s checkup went well. Dr. Ochoa called them “two healthy little loaves of attitude.” He’s not wrong.
Both lift their heads as we approach, ears twitching, eyes tracking us like observant teachers taking attendance.
Cami veers off course with a quiet gasp. “Hi, babies,” she coos, crouching beside the pen. “Are you supervising?”
Stripe lets out a squeak, batting at Cami’s fingers through the mesh. Shadow rolls onto her back dramatically, stretching as if the attention is owed to her.
“She’s got diva energy.” Cami grins as she reaches through the top to gently stroke between Shadow’s ears. “Total firstborn behavior.”
I shake my head. “You realize they’re beyond spoiled now.”
“Thanks to you,” she teases.
Cami glances at the setup—blanket, candles shielded by hurricane jars, two glasses, a bottle of white chilling in a small cooler, and a lidded food warmer beside it—and beams.
“This is…perfect,” she says, somewhere between touched and amused.
“Thought we could go for a quieter vibe tonight. Just us and the waves.” I grab the bottle of wine and pour us both a glass. “Dinner’s shrimp linguine. I swear I’m not trying to impress you.”
A smile stretches across her face as she toes off her sandals, then settles onto the blanket. “You failed miserably because I am absolutely impressed.”
She reaches for her wineglass, the candlelight catching on the curve of her lingering smile. “So…shrimp linguine on the beach? Is this your signature move, or am I just the first lucky recipient?”
I arch a brow, spooning generous helpings of pasta onto both plates. “Let’s just say this is uncharted territory.”
Cami tilts her head, curious in a way that’s sincere. “Uncharted, as in…you don’t usually have dinner and wine on the beach?”
Handing her a plate, I try not to stare though she makes that damn near impossible. “Uncharted, as in, I don’t do this at all.”
I swirl some pasta onto my fork, then shrug.
“My ex hated the beach. Complained that sand got everywhere and said the ocean smelled like fish.” I glance out at the waves, then back at Cami.
“She hated this town. Didn’t even want to see the place when my grandparents gave me the house as a wedding gift. ”
Cami’s fork stills midway to her mouth, her expression unreadable for a beat.
“She actually told me to sell it,” I add, quieter this time. “Thought it was ‘quaint’ as if that could ever be a bad thing.”