Chapter 20
Cami
Time blurs when you’re floating, heady and free, the way we’ve been since the Stars and Stripes Festival.
Nothing but skin and sun strung together like seashells on a string.
Each day folds blissfully into the next, as though we’re on a never-ending honeymoon.
For the last two weeks, we’ve measured time in kitten feedings and stolen glances.
Knox is even working less. Only a couple of hours a day now, whenever he gets to it. Unlike when he was awake before sunrise, in his attic, glued to that laptop the second a pot of coffee brewed.
I’m still not sure what he actually does.
Something in finance, he told me, but that could mean anything from investment bro to digital pirate.
For all I know, he’s some low-key Mafia prince running a syndicate from his attic.
He did buy us burner phones. And he won’t let me pay for anything.
Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter. Real life’s off-limits. That’s our summer deal.
Nonetheless, our mornings stretch longer now. As does the hush we drift through between kisses.
We take walks on the beach, hand in hand.
Compete for prizes at the arcade. Share fries under a striped umbrella, brushing shoulders and stealing kisses.
At home, we eat when we’re hungry. Sleep when we crash.
Lie in bed talking until our voices go hoarse.
Or sometimes, we say nothing, tangled in sheets and each other, fast and breathless, chasing white-hot release—other times, so slow, it feels like falling in reverse.
Stripe and Shadow wake us before dawn most mornings, mewing for milk and cuddles and even more cuddles, like tiny alarms.
Knox grumbles. I laugh. Yet somehow, we never fall back asleep alone.
There’s a rhythm to us.
A warmth that lingers even when we’re apart, like when he goes out for an evening jog.
That’s usually when I catch up with my bestie, stretched out on the couch with hot tea, or a glass of wine, and kittens curled into my hoodie.
Paxton asks questions I don’t answer and makes observations I’m not ready to unpack.
Even then, I tell him enough.
And he reads between the lines for what I don’t say out loud.
“This doesn’t sound casual, girlie,” he said last week, more curious than concerned. “Sounds like you’re accidentally falling for your summer fling. And, honestly? Bad. Bitch. Behavior. Because, like, fuck rules.”
I nearly choked on my wine and told him to stop projecting.
So, of course, he kept going.
“Promise me he’s not some broody tech guy with a Porsche and a five-year plan to emotionally isolate,” he added. “Because your ex gave me Carrie Bradshaw PTSD. Season Six. Post-Aiden.”
I told him Knox runs on sarcasm, black coffee, and vibes. Not a Porsche in sight. And as for emotional isolation? The jury’s still out. Not that it matters. This is a fling. Emotions void by design.
Then I tried to change the subject and asked about his Wall Street intern era, but he stonewalled like he signed an NDA.
“Also…” he added randomly, “Millie showing up early and leaving you homeless with a hot neighbor? That’s forced proximity and the mighty universe soft-launching your relationship. In my opinion. Anywho… I expect updates. And more kitten pics.”
I rolled my eyes. And smiled.
Because, yeah.
Paxton wasn’t wrong.
I came to Crystal Cove to reset. Agreed to this fling to finally feel something again, without the pressure of forever.
Falling is not part of the plan.
In fact, not doing so is clearly spelled out in fine print, our signatures on the dotted line.
But between beach walks, shared routines, and the way his gaze lingers, this feels disarmingly close to real.
And now, here we are on Crystal Cove beach, sun dipped low upon us, casting long, golden shadows across the shore.
We must’ve dozed off like this, on the beach lounger, nestled into powdery sand a few feet down from Knox’s deck, angled perfectly toward the ocean.
I’m tucked between his legs, my back against the solid comfort of his chest, his arms wrapped around me in a casual way that feels anything but.
One hand rests at my thigh while the other sketches slow, aimless shapes across my arm.
Stripe and Shadow chirp from their shady “beach” playpen a few steps away, alternating between playing and napping, stretched out in the filtered light. At six weeks old, they’re floating, too. Bolder. Louder. Always tumbling into trouble.
Just like us, they’re learning how to fall without thinking too hard about the landing.
A breeze lifts my hair and carries a hint of citrus from the shampoo I used during our shower this morning.
Each time I inhale, I catch the scent of him behind me.
Each time I exhale, I forget what it ever felt like to be anywhere else.
We haven’t spoken in a while.
But with him, silence feels like a conversation we’re in no rush to finish.
Knox shifts slightly beneath me, his lips grazing my hairline.
“Hey.” He sounds sexy and scratchy from sleep.
“Hi,” I whisper back, smiling against his skin.
I tip my head just enough to look up at him, his eyes heavy-lidded but focused. On me.
Fingers trail down my side, brushing the thin line of my bikini.
“Wish we could freeze time. Just you, me, the sun, this heat between us, and nothing else.”
“Me too,” I whisper, heart pounding.
I twist slightly, shifting forward, nudging his nose with mine, letting our kiss build slowly.
His hand slides lower, inside my suit, and I gasp, like it’s the first time his finger has ever circled my clit.
“You’re always so wet for me,” he says, husky with desire.
I hum against his mouth, tongue swiping his bottom lip. “Takes a talented man to wreck a girl with one kiss.”
“If you keep rocking and moaning like that, I might forget we’re outside.”
“As if that’s ever stopped you…”
He groans, one hand sliding to my waist as he shifts us effortlessly, rolling me beneath him with a slow, practiced ease that steals my breath.
“But never in broad daylight,” he growls, sexy as all hell. “Slide your hips like that again, Bubble Girl, and I’m ripping this bikini off and taking you right here.”
“That a promise or a bluff?” I ask, already moving against him like I want him to prove it, my hands roaming his back, savoring how his muscles shift and tighten beneath my touch.
“Promise,” he grits out, rocking his hard length against me with a slow, claiming grind. “And you’re about to feel every damn inch of it.”
Our mouths collide again, and we’re unraveling, seconds from making the sun blush and slip behind a curtain of clouds.
Clothing shifts beneath desperate hands—his swim trunks pushed low on his hips, my bikini bottom tugged to the side—urgency crashing over us like a rogue tsunami.
His knuckles skim bare skin above my waist, sparking a current that has my hips chasing more. “Cami…”
Until—
Crunch.
Tires on gravel.
We freeze at the sound, breaths still tangled, Millie and crew, back from their day at the Farmer’s Market.
“And…the Trouble Triplets have returned,” Knox mutters, dropping his head to my shoulder with a groan. “We were so close.”
I can’t help the laughter bubbling up because, just like that, our moment bursts, heat giving way to hilarity. Lips still tingling. Body still buzzing. A guilty you caught us look probably pinned to our faces.
Millie waves from the top of the porch, sunhat askew, paper bags loaded like she raided a gourmet bunker. “We bought wine, cheese, steaks, and corn on the cob for the grill,” she calls, beaming. “So you summer lovers should round up those kittens and get over here. We’re having a barbecue!”
Knox groans, lips gently grazing my neck. “Did she just call us summer lovers?”
“Mmm-hm,” I say, biting back a grin, fingers curled in his hair.
Margo shields her eyes and squints toward us. “Millie’s got enough food in those bags to feed the entire homeowners’ association.”
Elena snorts. “And once we open that rosé and put on some tunes, I’m not responsible for my dance moves.”
I reach for my sundress. “We’d better head over.”
“Why don’t you go first?” Knox suggests, sitting upright on the sand now, adjusting himself under a towel like a man personally victimized by their timing. “I need a minute to, uh…compose myself.”
I arch a brow, not even trying to hide my amusement. “Poor thing.”
“Better come inside before the sun burns something important,” Elena teases, hands cupped around her mouth.
“Or before the seagulls start filming,” Margo adds. “You know they gossip.”
Knox squints toward the porch, then sighs like he’s questioning every decision that led him here. “Why are we still fraternizing with the locals?”
I chuckle, tugging my sundress over my hips. “Because they’re giving Golden Girls energy, and we’re their lucky audience.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “Remind me later to question your taste in TV shows.”
“You weren’t questioning it last night when we were yelling answers at Jeopardy.”
His brows hike north. “You were naked and straddling me, Cami.”
“Right. And we both finished with a high score.” I kiss his cheek. “Don’t forget the fur babies.”
Inside Millie’s house, the cool air slaps the sun and sin off my skin.
I tug at the hem of my dress, heart fluttering, head light, heat still rushing through me from what almost happened.
Armed with a comically large knife, Millie stands in the kitchen, slicing watermelon, humming to a tune only she seems to know. Margo and Elena are unpacking grocery bags nearby, their laughter floating like background music.
Millie glances up as I cross the threshold, one knowing brow arched in a way that says I know exactly what you were doing. “Well, well,” she says, slicing clean through the melon’s rind. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything…private.”
My cheeks feel hot. “We were just—”