Chapter 4
BEN
“I thought it was your last night, Sunshine.”
She stops mid-stride in the center of the hotel’s lobby, towel slung over her shoulder, brown sunglasses pushed up in her hair. The sunlight hits her from behind, catching the stray curls escaping the bun at the nape of her neck, and for a second I forget what I was going to say.
I’m already two cups of coffee in this morning, having woken up too early and doom-scrolled my phone for what felt like hours while the sun came up.
I should’ve gone for a walk on the beach like any normal person on vacation, but instead I sat on the bed, half-watching muted resorts TV, because somehow being outside by myself felt lonelier than staying in.
Now here she is, cutting across the lobby like she owns it, and before my brain can catch up, my mouth is running.
“It was,” she says flatly as she turns toward me. Her eyes flicker with recognition, then she rolls them. I think I hallucinate a small quirk of her lips, but it could be the caffeine making me see things.
And I don’t blame her. If she is, in fact, smiling, it’s definitely at my expense.
I’m standing here in a long-sleeve rash guard, board shorts, and—judging by the tight itch across my cheeks—probably streaks of white zinc sunscreen my sister forced on me.
My flight from Dallas to New York City was delayed due to weather, so I’d asked her to stop by the drugstore and grab a few essentials I still needed.
“Perfect for sensitive skin,” she’d said while slipping it into my bag the night before leaving for this trip.
She wasn’t wrong, but it doesn’t exactly scream effortlessly cool.
“You changed your mind?” I say, trying to sound casual but I know my nosy is coming out.
“About what?”
“Leaving.” I nod toward the tour guide standing just at the end of the lobby in the direction of the beach. “Pretty sure you said last night was it. And your friends were definitely partying like it was the last night here.”
“I did say that, yes.” She adjusts the towel on her shoulder. “Then I signed up for a dive.”
“Spontaneous,” I say, impressed. “I like it.”
“It’s not a personality trait,” she deadpans.
God, she’s quick. Sharp edges that slice clean, no hesitation. I kind of dig it.
I fall into step beside her before I’ve even decided if I should.
Up close, she’s about my height—taller than I expected, with fine-lined tattoos scattered around her arms: birds, flowers, maybe stars.
The kind of art that could mean something or nothing at all.
Freckles scatter across her nose, catching the morning light.
There’s a softness to her shape, a quiet confidence in the way she moves that makes her look entirely at ease in her own skin. “Funny coincidence. I’m signed up too.”
She side-eyes me, skeptical. “You dive?”
“Snorkel,” I admit. “The lightweight version. Less gear, less risk of me embarrassing myself.”
Her mouth twitches, but she bites it back, like smiling at me would cost too much.
“Figures,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
She walks around a group of people and out into the sunlight, and I follow, instantly sweating. “You don’t seem like the type who likes to be underwater and quiet.”
I laugh. “You’re not wrong. Silence and I don’t always get along.”
“Shocking,” she mutters, but I catch the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth. This time, it’s not a hallucination.
We follow the guide through the open-air path that winds past the pool deck and down toward the pier. The ocean grows louder with every step, and the smell of salt and humidity is thick in the air.
The pier is crowded, groups already gathering, the salt air heavy with sunscreen and diesel from the boat. Divers on one side, snorkelers on the other. The instructor barks out instructions in English and Spanish, corralling everyone into pairs.
Naturally, I end up next to her.
There’s a young kid walking around handing out life vests to everyone on the dock, and assisting people as he moves alongside. Sol fastens her vest, pulling the strap tight, and glances at me. “Do you always follow strangers on vacation?”
“Only the ones who are a little mean to me.” I tug at the sleeve of my rash guard and slide a couple of fingers through my cheek, lifting the corner of my mouth ever so slightly as she studies me.
“You deserve it,” she says smoothly.
“Fair.” I pause, then add, “Although I was told this makes me look ‘sporty.’”
She snorts, adjusting her vest and setting her tote on the floor while we wait to board. “By who? Your dermatologist?”
“Close. My sister. She’s basically my stylist.”
That laugh—quick, low—slips out before she can stop it. She shakes her head like she regrets giving it to me and turns in the direction of the boat, effectively cutting me off after she gave me that.
We shuffle toward the boat together, caught in the current of the group. The deck is slick as we move, and there’s a joyful ambiance to the air, because everyone is here on vacation. Couples fuss with each other’s straps, kids squeal, someone already dropped something into the water.
And me? I keep sneaking glances at her.
She’s different from last night. Quieter. Not hiding, exactly, but… steadier. Focused on herself, instead of the spectacle. And in the middle of the chaos, it makes her stand out even more.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her this much. She’s not interested. She said she’s leaving. And even if she wasn’t, I know how this goes. I lean in too fast, too much, and eventually, people pull back. It’s the story of every almost-relationship I’ve had.
So no.
No way.
But when we finally arrive at our destination and we slip into the water, the group splits—divers head in first, snorkelers after.
She adjusts her gear and checks in with her instructor, hair already plastered to her cheek from the spray.
There’s a flicker of excitement in her eyes—something open and unguarded—and it hits me harder than it should.
I watch as she disappears beneath the surface in a clean, practiced motion, a trail of silver bubbles breaking behind her. Then she’s gone, swallowed by the crystalline blue.
The rest of us drift nearby, faces down, scanning coral and schools of fish. It’s quiet, peaceful, the kind of silence that makes me too aware of my own breathing. And still, I keep glancing toward where she went under, waiting for that flash of her brown hair.
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s something else.
When she finally surfaces twenty minutes later, she pulls off her mask, cheeks flushed from the salt and sun, and laughs at something the instructor says. It’s an easy, genuine sound, and I catch myself smiling before I even realize it.
And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
Which is exactly why I need to stay out of trouble.