The smell of the ocean carries in the breeze, and I close my eyes as I breathe it in. For a second, I get a whiff of leather, citrus, and spice.
That happens sometimes—I think I smell Preston.
I’ve never told Dr. Fairmont about feeling like Preston is still around, but she’s talked about grief a lot. Said everyone deals with it differently and there’s no right or wrong way.
If only Preston could see me now. Shedding my worst fear to enjoy paradise. He’d be so proud.
As I walk forward, I look around at the deserted private beach. In both directions, the sand stretches on for miles. Most of it is flat and undisturbed, but there’s an unnatural-looking pile closer to the water. Squinting, I go toward it.
A sandcastle?
There’s a single spire about two feet tall, and when I’m just a few steps away from it, I realize it’s not a castle.
It’s a lighthouse.
I swallow hard.
I barely even notice how close I’ve gotten to the waves crawling up the beach until one touches the creation. As water tends to do with sand, it makes part of the structure crumble into a wet heap. The tower starts to tip.
“No,” I burst out, dropping to my knees to catch it.
When the damp sand hits my hand, it loses its form and falls through my fingers.
Destroyed. Ruined.
I sit still, breathing hard as I wonder if I can possibly put it back together again. I’ve never played in sand before—at least, not that I can remember. But I’ve sculpted a little. 3-D art isn’t my forte, but whoever made this lighthouse worked hard. I can’t bear the thought of it being gone.
Letting the next wave of water sweep over my fingers, I scoop up big handfuls of sand and pile them onto the mound. I pat it and mold it, but I’m getting frustrated because I won’t be able to replicate what it was before.
“You found it,” an all-too-familiar voice says behind me. My back stiffens as he continues, “I’ve been building one every day for you. We can make another one tomorrow.”
I glance over my shoulder, and I blink, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me. Or maybe I’m dreaming again.
Balling my fists, I let my fingernails dig into my palms and I soak up the sting. Sure feels real, but I don’t see how it could be.
Preston’s standing just feet away from me.
His black pants are rolled up to mid-calf as the water rushes over his ankles and feet. A black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off displays his arms and shoulders. His skin is darker, like he’s been out in the sun a lot.
My eyes lift to his face, and my breath catches in my throat when he smiles. That little gap between his teeth is still just as adorable as I remember it, but it’s not his mouth that has me mesmerized.
His eyes.
Although they’re shadowed, they smolder with a familiar desire only my husband can express with just one look.
Jen had a hard time getting me to agree to the plan she and Ivan cooked up, but they had the advantage because I was basically on death’s door. After my surgery, I was in a medically induced coma for several days. By the time I woke up in a private government hospital, news of my death had spread, and Donovan was still on the loose.
I was too weak to get out of bed, let alone hunt him down, so I was basically at the FBI’s mercy. I was counting on them to make things right and keep Rosalie safe.
I didn’t want to go anywhere without my wife, and I definitely didn’t want to let her believe I’d died. But Donovan has been a slippery fucker for the FBI. He’s gotten off on technicalities and walked when he shouldn’t have.
We need to nail his ass, once and for all.
“Preston.” Rosalie’s voice is just a faint whisper in the breeze, but it slides over my skin like a caress.
Goose bumps break out all over my arms, and the hair on the back of my neck stands. Memories of Rosalie exploring my body come to me like they have every minute of every day we’ve been apart, and they have the same effect they always do.
My nipples prick, my stomach swoops, and my cock stiffens.
She’s finally here, kneeling at my feet. She’s in tight jeans and a pink T-shirt. She’s still disturbingly thin, and I wonder if she’s been eating and taking care of herself.
One of my biggest concerns this entire time has been Rosalie’s emotional state. In all the pictures Jen has sent, Rosalie’s hair is always in disarray, like she barely brushes it after a shower.
The last orange rays of the day make Rosalie look like a golden goddess with her wild strands whipping about. Most of the brown dye has faded, leaving her locks a dark blond. Since it isn’t tied back, wisps blow across her face.
Her bare, pale, tear-streaked face.
God, I can’t imagine the hell she’s been through. It’s been bad for me, too, but at least I knew she was okay because I got daily updates from the FBI team.
Didn’t stop me from missing her so much it hurt.
“Baby,” I rasp out.
“Are you here?” Staggering to her feet, Rosalie takes a step toward me.
“I am.”
“You died.” Two more steps.
“I did flatline on the table during surgery, but I pulled through. I’m alive, minus a spleen.” I flex my hand. “And I just got my cast off last week.”
“I went to your memorial.”
“I know,” I say, my heart squeezing from seeing Rosalie’s pain.
Her blue and green eyes flit about my body, as if she thinks I’m a mirage.
A sobbing breath shudders out of her. “Tell me something real?”
“I’m alive. I’m okay.” I gently frame her face with my hands, and she quivers at the contact. “I love you, and I never want to be apart from you again.”
Slowly reaching for me, her fingers splay out on my abdomen where I was shot. She pushes my shirt up, and she makes a desperate noise in the back of her throat when she touches the gnarly scar I’ve got.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not much anymore.”
She flings herself at me, knocking the air from my lungs. Wrapping her arms around my middle, she rubs her face on my chest. Soaks my shirt with her tears. She’s clinging to me so hard, her fingernails might be tearing holes in my shirt, but I don’t care.
I can’t get enough of her.
Running my hands up her back, I tangle my fingers in her hair. Tonight, I’m going to weave it into a braided masterpiece. I’m going to taste every inch of her skin and make love to her like it’s the first time.
I can tell the moment Rosalie’s happiness turns into rage. Rage over the fact that she’s been deceived. Anger for how much grief she’s suffered.
She goes rigid against me and glares up with red-rimmed eyes. “How could you do it? How could you let me think you were dead?”
“I had to, Rosie.”
“You lied.” She pushes away from me. “Everyone lied to me.”
“Bridgette and Mason didn’t. Even your therapist believes I died in the hospital. Jen and her team are the only people back home who know I survived. Well, and the surgeon who operated on me. But he’s being called in as a witness, too, so he’s part of this.”
“I had to go to your memorial, Preston,” Rosalie says, her voice full of anguish. “I have your ashes in a fucking urn.”