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“She’s got this,” Justine says, settling into the beach chair beside me. She’s wearing a white bikini that shows off the tan she’s developed over our three days here, and her hair is sun streaked and pulled back in a messy bun. She looks relaxed, happy, completely at peace in a way that still makes my heart skip sometimes.
But more than that, she looks like she belongs here. With my family, in my world, by my side. Six months ago, I worried she might feel overwhelmed by the chaos of the James-Westbury clan. Now she texts with my mom about baby photos and has standing FaceTime dates with Eden to discuss her surfing technique.
“I hope so,” I say, though I’m confident too. Eden’s been surfing like she’s possessed lately, and the waves here in Bermuda suit her style perfectly.
“Hold still,” Justine says, squeezing sunscreen into her palm. “You’re starting to burn.”
I lean forward slightly as she starts rubbing the lotion across my shoulders, her fingers gentle over the fresh tattoo that covers most of my left shoulder blade. The ink is still healing. We got them done just two weeks after Vegas, during our unofficial honeymoon in Los Angeles.
“Does it still hurt?” she asks, tracing the edge of the design carefully.
“Not anymore. Just tender.” I close my eyes as her hands work across my skin. “I still can’t believe we actually did it.”
“The tattoos or the wedding?”
“Both,” I laugh. “But I was talking about the tattoos.”
She pauses in her ministrations, and I can feel her smile against my back.
“Turn around,” she says, and I shift so she can get my chest and stomach. “I still love watching people’s faces when they realize what this is.”
She’s talking about the small “J” tattooed over my heart, simple black script that matches the “Q” she has on her hip bone. We got them on impulse after finishing the shoulder piece, high on adrenaline, fresh ink, and the reality of being newlyweds.
My tattoo is a shoulder piece that tells our story. A treble clef morphing into sound waves that flow into the Vegas skyline, with our wedding date worked into the design in Roman numerals. It’s intricate, beautiful, and completely worth the eight hours of needle time.
“Speaking of which,” I say, sliding my hand along her waist to where her bikini bottom sits low on her hips, “I still think yours is sexier.”
She swats my hand away, laughing. “We’re in public, Mr. James.”
“So? You’re my wife. I’m allowed to appreciate my wife.”
The word still sends a thrill through me. Wife. After that whirlwind night in Vegas. The show, the proposal, calling Elle at midnight to tell her we needed a wedding planner ASAP. It all feels like a beautiful dream I’m still processing.
“Your wife who will dump this entire bottle of sunscreen on your head if you don’t behave,” she threatens, but she’s grinning.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ll be good. For now.”
She finishes with the sunscreen and settles back in her chair, reaching for her iced coffee. We’re staying at the Fairmont Southampton, and the hotel staff has been incredible. Setting us up with the perfect spot on the beach, making sure we have everything we need to watch Eden’s competition in comfort.
“Look,” Justine says, pointing out at the water. “She’s up.”
I shade my eyes with my hand and watch Eden catch a wave. Even from the beach, I can see why she’s ranked second in the world. Her style is fluid, powerful, combining technical precision with an artistic flair that makes every ride look effortless. She carves up the face of the wave, hits the lip with a perfect snap, and kicks out with a grace that makes it look easy.
“That had to be at least an eight,” I say.
“Eight point five, at least,” agrees a voice behind us. We turn to see Liam approaching, wearing board shorts and a Panama hat, looking every inch the relaxed vacationer despite the fact that he’s technically here on business.
“How’d the meeting go?” I ask as he settles into the chair we saved for him.
“Brilliantly,” he says with a satisfied grin. “The label executives love the rough cuts from your album. They want to fast track the release, get you two on the festival circuit this summer.”
Justine and I exchange a look. We spent two months in Beaumont after Vegas, recording our debut album as a duo. Twelve songs that tell our story from heartbreak to healing to falling in love. Working with Liam as our producer has been a dream, and the music we’ve created together is some of the best work either of us has ever done.
But it wasn’t without its challenges. Two artists used to being leads, learning to share creative control, figuring out whose vision takes precedence when we disagree. We had our first real fight in the studio over the arrangement of “Electric Heart.” I wanted to strip it down acoustic style, she wanted to keep the rock edge. We didn’t speak for three hours until Liam locked us in a room together and told us to figure it out.
That’s when I learned something crucial about my wife: she doesn’t back down from what she believes in, but she also listens. Really listens. We ended up with a version that was better than either of our original ideas.
“What’s the timeline?” Justine asks.