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James stepped out from behind the stand. “This way. Your timing is fortunate. It promises to be a lovely weekend.”

“Unless the sargassum returns,” Julia said.

Despite his plea for a game-time decision, Carson’s unhappy insides agreed.

He didn’t have the stomach for rot, which he’d discovered when Phi Gamma Titan’s basement freezer shorted out. He’d run downstairs to grab burgers and dogs for their Sizzle into Spring cookout, opened the warm freezer, and…

Yeah. He’d never been the same.

James led them to a table near the kitchen’s double doors. “You’ll find the tasting list on the table. Take notes as you sample, and enjoy!”

Carson took the seat across from Julia. “Not enough coffee this morning?”

“What?” She mindlessly circled her thumb around the diamond tattoo inked on her inner forearm. He hadn’t found a way to ask about the diamond, ruby, and sapphire ink without seeming nosy. Or why she touched the diamond so frequently.

“The coffee beans. Chomping raw caffeine is impressive.”

She relaxed her face as she laughed. “I’m not eating them. The beans’ aroma clears the palate. I’m desperate. It’s like seaweed crawled up my nose and died there.”

“Appetizing.” Carson filled their glasses from the table’s carafe of water. “But same.”

Julia sipped. “Ugh, the smell is haunting me. It’s tainted everything.”

The queasiness rolled his stomach again. “Can we stop talking about it?”

“Here we are.” Holly laid a platter on the table.

Amuse-bouche-sized portions of fancy food that looked more like art than appetizer covered its surface. Bright pinks, yellows, oranges, and greens reminded him of Belize’s landscape as they’d driven through winding roads to the hotel yesterday.

Too bad his knotted gut wouldn’t cooperate.

Holly slid a ramekin of coffee beans from the tray to Julia. “And there you are, miss.”

Julia huffed the coffee beans. “Oh, so much better. Here. You’ll thank me.”

She thrust the ramekin at him.

It was worth a shot. He inhaled the robust aroma like he was meditating, and… Huh. All he smelled was coffee. Definitely better than rotting seaweed. Hopefully he’d never encounter another stench situation like this, but that was a handy trick he’d file away for the future.

“Thanks, Holly.” Julia circled her gaze among the bites of food. “What do we have?”

“These are our starter options.” Holly gestured toward the platter.

“We’re known for our catch-of-the-day ceviche, which comprises Belizean-style tiger’s milk, coconut, cilantro, and cherry tomatoes and is served with corn tortilla chips.

Today’s catch is amberjack. Of note—we locally source our ingredients to support the Azul Caye economy. ”

“Love.” Julia noted that on her sheet.

Should he be taking notes? Probably. She had a fetish for them.

Carson scratched amberjack onto his paper.

Holly hovered her hand over the next option.

“Next, breaded Azul shrimps, accompanied by fried yucca, and sweet ginger-chili sauce. Finally, lobster carpaccio, which is finely sliced Caribbean lobster tail marinated in passion fruit, lemongrass, and ginger sauce, served with radish-and-sprouts salad, and complemented with Garifuna yucca bread. Any questions?”

He and Julia both shook their heads.

The descriptions perked up his appetite. Julia’s, too, apparently. She licked her glossy lips, and the tiny gesture sent a jolt to his cock. A woman who savored food was unspeakably hot.

Holly backed away from the table. “Then I’ll leave you to taste.”

“Let’s start with the ceviche.” Julia shoveled the vibrant concoction onto a tortilla chip, then popped it into her mouth. “That’s good . Try it.”

“What’s tiger’s milk?” he asked as he scooped. “Milking a tiger sounds dangerous.”

Julia snorted. “It’s a marinade—lime juice, onions, salt and pepper, chilies, and fish juices. Supposed to be an energy booster and aphrodisiac that makes you feel like a tiger.”

Carson did not need any help in that department.

He popped the chip into his mouth. Whoa, she was right. The rich, buttery flavor of the diced fish contrasted with the bright citrus, and the chilies kicked in heat. Delicious.

“Definitely a contender.” He reached for a shrimp.

“Not yet.” Julia tapped his hand to stop him, which shot another electric current straight below his belt. “Write notes about what you liked. We’ve got a dozen more things to taste. It’ll get muddled if you don’t have notes to jog your memory.”

“Fine.” He jotted what he liked. Julia is bossy. “Now can we try the shrimp?”

“Be my guest.” She helped herself to one.

They both chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed.

As he said, “Meh,” she said, “That’s fantastic.”

“Boo,” he said. “You can get shrimp like that at home. We want local flavor, don’t we?”

“This is local flavor. They caught these shrimp here. And did you boo me?”

“Yes,” he said through a grin. “Write your review, and we’ll argue later.”

He couldn’t wait to huddle with her, knee-to-knee, over a drink in the hotel bar and debate the menu options.

Or, better yet, in their room, they’d park themselves on her bed, and he’d lobby for the ceviche because he’d give anything to watch her eat another bite of it.

Maybe they’d playfully nudge each other, and then…

He’d better start thinking very unsexy thoughts or he’d never get up from this table.

“Does Michelle like seafood?” There. Talking about her mother was unsexy. He speared a forkful of razor-thin lobster carpaccio and braced it against a toast point. “My dad loves it.”

“Oh, that explains why Mom insisted on seafood.” She slipped her own bite of lobster into her mouth.

At which he was staring.

Say something. “Explains what?”

“As soon as my mom sleeps with a guy, boom , she likes whatever he likes. It’s like a sexually transmitted palate.”

He coughed. “Didn’t need that image.”

“Oh, sorry. Were you unaware our parents were sleeping together?”

Ballbuster. “I choose not to think about. Like the plight of the bees or the garbage island out there in the Pacific.”

“Are you comparing older people having sex to environmental disasters?” She helped herself to more ceviche. “Because it’s healthy and expected since they’re sexagenarians. Get it?”

He groaned as he laughed. “Puns are terrible, just awful. Fine, it’s healthy but still not something I want to think about.”

“I hope I have an active sex life when I’m their age. It’d make up for the drought I’ve been in.” She hid her mouth with her napkin. “Forget I said that. It must be the tiger’s milk.”

Of all the unjust things in this world, Julia Stone talking to him about sex while he could do nothing about it topped his list.

“Forgotten,” he said with a strained voice.

“Ready to sample the mains?” Holly asked.

Twenty minutes later, they’d worked through sweet-corn conch kissed by lime juice, rich prawn-and-chorizo risotto, pepper jelly–glazed snapper that was more like honey than heat, and pork tenderloin marinated in Belikin and black recado powder.

For that last one? The consistency was fall-apart perfect.

Belize cuisine was fucking fantastic. At home, he’d never had these foods in these combinations or with these seasonings. Everything was a more confident version of itself.

Much like Julia, actually. From the second they’d landed, she was more relaxed than she was in LA. Disappointed in her sister, yes, but at least she was showing it. In California she’d been all walls. This place was good for her, which made him like it even more.

Throughout the tasting, Julia took a bite, considered it, then jotted notes in her neat cursive. He loved that she took their parents’ wedding seriously, that she was determined not to leave anything to chance.

Julia fiddled with her pencil as she reviewed her notes.

“You have the last bite,” he said. “Which are the front-runners for you?”

“I’m leaning toward the snapper and the pork.” As she reached for the last of the stew, he was rewarded with a glimpse of her pretty pink bra. “Loved the risotto, but if we do shrimp as an appetizer, I don’t want to repeat it with the main.”

“I’m good with that.” Carson circled numbers on his sheet. “We timed this right. This was basically lunch.”

“I could’ve used a few more bites.” Julia pinched shreds of fried banana blossom from the nest under the conch fritters, then popped it into her mouth. “Mom’ll love this because it’s capital- F fancy, but my tastes run simpler. Like the chicken sandwich you brought me last night.”

“We can’t go wrong, no matter what we choose. Everything’s so tasty. Why aren’t there Belizean restaurants in the US?”

“There are. Little Belize is in south LA.” She sipped her water. “The restaurants there are more Maya and Kriol grub. Panades, boil cake, fry jacks, not this cordon bleu version. Which is delicious but not exactly authentic.”

“Can we eat something like that for dinner?” he asked.

She raised her eyebrow. “Didn’t figure you for the street-meat type.”

“Let’s not make assumptions.” He clinked his water with hers. “Cakes are up next.”

“That’s all you. I don’t like cake.”

“You’re a monster.”

She laughed, then circled her gaze around the restaurant. “Ugh, the seating chart. That’ll be a nightmare. We should put our parents at a sweetheart table so I don’t need to sit with Mom.”

“What’s so bad about her?”

From what he could tell, Michelle was high energy. A little self-centered, but actively interested in her daughters. Compared to his mother, she was a saint.

“That question should be paired with wine.” Julia propped her chin on her fist.

His heart thumped his ribs harder than a fastball into a catcher’s mitt.

She’d done that during their tutoring sessions.

Usually when he was supposed to be revising something and she was absorbed in her homework.

Somehow she never figured out he was too busy catching glimpses of her to get anything done.

“Stop dodging,” he said. “If she’s my stepmother, I want the inside scoop.”