Page 43 of Fire Island (Fire Island #2)

EVIE

Two years later . . .

I t’s hard to believe it’s been two whole years since our quiet little affair with an officiant and our family. On the beach, under the watchful eye of the lighthouse, Cal and I made our only promise official. At sunset, of course. Because why not?

Since then, Pearl had her glow-up, and we have embarked on our round-the-world tour.

Cal and Evie style.

Sunny days, lazy mornings, and more boat sex than you could fit into the smuttiest smut book.

And . . . today’s my birthday.

Thirty.

Urgh, I feel old.

Heavens knows how blessed I am. How many thirty-year-olds have the career of their dreams, can literally sail around the world, and have the man their heart called for?

I do. I can.

Heavens, I will never forget how stinking lucky I am.

Without this man, I’d still be hovering somewhere in the dank shadows of a life of fear.

Or worse.

Now, sunshine soaks into my bones every morning out on deck. I get to watch the best man I’ve ever met in his happy place. The smile he gives me every day the sun sets on another one of our days at sea... I’ll take with me into the next life, I’m sure.

Sitting on the deck on calm waters, I type out my latest romance, one I’ve been dying to tell for the past six months. Another one close to home. I guess I’ll have to change the names. Maybe call them Emerson and Isla.

Too obvious?

I chuckle at myself as Cal walks up the companionway, two coffees in hand.

“Thank you, my love.” I tilt my face to the sun and Cal’s kiss presses down on my lips, the warm mug slides into my waiting hands.

“Happy birthday, baby girl.”

“Thank you.” I sip the coffee, gaze drifting to the glistening light blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.

Swallowing, I wince. The coffee tastes odd.

Cal disappears below deck for a moment, returning with a large box in his hands.

The one I thought was full of non-perishable rations is now wrapped in a navy ribbon ending in an oversized bow.

He sets it at my feet and sinks to the bench seat cushion. “Open it.”

“What on earth did you haul all the way from the last port for my birthday? How are you this organized, Callum McCreary?”

“This one’s special. Go on, open it.” He nods to the box.

I slip from the bench seat to sit by the box as I tug the ribbon undone and slide it away. The last box like this had hundreds of butterflies. But that wouldn’t be the case now, with the open skies above us.

I glance to Cal. The softest, most handsome smile lights his face.

I open the lid, and when nothing flies out to greet me, I push to my knees and peer inside.

“I figured since you like old things, you’ll love this old thing.”

I pluck the tissue paper from the top, tossing it to the deck. My mouth gapes when I see the retro keys. The pale-blue painted metal.

“Oh Cal,” I breathe.

He stands and leans down, lifting the old-school typewriter from the box.

“He’s a heavy little git.” His forearms flex as he squats and places the typewriter in front of me.

I sink to my seat and run a hand over the pearlescent finish, then the black keys.

The chrome return handle gives easily as I try it out, sending the roller round a little.

“You two need a moment?” Cal chuckles, dotting a kiss to the crown of my head.

I look up at him, still stunned. “It’s beautiful, thank you. It’s too much.”

My gut flips as he leans down, tilting my chin up so my eyes level with his. “For you, my love, nothing will ever be enough.”

I tug my bottom lip through my teeth before it slips out on a smile.

“Lunch will be ready in a couple of hours. Get some words in, hey?”

Lunch . . .

“I will,” I reply softly, feeling the remnants of something like nausea at the mention of food.

Returning my focus to the typewriter, I rip a blank page from my journal and wind it through the machine.

I decide to try out a few working titles for my next book.

Tapping the keys, the thrill of them falling away under my fingers as the letters smash against the page...

Urgh, perfect.

The sound of the clickety clack—pure addiction.

My mouth waters, and not in a good way.

I shift on my seat, stretching, hoping a few deep breaths will stave off the discomfort.

It doesn’t.

I retch, slapping my hand to my mouth.

Shit.

My stomach revolts, and I scramble to my feet and make the yacht’s railing. I lose my coffee to the sea.

Footsteps thunder up the companionway. Cal crosses the deck, face tight. Those blue eyes that hold my heart are flooded with worry.

I straighten and think back.

Surely . . .

It’s only after a moment of rough calculations I realize how much time has passed since?—

“Oh my god.” I retch and lean over the rail again. A large, warm hand rubs my back.

“Coffee no good?” he asks.

I breathe through the next wave of nausea and turn back. “Cal, I don’t think it’s the coffee...”

His face tilts a little before it falls with shock. “You—you’re?”

“I think so.”

His hands cup my face a second later. I press mine to his chest. I just threw up, twice.

Pressing his forehead to my own, his jaw feathers. “We having a wee bairn, mo ghràdh?”

“We are,” I breathe.

Tears swell, pooling beneath the blue I adore. I weave my fingers through his beard and smile a wobbly smile, despite the nausea clawing at my insides.

“Well, baby, looks like we’re heading home.” He sounds so damn happy.

“No, it’s our first trip. It’s too soon.” I force myself upright.

“How long do we have?”

“A good five or six months, at a guess.”

“Well, let’s make them count, baby girl.”

Let’s make them count.