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CONNOR

A ll good things must come to an end.

One minute, I was slow dancing with my wife under the stars, pretending we were the kind of people who have peaceful honeymoons.

The next, Gram was leading a drunken singalong, trying to convince the boat crew to let her steer while whisper-yelling to Allie that “Captain Jimmy has great hip flexibility for a man with a titanium knee.”

I’m going to need therapy.

Or tequila.

Probably both.

Allie and I called it a night after we snuck away, and she gave me a blow job on the cruise. Then I made her moan so loud I was afraid we’d get arrested.

We’re holding hands beneath a velvet-black sky when we head back to the bungalow.

The ocean breeze drifts through the open windows.

I’m brushing my teeth while Allie lounges in bed wearing my shirt and nothing else, looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had come to life.

She’s watching me, heart-eyes locked and loaded.

“You’re staring again,” I say around a mouthful of foam.

“Isn’t that a wife’s job?” she teases, dragging her gaze down my body like she’s mentally undressing me.

“You’re doing a great job,” I tell her. “Your face is making that soft little expression. It’s disgustingly cute.”

“You love it.”

“Tragically, I do.”

I rinse and head to bed, sliding in next to her.

She curls against me instantly, warm and soft, like she was built to fit here.

“You okay, baby?” I murmur.

“Mmhmm.” She turns in my arms, facing me. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

I raise a brow. “You’re lucky?”

She laughs. “Okay, we’re lucky.”

“Better.”

I kiss her soft and slow. Her hand slides down my stomach while mine trails under the hem of her shirt.

We start to heat up fast.

My hand slips under the waistband of her underwear when?—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Followed by Gram screeching like she’s auditioning for a horror movie. “GUYS, WAKE UP! I THINK I’M IN LOVE!”

I let out a strangled noise and throw my arm over my face. “I’m gonna kill her.”

Before either of us can react, the door flies open and she marches inside.

I need to figure out a way to barricade that damn thing.

She stumbles in wearing a bedazzled robe, a Captain’s hat, and sunglasses.

Her hair is wild, her lipstick is crooked, and she’s holding a half-eaten churro like it’s a damn scepter.

I snatch my phone off the nightstand and start rage-texting Ford, pissed she just cock-blocked me.

Again.

SHE INTERRUPTED ME. AGAIN.

CHURRO IN HAND. CAPTAIN’S HAT ON HER HEAD.

I HOPE YOUR HOUSE IS HAUNTED.

“I just had the best night of my life,” Gram declares, flopping into the armchair like she owns the place. “Captain Jimmy said I make his heart beat so fast that his pacemaker skips. I think I found my soulmate.”

I stare at her. Hard. Like if I concentrate enough, I can astral project myself somewhere else.

Gram fans herself. “He gave me a conch shell. That’s commitment, kids.”

Allie, ever the saint, yanks the sheets up to her chin and tries to sound patient. “Gram. We were… busy.”

She waves her off. “You can have sex later. I need to unpack my feelings.”

I groan and grab my phone again. Seriously, Ford is dead. The Avalanche can replace him.

I hope your next meal tastes like despair.

LOL. What now?

She’s monologuing about Jimmy’s pacemaker and hip flexibility.

DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME?

This is so entertaining!

You’re dead to me.

“I need a priest,” I mutter. “One that can perform an exorcism.”

“I need therapy,” Allie adds under her breath.

Gram takes another bite of her churro and sighs like she’s starring in a Nicholas Sparks movie.

“Do you think Captain Jimmy would let me live on his boat?”

I sit up and scrub a hand down my face. “Do I have to kill a man on my honeymoon?”

Gram blinks. “Would you?”

“No,” I grumble. “But I’m thinking about it.”

She lifts her churro like it’s a champagne glass. “To love, lust, and the sea!”

I grab my phone and text Ford one last time.

You. Will. Regret. This.