Page 45 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

TWO MONTHS LATER - HORSESHOE BAY, BERMUDA

T he pink sand is warm beneath my feet as I watch Eden paddle out for her final heat of the Horseshoe Bay Invitational.

The turquoise water of Horseshoe Bay is perfect today.

Clean, consistent four-foot waves that seem almost designed for competition.

In the distance, I can see the officials’ boat and the camera crews documenting every moment of what could be Eden’s invitation to the Olympic trials.

Everyone we know is here, sitting on the beach, watching our girl compete.

“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.

“Album drops in June. I’ve already got calls from Lollapalooza, Austin City Limits, and a few others. Everyone wants the couple that got married on stage in Vegas.”

“We didn’t get married on stage,” I correct him.

“Details,” Liam waves me off. “The story is what matters, and your story is bloody perfect. Star crossed musicians, whirlwind romance, Vegas wedding. It’s like a modern fairy tale.”

He’s not wrong. Our story has captured people’s imaginations in a way that still surprises me.

The wedding photos that Chandler took and Paige posted on social media went viral within hours, and since then, we’ve been featured in magazines, interviewed on talk shows, and had our music streamed millions of times.

The wedding itself was perfect in its chaos.

Elle managed to pull together a ceremony at the Little White Wedding Chapel in four hours, complete with flowers, a photographer, and a minister who didn’t dress like Elvis.

My entire family was there. Parents crying, JD livestreaming against Elle’s explicit instructions, the babies fussing.

“Plus,” Liam continues, “the new material is your best work yet. That song about the power outage, ‘Blackout Serenade,’ is going to be massive.”

“We wrote that one together,” Justine corrects. “Actually, most of them we did together. That was the biggest adjustment, learning to create as a team instead of separately.”

“Even better. The fact that you two write together, perform together, live together. The audience feels that connection. It’s authentic in a way that’s rare in this business.”

Out on the water, Eden catches another wave, and this one is even better than the last. She hits a series of critical turns that have the crowd on the beach cheering, and I find myself on my feet, shouting encouragement.

“Go, Eden!” I yell, cupping my hands around my mouth.

“Sit down, you lunatic,” Justine laughs, tugging on my arm. “She can’t hear you.”

“She knows I’m here,” I say, settling back into my chair. “That’s what matters.”

Eden’s heat ends, and we watch as the judges tally the scores. When her final number comes up, a 9.2 that puts her in first place overall, the beach erupts in cheers. She’s done it. She’s won.

“She did it!” I shout, jumping up again. “She fucking did it!”

“Language,” Justine chides, but she’s crying happy tears. Two or three months ago, she would have been more hesitant to correct me in front of family. Now she does it automatically, the way a wife should.

Eden paddles in, and the moment she reaches the beach, she’s surrounded by coaches, officials, and media. There was a time when she’d tell me her news first, but now it’s Rush. He’s there, waiting for her, right along with her parents.

They finally make it where we’re all sitting. “I made it!” she shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “I freaking did it!”

“Eden Davis, Olympian!” I say it loud for everyone to hear.

As Eden gets swept away by interviews and photos, the rest of my family disperses to do whatever it is people do. I have zero desire to move from the beach, wanting to soak it all in before we have to get back to work.

Justine and I find ourselves alone again.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she says, settling back into my arms.

“Just thinking about how much has changed,” I say.

“A handful of months ago I was miserable, heartbroken, convinced my life was falling apart. Now I’m sitting on a beach in Bermuda with my wife, watching someone I consider my family compete in the sport she loves, and you and I are getting ready to release an album we made together. ”

“Funny how life works out,” she muses.

“Sure is.” I hold my wife close and think about the road that brought us here.

All the heartbreak, all the wrong turns, all the moments of doubt.

They were just part of the journey. The real destination was always her, always us, always this moment of perfect contentment on a beach in Bermuda with our whole future spread out before us.

“Ready to go back?” she asks as the beach starts to empty.

“In a minute,” I say, not wanting to break the spell of this perfect evening.

“What are you thinking about now?”

“That song we’ve been working on,” I say. “‘Forever Starts Tonight.’ I think I know how it should end,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It should end with a promise. Not just to love each other, but to keep choosing each other, every single day, no matter what.”

She smiles and looks exactly like she did that first night on the tour bus when she offered to help me with my broken heart. “I like that,” she says. “I choose you, Quinn James. Today and always.”

“I choose you too, Justine James. Forever and always.”

The road to forever led me to her, and now forever is just beginning.