I sat at the far end of the open-air bar, the wooden counter still warm beneath my forearms from the day’s heat. The Mediterranean light had softened into late afternoon, turning the pale sand behind us the colour of honey, and a light breeze kept lifting the ends of my damp hair across my collarbones. Emily was beside me, one hip cocked against the stool, her skin glowing from the same saltwater and sun.
“We’re never leaving,” she said, grinning as she pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. The motion made the thin straps of her deep plum bikini top shift, revealing a fresh line of tan.
I watched the way the fabric sat against her, the way a single drop of condensation from her glass slid down her wrist. My own suit was a pale, almost glassy blue-green, cut with narrow ties that knotted at the hips and between my shoulder blades. Every time I moved, the knots pulled slightly, and I could feel the cool air on the skin just above them.
“You say that every afternoon,” I answered, but my voice came out quieter than I meant.
She turned her head, caught me looking, and the corner of her mouth curved. For a second neither of us spoke. The only sound was the low clink of glasses and the distant hush of waves.
A shadow fell across the timber between us. I looked up and found a man standing there, tall enough that I had to tilt my chin. His name, when he gave it a moment later, was Caspian Rowe. He had the sort of easy, weathered smile that suggested he spent most of his days outdoors, and the collar of his open linen shirt was still damp from the sea.
“Mind if I stand here a minute?” he asked, the words carrying a low, unhurried rhythm. “The bar’s full and your corner looks like the only one with any breeze.”
Emily answered before I could. “Depends what you’re bringing with you,” she said, and I heard the familiar, lightly teasing note in her voice that always made my stomach tighten.
He laughed, the sound short and warm. His eyes moved from her face to mine, then back again, as if he were weighing something. I felt the weight of that glance settle on the thin straps of my top and the bare skin of my ribs. Heat rose under my skin that had nothing to do with the sun.
“Just conversation,” he said. “And maybe the next round, if you’ll let me.”
Caspian ordered three drinks without asking what we wanted. When they arrived, he slid one toward each of us, his fingers brushing the back of Emily’s hand as he did. She didn’t pull away. I watched the brief contact and felt a small, sharp pulse low in my stomach.
“You’re staring,” Emily murmured, close enough that only I could hear. Her knee pressed lightly against mine under the overhang of the bar.
I looked down at the wet ring my glass left on the wood. “Am I?”
“You always do, when someone looks at me like that.”
Caspian was speaking again, something about a cove further along the coast that most people missed. His voice stayed low, and every so often his gaze would drift between us, lingering a fraction longer on the place where Emily’s thigh met the edge of her stool, then on the way my bikini ties rested against my hip. I shifted, and the movement made the fabric pull tighter across my skin. I could feel the faint, damp cling of it, and the knowledge that both of them could see exactly where it held.
Emily’s fingers found the loose end of one of my ties. She didn’t untie it. She only let the cord slide between her thumb and forefinger, a slow, absent motion that made my breath catch.
The sun dropped lower. Caspian had moved closer so that he stood between our stools, one forearm resting on the bar. When he laughed at something Emily said, the sound vibrated through the small space we shared. I watched the way her lips parted when she answered him, the way her tongue touched her lower lip for half a second before she smiled.
The air felt thicker. I could smell the warm salt on her skin and the faint citrus of his cologne, and both of them seemed to settle against me at once.
Emily turned her head. Our eyes met. Something unspoken moved between us—the same current that had existed for years, only sharper now because someone else was watching it. Her gaze dropped, just briefly, to the swell of my chest where the pale fabric clung. When she looked back up, her pupils were darker.
“You’re flushed,” she said, still speaking to me but loud enough for him to hear. “Is it the sun, or is it him?”
Caspian’s mouth curved. He didn’t look away from either of us. “I was going to ask the same thing,” he said. “Only I wasn’t sure which of you I should be asking.”
My pulse jumped. I felt the heat gather low and insistent, and I crossed my ankles under the stool, as if that small pressure might steady me. It didn’t. Emily’s knee was still against mine, and every time she shifted, the contact sent a soft, electric shiver up my thigh.
I tried to listen to the conversation, but the words kept sliding past me. All I could think about was the way Emily’s skin would feel under my palm if I reached for her right then, and the way Caspian’s hand might cover both of ours if he chose to. The image arrived uninvited: the three of us walking down toward the water once the light failed, the sand still warm, the sound of the waves loud enough to cover anything we said.
Emily’s fingers brushed the inside of my wrist. It was nothing more than a touch, yet it made my breath leave me in a short, unsteady rush.
“You’re thinking something,” she said. “Tell me.”
I shook my head, but the denial felt thin. Caspian was watching us both now, his expression unreadable except for the steady attention in his eyes. He set his glass down. The soft clink seemed louder than it should have.
“There’s a path behind the dunes,” he said. “Leads to a stretch of beach that stays empty after sunset. I was heading there once I’d finished this.” He paused, letting the words settle. “You’re both welcome to walk with me. Or not. Entirely up to you.”
Emily’s thumb moved once across the pulse in my wrist. I felt it jump under her touch. Neither of us answered straight away. The bar noise continued around us—laughter, the scrape of chairs—but it felt distant. All I could hear was the low rush of my own blood and the quiet, waiting sound of Emily’s breathing beside me.
Caspian straightened, giving us the smallest amount of space. He didn’t press. He simply watched, one hand resting lightly on the bar, as if he already knew the answer would come from the look that passed between Emily and me.
“We could stay,” I said, the words barely above the sound of the breeze. My voice didn’t sound like my own. “Finish the drinks. Watch the light go.”
Emily’s fingers tightened, just slightly, around my wrist. When she spoke, her tone was soft and edged with something I recognised—the same curious, reckless note that had always made me follow her into trouble.
“Or we could see what the dunes look like when the sun’s gone.”
I turned my head. Her eyes were bright, questioning, already halfway decided. Caspian waited, patient, the corner of his mouth lifted in the smallest of smiles. The path he had mentioned was only a few minutes’ walk. The tide would still be out. The three of us would be the only ones there.
I felt the last of the sunlight slide across my shoulders and the thin, damp ties of my bikini shift against my skin. Emily’s hand was still on me. Caspian’s gaze moved between us, unhurried, certain.
I opened my mouth, but the words hadn’t formed yet. The choice hung there, warm and electric, between the three of us and the darkening line of the sea.
