The Bucket List

13.2 The Beach

"Well. We're here. At the beach," I declare, a line of sweat trailing down my back. "Can we go now?"

Nicholai kicks off his shoes. He's carrying a sleek black beach bag, which he suddenly drops on the boardwalk at his feet. "For you," he says, procuring a flimsy string bikini from the outer pocket.

I snatch it out of his hands, flustered. "What am I supposed to do with this? Floss my teeth?" It's impossibly small.

"There's a changing room there, by the tiki bar." He inclines his head, indicating the small, concrete structure at the edge of the boardwalk. A line of hoses runs along the outer edge. I watch a mother corral her toddler under the stream of water, blasting the sand from his feet. "Go on. I'll be right behind you."

"Wonderful." I rip off my heels before I go, glaring at the scrap of fabric in my fist.

There's one free stall left. I hurry inside and shuck off my dress, and the relief is immediate. I lift my arms, savoring the salty breeze against my bare skin. But I can't stand here, naked, forever. So I wiggle into the black bikini, fussing with the straps, trying to ensure all the important bits are covered. I succeed, for the most part. The ensemble leaves very little to the imagination.

When I step outside, I find Nicholai is already waiting for me, scrolling absently through his phone. He's changed into navy blue swimming trunks—designer, no doubt—that complement his eyes nicely, paired with a nondescript baseball cap that is utterly at odds with his usual wardrobe. Only the gold chain at his collarbone is familiar.

He looks different. He looks—

Delicious.

I immediately banish the thought, though my eyes linger on the expanse of his chest. And lower still, to the ridges of muscle running across his abdomen.

Focus. I have to focus. I force my eyes up—and just in time. His head lifts, and though I can't read the expression behind his black sunglasses, there's something about his smile that tells me he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

I shove my dress into the beach bag. "Did you bring any sunscreen, sir?"

The additional sir is a bit gratuitous, but between the two of us, someone has to remain cognizant of our professional relationship.

He tucks his phone in his back pocket. "Of course. Safety first."

I produce said bottle of sunscreen from an inner pocket. "You're still going to burn," I inform him, slapping the bottle in his waiting hand. "I hope you realize that."

He sighs. "Probably, yes." As if this is inevitable. Considering his complexion, it most definitely is.

We start down the beach, venturing as close to the waterline as we dare. It's still fairly early in the season, so the water is startlingly frigid, yet not entirely unwelcome as the burning sand sucks at our feet, slowing our progress. Beachgoers dart across our path: toddlers, sunburned fathers, teenagers snapping videos of one another along the shore.

We're slick with sweat by the time we arrive at the same stretch where we first watched the sunrise. It looks nothing like what I remember. The crowds, the smell of food permeating the air—everything is different.

Or maybe it's me. I am sober this time around, after all.

Right on cue, Nicholai produces a silver flask from the beach bag and takes an impressive pull. I shake my head in disapproval.

He smacks his lips together and holds out the flask. "Tempting, isn't it?"

My eyes stray to his abdomen. Sweat is starting to gather there. Tempting.