The July sun beat down on the sugar-white sand of Crescent Cove, turning the Gulf of Mexico into a glittering sheet of molten turquoise. Alexandra Hayes pressed her toes deeper into the warm grains, savoring the heat that seeped through the woven mat beneath her. At forty-two, she had learned to appreciate the simple pleasures—the sting of salt on her skin, the distant cry of gulls, the way the horizon seemed to stretch on forever.
She adjusted the wide-brimmed straw hat that shielded her face and reached for the sweating glass of iced tea beside her lounge chair. Her daughter, Chloe, had wandered down to the water's edge with her friends, their laughter carrying on the breeze. Alexandra watched them for a moment—four college girls in bright bikinis, all long limbs and carefree energy—before returning her attention to the paperback splayed open on her lap.
She didn't notice him at first.
Cameron Reyes had been coming to Crescent Cove every summer since he was a boy, but this was the first time he'd made the trip alone. At twenty-four, he was still getting used to the quiet. No younger siblings splashing in the shallows, no parents bickering over the umbrella placement. Just the rhythmic crash of waves and the occasional screech of a tern diving for its dinner.
He was on his way back from the water, board shorts dripping, surfboard tucked under one arm, when he saw her. The woman from the beach house next to his rental. He'd noticed her yesterday—the way she moved with a kind of unhurried grace, the curve of her smile when she looked at her daughter. Now, seeing her alone, he let his gaze linger.
She wore a one-piece swimsuit in a deep navy that contrasted with the pale gold of her skin. A sheer white cover-up lay open over her shoulders, doing little to hide the generous swell of her breasts or the soft curves of her hips where she lay on the lounge chair. Her legs were bent at the knees, feet planted, and the pose emphasized the full, rounded shape of her thighs.
Cameron swallowed hard and forced himself to keep walking.
Alexandra sensed his gaze before she saw him. That prickle at the back of her neck, the awareness of being watched. She lowered her sunglasses and glanced over the rim of her book.
A young man—God, he was young, no more than twenty-five—was striding past her, a surfboard under his arm. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, tanned skin glistening with seawater, muscles bunching in his shoulders and back. He wore only swim trunks, low on his hips, and water dripped from the hem down his powerful thighs.
Her breath caught. She looked away quickly, heat flooding her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun.
When she dared to glance back, he had stopped. He was looking at her. Their eyes met.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. The sound of the waves seemed to fade. Alexandra felt her pulse hammer in her throat. She should look away. She should gather her things and walk down to join Chloe. She should do anything but stare at this stranger who was young enough to be her—
He smiled. A slow, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made her stomach flip like she was sixteen again.
Then he nodded, just once, and continued on his way.
Alexandra released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her hands were trembling. She pressed them flat against the pages of her book and tried to steady herself.
It's nothing, she told herself. Just a passing moment. Just a handsome young man being friendly.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. The air felt heavier. The sun hotter. And when she closed her eyes, she saw his face—those dark eyes, that knowing smile—and felt a stirring deep in her belly that she had no business feeling.
—
The next afternoon, Alexandra returned to the same spot. She told herself it was because the angle of the sun was perfect there, the breeze constant. She told herself she wasn't looking for him.
She was lying to herself.
He appeared an hour later, walking up from the water with his surfboard under one arm. This time, he didn't keep walking. He stopped at the edge of her mat, and the shadow he cast over her was a relief from the relentless sun.
"Afternoon," he said. His voice was low, warm, with a hint of something playful.
Alexandra sat up, suddenly self-conscious of her body in the modest one-piece. She reached for her cover-up and pulled it around her shoulders. "Hello."
"I'm Cameron." He held out a hand. His fingers were long, his grip firm. "I'm staying in the house two doors down."
"Alexandra." She withdrew her hand quickly, as if burned. "I'm here with my daughter. She's—" She glanced toward the water, but Chloe wasn't there. The beach was nearly empty this late in the afternoon. "She must have gone back up."
"Lucky me," Cameron said. He dropped his board into the sand and sank down onto the edge of her mat without asking permission.
Alexandra's heart lurched. "Excuse me?"
"I mean, lucky to have caught you alone." He grinned, and it transformed his face—made him look boyish and mischievous and utterly disarming. "I've been watching you since yesterday. You're beautiful."
The compliment hit her like a wave. She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him he was too young, too forward, too everything. But what came out was: "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm—" She gestured vaguely at herself, then at him. "I'm certainly older than you. And I'm here with my daughter. And I don't—"
"You don't what?"
She met his gaze. His eyes were the color of aged whiskey, warm and deep, and they held hers without flinching. "I don't do this sort of thing."
"What sort of thing?"
"This." She waved a hand between them. "Flirting. With strangers. Young strangers."
Cameron leaned back on his hands, his posture relaxed. The movement shifted his board shorts, and Alexandra caught a glimpse of the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. She jerked her eyes away.
"I'm twenty-four," he said. "Not that young. And you're not as old as you think you are."
"You don't know how old I am."
"Doesn't matter." He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver racing down her spine. "I know what I see. I see a woman who's been taking care of everyone but herself for a long time. I see a woman who's beautiful and desirable and hiding it."
Alexandra's throat tightened. "You don't know anything about me."
"Then tell me."
She should have told him to leave. She should have gathered her things and walked away and never looked back. Instead, she found herself talking—about Chloe, about her divorce three years ago, about the way she'd stopped feeling like a woman and started feeling like a mother who happened to be female.
Cameron listened without interrupting. When she finally fell silent, embarrassed by her own confession, he reached for her hand.
"Alexandra," he said softly. Just her name, but the way he said it—like it was something precious—made her chest ache.
"I have to go," she whispered. But she didn't move.
"Have dinner with me."
"Tonight?"
"Tonight. There's a little place up the coast. No one we know will be there."
She should say no. She knew she should say no. But the hunger in his eyes—and the answering hunger in her own body—made her nod before she could stop herself.
"Yes."
—
The restaurant was a converted boathouse, all weathered wood and flickering lanterns, tucked into a cove that was invisible from the main road. Cameron had driven them in his jeep, the wind whipping Alexandra's hair into a frenzy, the radio playing something slow and bluesy.
They sat at a table on the deck, the waves lapping against the pilings below, and ate grilled fish and drank white wine that was too cold and too sweet. Alexandra felt reckless and young and terrified.
"This is crazy," she said, halfway through her second glass.
"Maybe." Cameron reached across the table and traced his finger over the back of her hand. "But you're here. You came."
"I don't know why."
"I do." He turned her hand over and pressed his thumb into her palm. "Because you wanted to. Because for once in your life, you're doing something for yourself."
She pulled her hand back. "I don't—I can't just—"
"Can't what?"
"Can't be one of those women. The ones who have flings with younger men. It's not who I am."
Cameron leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Then who are you, Alexandra? Tell me. Because all I see is a woman who's spent years being what everyone else needed. A wife. A mother. Maybe it's time you were just you."
She stared at him, her heart pounding, her thoughts a tangled mess of desire and guilt and longing.
"Let me take you home," he said.
She knew what he meant. Not her rental house. His.
And she knew she should refuse. She should call a cab, go back to her daughter, and forget this night ever happened.
"Okay," she whispered.
—
His rental was small and spare, all white walls and open windows that let in the sound of the sea. He led her inside by the hand, his grip warm and sure, and closed the door behind them.
The moment the lock clicked, the tension that had been building between them for two days snapped.
Cameron pulled her into his arms and kissed her. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against hers, and Alexandra moaned into the kiss as her hands came up to grip his shoulders. He tasted like salt and wine, and his body was hard and lean against hers.
"This is—" she started, but he cut her off with another kiss.
"Don't think," he murmured against her lips. "Just feel."
He walked her backward through the house, his hands roving over her body, pulling at the knot of her cover-up until it fell open and then to the floor. She wore a simple sundress beneath, and he tugged at the hem until it slid up her thighs.
When the backs of her legs hit the bed, she gasped. Cameron gently pushed her down onto the mattress and stood over her, his eyes dark with desire.
"You're so beautiful," he said. "I've been thinking about this since the moment I saw you."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's true."
He knelt between her legs and pushed the dress up to her waist. Alexandra's breath hitched as his hands skimmed over her hips, her belly, her breasts. Her body was not the body of a young woman—soft from childbirth, marked with stretch marks and the faint silver lines of time. But Cameron looked at her like she was a goddess.
"Perfect," he breathed. He lowered his head and kissed her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above her swimsuit. "Every inch of you."
Alexandra arched beneath him, a moan escaping her lips. She had not been touched like this in years—not with this kind of reverence, this kind of hunger. Her body responded instinctively, her hips rising to meet his, her hands fisting in the sheets.
He peeled the straps of her swimsuit down, baring her breasts. They were full and heavy, the nipples
