“It might not hurt to talk to someone.”

“When are you going to ask Alex to marry you?” His abrupt change in conversation has me lowering my beer. He stares straight ahead, and I take a long, contemplative swallow. As the cold liquid glides down my throat, it hits me his question isn’t a bad one. Deflective move on his part, but the question doesn’t bother me.

“I’ve been doing my best to get her to officially move in with me. For all practical purposes, she already has. But it’s not official.”

“Why not pop the question?” The man is not laying off his target.

“Timing. We’ve been together all of two months.”

“I knew Cassandra was it for me after one weekend.”

“Yeah?” He nods. “But when did you ask her?”

“I waited a little too late on that one. Not until she was pregnant. I don’t recommend that course of action. I had a hard time convincing her that I’d marry her anyway. My family didn’t exactly help with that.”

“That’s right. You told me your dad was livid. No pre-nup. Have to agree with your dad. That wasn’t the smartest move.”

“Maybe.” His gaze remains on the beach. An errant wave rises out of nowhere and nearly drags Sophia down. She tumbles backward, soaked and laughing.

“The two of you remind me of how Cassie and I used to be.” His thumb circles the glass rim of his beer bottle as he stares out over the shore. “Word of advice. Hold on to her. When it gets hard, and it will, keep your priorities straight.”

The doorbell rings. The chime is some classical music melody. I’d bet money he hasn’t bothered to change the doorbell chime from the prior owner. He glances at his wrist.

“That your therapist?”

“If it is, she’s forty-five minutes early.”

“Better than forty-five minutes late.”

He grunts as he pushes up off his lounge chair. Fisher, the Arrow employee on rounds, ushers a woman through the front door.

“You want me to bring her out here?” I offer.

“Nah. Let’s go greet her at the front door. If I don’t like her, I won’t bother introducing her to Sophia. If she seems okay, I’ll have you send Sophia up from the beach.”

I follow Jack through the house. We’re both wearing board shorts and flip-flops. Fisher lurks over an attractive woman in the foyer. I’d estimate she’s average height and in her thirties. A thick mass of dark bangs falls down to her eyebrows and almost overpowers her pale, angular face. She’s wearing a black long-sleeve turtleneck and a straight black skirt with black military boots. One hand spins the stacked silver rings on her other hand, and her eyes dart about, no doubt taking in the grandeur of Jack’s home. Can’t say I blame her. The guy’s got a glass elevator shaft with a view to the Pacific.

“This is Ava Amara. She has an appointment,” Fisher announces to both of us. He’s not a butler, and he shuffles on his feet, clearly uncertain what else he’s supposed to do.