“Barely.” He flashed me a teasing smirk before pushing himself to his feet. “But if you change your mind…” He trailed off, sending me a wink before jogging toward the water.

I shook my head, watching as he dove into the waves, disappearing for a moment before resurfacing, slicking his dark hair back.

Tiffany made a gagging noise.

“What?” I asked, flipping another page in my book.

She pushed her sunglasses down just enough to give me a look. “You like that?”

I sighed. “It’s not that deep, Tiff.”

She huffed and set her magazine aside before getting up to head to the bar, where Jamal was ordering drinks.

I turned my attention back to my book, letting myself sink into it, the words on the page more comforting than my own thoughts. I had just reached the part where the heroine realized—against her better judgment—that she was in love with the brooding, emotionally unavailable protagonist.

I was hooked. So hooked that I didn’t notice the shadow stretching across my towel until fingers closed around the book and yanked it out of my hands.

“What the—” I sat up, squinting up at the thief.

Blake.

Standing over me, holding the book in one hand, his sunglasses hiding his expression. He was shirtless, saltwater dripping from his hair, his toned chest already drying under the heat of the sun.

His face was unreadable, but there was something undeniably smug about the way he tilted his head, flipping the book open with his thumb. “You’re reading a romance novel?”

I shot up, reaching for it, but he stepped back, holding it out of my reach. “Blake,” I snapped. “Give it back.”

He ignored me, skimming a page. Then he let out a laugh—low and amused, like he couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

I knew exactly what part he had landed on.

I lunged for it again. “Blake, I swear to⁠—”

“No, no.” He took another step back, flipping another page, taunting me. “I just need a second to process this.”

“Process what?”

He grinned. “Little Beverly Price. Hopeless romantic.”

I clenched my teeth, my blood boiling. “Give it back.”

“Nah,” he said coolly. Then he turned the book over, scanning the back. “Oh, this is bad. This has Fabio on the cover, B.”

“It does not,” I huffed.

“It does,” he said, waving the book in the air. “All these covers look the same. Some shirtless guy with long hair and a tragic past.”

He dropped down onto my towel, right next to me, his body warm from the sun, his shoulder brushing mine as he casually started flipping through pages.

My stomach twisted in tight knots.

A shadow doesn’t cling because it loves, but because it understands the art of haunting.

“You like this?” he mused, scanning a passage. “Alright, let’s see what kind of stuff you’re into.”

“Blake—”