“I figured that.” She sets down Cornelius gently and slides the rooftop screen of his home shut. “I think I needed to hear it from you again.”

With another step closer, I stop myself right behind her. Tiny wisps of chocolate brown hair kiss her skin. I trace one, drifting my finger down her neck. Her head tips back, exposing her throat for me.

“Would it matter to you?” I ask. “If I did want her? If I wanted . . . anyone?”

Her hands fist her dress. “Don’t make me answer that.”

“That kiss at Boulangerie.” I lower my mouth to her shoulder, knowing I’m being reckless. Knowing I’m taking us somewhere that will be so hard to come back from if I’m wrong. I press one long kiss against her tattoo. “Was that really revenge?”

Bea leans into me, her head thumping against my shoulder. “Don’t make me answer that, either.”

I wrap an arm around her waist, then slowly turn her to face me. Her eyes shine as she bites her lip. Fear paints her expression, and I want so badly to wipe it away. To make her feel safe. To show her that she’s not alone. That I’m right there with her.

Our hands brush, like a first, frightened kiss, before they meet, tangling tight. I bring her hand with mine, against my chest, searching her eyes. “Bea—”

“Oops!” Someone I don’t know hovers on the threshold, red with embarrassment. “So sorry! Thought this was the bathroom.”

Pulling her hand away, Bea smooths her dress. “Second on the left,” she says, guiding them out, leaving the room behind them. I follow in her wake, unsure, worried I’ve completely misread it. But as soon as our intruder disappears into the bathroom, she spins and grips my hand, meeting my eyes. Then she presses a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of my mouth.

“It wasn’t just revenge,” she whispers.

Without another word, Bea draws me into the bustling kitchen that mirrors my frenetic thoughts.

“West!” Christopher calls, and grins. “Come play Risk. And bring Bea. It’s her favorite.”

Releasing my hand, Bea accepts a brimming glass of sangria from her sister. “Chill your boxer briefs,” she tells Christopher. “I need alcohol first if I’m suffering through Risk.”

“Beer?” Juliet asks me.

“Thank you, yes.” God do I need it. “Something light.”

Bea rifles through the ice bucket. “I’ll get it. He likes those citrusy wheat beers, don’t you, James? Something Pine-Sol-y.”

Juliet wrinkles her nose, adjusting Sula and Margo’s curly-haired daughter, Rowan, on her hip. “What?”

“Inside joke,” Bea says. “Y’know. Coupley stuff.”

Rowan reaches toward me, letting out a demanding shriek.

“You and me both, Ro,” Bea calls over her shoulder, still digging around the beers. “It’s been a long-ass day.”