“No shoes was a good idea,” I say, holding my dress bunched up in one hand so it doesn’t get wet.

I make my way onto the shore, and he goes back to the boat to grab a cooler and a shopping bag. “I brought supplies,” he says, holding it up.

“I would have brought something,” I’m quick to say. “If I’d known.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry. You keep your minimal groceries and wine for yourself.” He puts the cooler and bag down. “How about a tour before dinner?”

“I’d love one.”

Reaching into the cooler, he pulls out two beers. “We’ll take these along.” He twists the cap off one and passes it to me, then takes my hand and leads me away from the beach.

It feels normal somehow, holding hands with Ezra and walking the grounds of an abandoned resort, drinking beer in a fancy dress and no shoes. That’s what’s always been so wonderful about him—his world is interesting and quirky, and when you’re in it with him, it feels like exactly the right way to be.

We follow the flagstone paths that lead around the resort. They’re all still intact, walled in by tall grasses that whip against our legs as we move. We go first to one of the private cabins with a lake view that sits on the shore. Pulling out a heavy set of keys, he searches for a few seconds, finds the right one, and then opens the door.

There’s still furniture inside—a bed, dresser, desk, love seat, art on the walls. It smells of stale, closed-up-cottage air. Back in the day, this would have been one of the most expensive lodging options. There were a handful of private cabins and then hotel-type rooms in the main lodge.

“What a waste,” I say, wandering around the space.

“It is. Apparently it’s being kept now for tax purposes. They apply each year for permits to reopen, then let them expire. Definitely some shady stuff involved.”

“And these are your employers?”

He shrugs. “I take what I can get.”

“Is it a coincidence that the first place you brought me has a bed in it?” I narrow my eyes and flash him a half smile, loaded and very suggestive.

He laughs nervously and actually seems to blush. “No. I mean yes, it’s a coincidence. I wouldn’t just presume that because—”

“Ezra!” I loudly interrupt him. “I was just joking.”

“Well, the fact that you thought of it makes it pretty obvious what you have on your mind,” he says with mock indignation.

I take a step closer to him. “And what if I do?”

He moves in. “I’m fine with that.”

I grab hold of his T-shirt and pull him to me, then move my hand up and stroke the stubble on his face. “Not a fan of shaving?” I say softly. I can feel his growing excitement against me. I like a slow buildup.

“Not particularly.” His voice is a strained whisper.