Page 55 of Forbidden Fruit

I squeeze her hand. "The difference is you were trying to convince yourself with Jack. Are you trying to convince yourself now?"

She shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "No. That's just it. For once, I'm not overthinking. It just feels... right."

"Dance with me," I say suddenly, standing and offering my hand.

She laughs. "I've had two margaritas. I make no promises about my coordination."

"I'll hold you up," I promise, pulling her to her feet.

The music shifts to something slower, more intimate. I guide Becca to the dance floor, pulling her close, one hand at the small of her back. She smells like coconut sunscreen and salt air. Her body fits against mine perfectly, her head resting just below my chin.

"I could stay here forever," she murmurs into my chest.

"In Mexico?"

"In this moment."

I close my eyes, memorizing every sensation—the warmth of her body, the gentle sway of our movement, the way her breath tickles my skin. It's true what they say about time slowing down when you're truly happy. Each second stretches like honey.

"We don't have to play it safe," I say softly into her hair. "When we get back. Not if you don't want to."

She pulls back slightly to look up at me, eyes serious. "But you said?—"

"I know what I said. But I'm tired of hiding things that matter. And you, Rebecca Jamison, matter more than anything."

Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “I think it’s safe to say we can figure things out together.”

"I'd like that," I reply, pulling her closer as we sway to the melody. "Figuring things out together."

The band transitions to something livelier, and soon, we're laughing as I attempt to teach her the basic steps of salsa. She's a quick study, her body responding to mine with an instinctive grace that belies her protests about her coordination. Her dress flares around her legs when she spins under my arm, and the joy on her face nearly stops my heart.

By our third round of margaritas, the stars are out in full force, painting the night sky with a brilliance you never see in Manhattan. We order dessert—churros with chocolate dipping sauce—and feed each other bites between kisses that taste of cinnamon and tequila.

"Now you tell me something you've never told anyone," she says, leaning forward conspiratorially, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and happiness.

I consider this, rubbing my thumb across her knuckles. "I used to be terrified of falling in love."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "You? I don’t believe it.”

"Phobias can be overcome." I smile. “You’ve made it extraordinarily easy.”

Her expression softens. "And what are you afraid of now, Clive Bishop?"

"Losing you before I've really had the chance to love you properly."

My words are more honest than I intended after three margaritas. But I don't regret them. Not when Becca looks at me like that, as if I've given her something precious.

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispers.

We walk back to the house hand in hand, stopping occasionally to kiss under the moonlight. The road is quiet, and most tourists are already tucked away in their resorts. I point out constellations I recognize, and she makes up names for the ones I don't.

"That one's clearly my cat, Mr. Darcy," she insists, pointing to a cluster of stars that looks nothing like a feline.

"Clearly," I agree, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.

At the house, we sit on the beach for a while, listening to the waves crash against the shore. Tomorrow, we'll be back in a world of conference calls and social obligations, as well as of ex-wives and ex-boyfriends and complications.

"I don't regret it," she says suddenly as if reading my thoughts. "Staying here. Being with you."

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