Chapter 3

The cabin door swung open before Molly’s knuckles could make contact a second time. Brad’s meaty frame filled the doorway, his polo straining over his gut as he glowered down at them. “The hell?” His gaze landed on Ginny’s limp form in Jerry’s arms, and for a fleeting moment—just a fraction of a second—his expression flickered with something raw. Concern? Panic? Then it was gone, buried under his usual scowl.

Molly flashed a breezy smile, deliberately casual. “Five margaritas, Mr. B. Your wife really knows how to celebrate vacation.” She watched Brad’s eyebrows climb toward his receding hairline—that telltale twitch Ginny had once confided meant genuine surprise.

Brad’s jowls quivered. “Ginny hates tequila.”

Jerry didn’t grace him with a response. He shouldered past his father, the muscles in his arms flexing as he adjusted Ginny’s weight. Brad huffed but stepped aside, his gaze tracking them with a strange intensity—like a man watching a ship sail away while he stood knee-deep in quicksand.

Molly lingered in the doorway, studying the way Jerry knelt beside the bed. His hands—those enormous, football-calloused hands—were impossibly gentle as they smoothed Ginny’s wild curls away from her flushed face. His lips brushed her forehead in a chaste kiss that shouldn’t have made Molly’s pulse stutter ... and yet.

Brad cleared his throat. “She’s fine. Just needs sleep.”

The duvet rustled as Jerry tucked it around Ginny’s shoulders with meticulous care. He didn’t look up. “You’re wrong.”

Silence.

Molly held her breath as Jerry straightened to his full height, towering over his father. Brad actually took a half-step back, his face paling under the overhead light.

“Be better.” Jerry’s voice was quiet, lethally controlled. “Or lose her.”

Brad’s mouth opened—closed. His fingers twitched at his sides. “I—what the hell kind of—?”

“You know.” Jerry strode past him, pausing only to murmur, “Act like her husband for once.”

Brad’s laugh was a wheezy, desperate thing. “Kid, you don’t know squat about marriage.”

Jerry’s spine stiffened. Molly saw the exact moment his patience snapped—the ripple of tension across his shoulders, the way his fists clenched. She slipped her hand into his, squeezing hard.

Not like this.

Brad didn’t even notice. He was too busy scratching his belly, already retreating into his favorite armor: indifference. “She’ll be fine by morning.”

Molly watched Jerry’s throat work. Watched him swallow down words that tasted bitter.

And as they stepped into the balmy night, she knew one thing with absolute certainty:

Brad would never change.

But Ginny?

Oh, Ginny was ready.

Dawn cracked through the blinds like a whip, slicing across Brad’s face. He groaned, rolling onto his back—only for Ginny’s voice to stab through his skull like a rusty ice pick.

“Close the fucking blinds, Brad.”

Brad blinked. Blinked again. Ginny never—never—cursed. She’d once made Jerry wash his mouth out with soap for muttering “damn” under his breath. He turned his head slowly, as if moving too fast might shatter the moment.

Ginny squinted against the light, her face pale beneath the remnants of yesterday’s mascara. She tugged at her wrinkled sundress with a grimace. “Christ,” she muttered, pulling the duvet over her head. “You couldn’t even undress me?”

Brad’s throat tightened. “Jerry carried you in. I didn’t—”

“Right,” Ginny’s voice was muffled but venomous. “Because your wife loves sleeping in sweaty clothes. Everyone knows drunk people prefer feeling like a dried-up sausage.”

“That’s not—”

“Eighteen years, Brad.” The duvet yanked down just enough for her bloodshot eyes to glare at him. “Eighteen years of me picking up your socks, scheduling your dentist appointments, wiping your son’s ass, and you can’t even—”

Brad sat up, defensive. “That’s not fair—”

Then—

“Oh GOD, Jerry—right THERE!”

Molly’s voice shattered the morning air, raw and guttural, as if she’d thrown open their balcony doors just to be heard. “Fuck me—fuck me HARDER—don’t stop, don’t STOP—!”

Brad’s face drained of color. Ginny’s fingers clenched the sheets.

The headboard slammed against their shared wall in a relentless rhythm. “Yes, YES—your cock’s so BIG—I can’t—ohfuckohfuck—!”

Brad’s mouth hung open. Ginny didn’t move.

Then—a wet, obscene smack, followed by Molly’s breathless giggle: “Mmm ... you taste me all over your beard, baby.”