Chapter 1: The Drive Down

I slammed the trunk of the SUV shut, the metal clang echoing off the driveway like a starter pistol for the week ahead. Sweat already prickled along my spine under my T-shirt, the late-morning sun beating down on our suburban cul-de-sac. Sarah stood beside the open passenger door, phone glued to her ear, her voice clipped and professional as she rattled off quarterly projections to someone back at the office. Her tight black yoga pants hugged every curve of her ass and thighs, the kind of effortless athletic look that used to make me hard just watching her bend over to tie her shoes. Now it just reminded me how distant she’d become—always working, always half-present. The ponytail swinging against her neck looked efficient. Distant.

“Mark, can you grab the cooler from the garage?” she called without looking up, waving one hand in my direction like I was an intern. “And make sure the beach bag has the sunscreen. Kayla’s probably going to burn like last year.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see it, and headed inside. The house smelled like coffee and the faint vanilla of Sarah’s body lotion, the one she’d used since college. Our life in a nutshell—comfortable, routine, safe. Thirty-four years old, solid accountant gig, mortgage mostly paid. I should’ve felt lucky. Instead, something restless had been stirring in my chest for months, a low hum I couldn’t name.

The garage door rattled open behind me. I hefted the heavy cooler, ice sloshing inside, and turned just as a familiar little blue hatchback pulled up to the curb. Kayla stepped out, and the air shifted.

She looked different. Taller somehow, or maybe it was the way the cutoff denim shorts rode high on her toned legs, the frayed hems brushing the smooth skin just below the curve of her ass. Her loose white tank top clung to the swell of her breasts, thin straps slipping off one shoulder, and her dark hair hung damp and wavy from a fresh shower. The scent hit me before she even reached the driveway—coconut body wash, sweet and tropical, like warm skin baked in the sun. She carried a duffel over one shoulder, flip-flops slapping softly against the pavement, painted toes flashing cherry red.

“Hey, Mark,” she said, flashing that easy, crooked smile that had always been a little too bright for family gatherings. “Need a hand with that?”

Before I could answer, she was beside me, reaching for the cooler handle at the same moment I did. Our fingers brushed—warm, soft, electric for half a second too long. I pulled back like I’d been burned.