I wake up the next morning with the sun glinting off the ocean outside blinding me, and the smell of pastries and coffee filling my nostrils. The only thing missing is Eric laying by my side, and then this morning would be perfect. But I can remedy that really fast.

I get up, find one of Eric's shirts in the closet and slip into it. It hits mid thigh on me and smells of detergent, but him too, somehow. The world outside the window is crisp, the colors very vivid. The green of the trees stands in stark contrast to the white sand, the sand in turn contrasting the deep blue of the ocean, which is still frothing a little.

"You're up." Eric's voice yanks me from my dreamlike state. "And you're dressed," he adds in a disappointed tone.

And if I didn't know him, I'd think he really was disappointed, but I can recognize the joking tone in his voice so well now. Because that's what it really is. Not mocking, just joking.

I smile at him over my shoulder. "I'm ready for my breakfast."

He walks over and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer and kissing the side of my neck softly. "I thought you might be."

He releases me from the hug, but takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. He likes holding hands. I like it too.

The table is set for two, a platter of croissants and other goodies laid in the middle, and two small plates with matching cups set side by side.

He leads me to one of the chairs and pulls it out for me, then goes to the counter to collect the pot of coffee.

"Did you bake these?" I ask, picking up one of the croissants and setting it on my plate.

"Would that please you?" he asks, pouring coffee for me.

"It would," I say. "But I know you didn't."

I take a bite, the pastry melting on my tongue, and I can't help but moan.

He laughs and bites into his own croissant, sitting so close to me that the warmth coming off his body feels like we're actually touching.

"After breakfast, we're going swimming," he announces between bites.

I cough as a piece of my croissant goes down the wrong way. He taps my back, offers me my cup of coffee once my fit subsides.

"Don't like that idea?" he asks, and I'm not quite sure the disappointment in his voice isn't real this time. "I thought going to the beach was something you really wanted to do."

He remembered what I told him. He listened to me even back in the very beginning. The flood of emotions washing over me makes me blink, though thankfully the tears are still just from my coughing fit.

"I don't have a bathing suit," I mutter.

"Who says you need one?" He grins at me, the lewd expression in his eyes making me feel naked already.

I gasp, forget to close my mouth. He said no one ever comes to this beach. He went swimming naked that first night we were here, but I don't know. I'd feel so exposed.

"Don't worry. I figured you'd say that," he says, getting up hastily, and leaving the room.

He returns a few moments later holding a large pink shopping bag. "I picked up some bathing suits for you on Sunday morning. It's why I was so late. I had to wait for the store to open before I…"

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and the unspoken part—the part about finding Julie dead on Sunday—just sort of hangs in the air between us, thick like a curtain of smoke, but immovable.

He clears his throat and reaches into the bag, and the spell is broken. "I wasn't sure of your exact size, so I got a bunch."

He pulls out a fistful of bathing suits, then lets them drop back into the bag. "You can try them on after breakfast."

His voice isn't quite steady, but I can tell he's trying to make it firm. I don't know what else to do, so I get up and take the bag from him.

"I’ll try them on now."

My hands are shaking as I walk back into the bedroom, embers of the terror I felt yesterday morning reigniting, causing flames. Is it wrong to try and stifle them? To try and forget a woman was murdered just yesterday? In a house I stayed in? Is it OK to forget? To have fun?

They're hard questions, and I can't answer them. So I don't even try.

There are at least ten different bathing suits in the bag, some bikinis, some one-pieces, mostly the same models, but in different sizes. The price tags make my head spin, so I don't look at them, careful not to rip them off as I try on the suits. That way Eric can return the ones that don't fit. Most do though. Or don't, depending on how you look at it. Because in all of them, my boobs look like two hard beach balls raised high. And I can't deny they're sexy. Sexier than anything I'd have picked out for myself. And I sort of like it.

In the end, I settle on a one-piece that doesn't make me feel like I'm naked wearing it.

Eric whistles as I come into the living room, and my cheeks heat instantly.

"Good choice," he says. "Let's go."

He's already wearing his swim trunk, and grabs two towels off the back of the sofa, extending his hand for me to take. Which I gladly do.

The wind that howled around the house last night has died down to a slight cool breeze, but the sun's rays are hot. The air is clear, smells of new beginnings, of life just waiting to be seized.

"It's never this fresh in the desert," I say as we step off the deck and my toes sink into the moist, cool sand. "Not even after it rains."

"I love storms at sea," he says. "And the mornings after too."

He lets go of my hand at the water's edge, and dumps the towels in the sand, then pulls off his shirt.

"Ready?" he asks, wading in.

I imagined walking into the ocean a million times back home. When we were younger, me and my cousin Wendy used to talk about it in such vivid detail I feel like I've already done it. But I haven't, and now's my chance.

I wade in too, the water cool around my calves. Eric is waiting for me with his hand outstretched and I take it, let him lead me in.

"Not so fast," I say since he's going in deeper and deeper and the water's too cold for that.

"Fine, at your own pace then," he says and smirks at me.

He lets go of my hand and jumps into the water, head first, splashing my chest and face.

"You're horrible!" I shriek once his head pops back up.

"Come on, take a swim, you're already wet."

I just splash some water in his face in answer.

"Oh that's how it is?" he says, and splashes me right back. And I him.

It turns into an all out splashing fight, and pretty soon I'm soaked. My eyes are stinging from the saltwater, but I'm laughing so hard I hardly notice it.

He disappears under the water again, making no splash this time. I can't see him anywhere, since the water's too dark.

I scream as something grabs my waist, pulls me into the water. Eric's laughing in my ear, holding me tight.

"Go on, take a swim," he urges and releases me. "You've waited long enough."

So I do it, surprised at the ease with which I'm able to glide through the water. Salt water truly does hold you up. But I'd much rather have Eric's arms around me still.

He's swimming next to me, matching his stroke to mine, leading us deeper, out towards the horizon. There's only blackness beneath me, and I can no longer reach the ground, but I'm not scared, not really, because he's right here with me. OK, maybe I am a little scared.

I stop swimming. "Let's go back."

"No, let's keep going," he counters.

And I would, but an unnatural panic is starting in my chest, and I don't even know what I'm afraid of. Sharks maybe. The undercurrent? I just want to feel solid ground beneath my feet again.

"OK, climb on my back," he says, swimming closer and turning.

I do it, even though I'm sure he won't be able to swim with me on his back. But his stroke is sure and steady, like he's carrying no extra weight. Only he isn't taking me back to shore but further out, exactly like he wanted to. Yet I'm no longer scared. Because he's so strong and so confident, and that's contagious too.

I love the way his muscles ripple beneath me, the way the cool water caresses my skin. But the shore is so far away now, and only dark water is surrounding us. Yet he's still going farther, deeper.

"Let's go back now," I whisper into his ear, hope he heard me over the waves, because I can't make my voice any higher. I'm too scared.

"OK, if you want," he says after taking a few more long strokes in silence.

But I don't fully relax until we're back on shore. I'm shivering from the cold water—or my nervousness maybe—my teeth actually chattering.

He looks at me, questions plain in his eyes, then grabs one of the towels off the sand and wraps it around me, rubbing my arms in an effort to warm me up.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he says softly and there's no mocking undertone in his voice. At least none that I can detect, and I've gotten pretty good at detecting it.

"I know." I'd tell him he didn't scare me, but that'd be a lie, and I don't ever want to lie to him.

"Let's go inside and get you warmed up," he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "Then we can go have some lunch."

"I can cook," I mutter, leaning against him as we walk to the house. "If there are any ingredients in the house."

His step falters a little, his grip on me tightening. When I look up, he's gazing at me with such softness in his eyes something inside me melts too.

"OK, you can make a list and I'll go shopping while you shower," he says. "How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a plan," I say, smiling at him.

I want to enjoy his company, not sit in some crowded restaurant. I want him all to myself.