Shock fills me.

The name couldn’t be more out of place, the images it conjures up made for the grit and muck of the city, the parts girls like me are only supposed to read about in the newspaper. While a man of Anthony Cordero’s ilk hardly runs in the same tony circles my mother once inhabited, his name is instantly recognizable to most New Yorkers. It also hits uncomfortably close to home.

“You’re joking.”

Her chin lifts, and there’s a spark of defiance in those brown eyes. “I’m not. I know what people say. We have gossip in Cuba as well.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Well, well, well, not merely a proper, boring debutante.

“What’s he like?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

A flush settles over her cheeks.

Not boring at all.

“That good?” I tease.

The blush deepens.

I grin. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ I’ve seen his picture in the paper. He seems handsome enough if you like that sort.”

“And how did you end up down here? Islamorada is a long way from New York,” she says with the practiced subject change of someone who has spent a fair amount of time in society.

I smile at her attempt to sidestep my admittedly rude remarks. I like her.

“Did you come down here with your family?” Her gaze searches my bare ring finger. “A husband?”

“No, just me.”

Her jaw drops. “You came down here by yourself?”

“Why not? I wasn’t going to ask for permission.”

There’s no mistaking the envy that sweeps across her features.

I smile. I know this girl. I used to be this girl: pampered, sheltered, hemmed in by society’s rules and expectations. I rebelled, of course, but the tension within her is unmistakably familiar.

“That kind of freedom must be nice,” she replies.

“It is.”

“A little scary, too.”

“It is,” I admit, unsure why I’m sharing this with her. “I’m engaged to be married.”

“Congratulations.”

“That might be precipitous. It’s not exactly what you would call a love match.”

“Is that why you’re down here by yourself?” she asks. “To run away?”

“Maybe.”

“Then I wish you luck.” She glances back over her shoulder before turning around to face me. “I should return to the house. We’re staying up the road. The big white house with the black shutters. If you’re bored, you should come by and visit.”

“I don’t want to impose on your honeymoon. No one likes a third wheel.”

Not to mention, I very much doubt Anthony Cordero would welcome me into his home.

“My husband has some business to conduct while we’re here,” Mirta replies. “I don’t think he’ll be around very much, and I’d like the company. Besides, you might get lonely after a while by yourself.”

Despite the risk, the desire for a real friend gets the best of me. “I’d like that, then.”

Mirta walks away, her dark hair blowing in the breeze, the skirt of her dress kicked up by the wind.

Once she’s gone, I am alone once more.

I gaze away, out to the sea, a storm somewhere off on the horizon. I wade into the water, lifting my skirt higher than I’d normally dare, exposing my calves, my knees. A wave tumbles right in front of me, the salt water spraying my face.

Despite the early hour, the sun beats down, warming my skin, but with the water pooling around my legs, the breeze whipping my hair around me, it isn’t stifling at all; instead, I want to shed my clothes and go farther out to sea.

I glance around me.

Now that Mirta has departed, there’s not a soul in sight, and thanks to the earliness of the morning and the remoteness of this stretch of beach, it’s unlikely anyone else will see me. Given his disheveled appearance, Sam probably won’t be ready to make our way to the camps yet.

The decision is made with speed, the ocean too tempting, my lack of care already a foregone conclusion.

I spent far too much of my life playing by the rules my parents set for me, expecting to make a good marriage, certain my life would be like my mother’s used to be—filled with parties and laughter and ease. I didn’t strictly follow the path they established, of course, because I’m me, and it seems somewhere along the way I inherited the Preston stubborn streak, but I mostly kept it within the acceptable margins, earning myself a few punishments, countless exasperated sighs, and much hand-wringing.

But then the crash came.

And everything changed.

And I stopped caring, because none of it mattered anymore. I was ruined by the actions of others, so why not do it properly? Why not live on my terms rather than someone else’s if it’s all out of my control anyway?

I walk toward the shore, lift the cotton dress over my head, and lay it gently on the sandy beach, out of the water’s reach. The frock was pretty enough long ago, when my curves were less extravagant, the floral pattern not as faded. Now it’s several seasons out of whatever passes for fashion these days. Still, it’s one of my best dresses.

I wade back into the water, letting out a little whoop as it covers my legs.

“Elizabeth.”

I move slowly, turning, the moment drawing out on an exhale, until I’m staring at Sam dressed in another neat suit, his jaw dropped.

The chemise really isn’t all that scandalous—it’s tattered white cotton, hardly tantalizing silk and lace—but the tic in Sam’s jaw suggests otherwise.

“What—What are you doing?” he sputters.

“Swimming,” I reply, the words coming out on the tail end of a laugh. “Having fun. You should try it sometime. It might change your life.”

My smile deepens at the heat that flickers in his gaze.

Not so disinterested now, is he?

Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, stalking toward the water’s edge, his gaze surveying the landscape as though he’s searching for any and all possible threats.

He stops several feet away from me, the breaking waves licking at the toes of his sensible—boring—black leather shoes.

“I thought we were supposed to be visiting the camps, not playing around,” he grumbles.

“I was more than ready earlier. You were the one who was still sleeping. Are you going to join me?” I tease, splashing the water around me.