A special delivery interrupts

The doorbell rang—sharp and insistent—and his shoulders tensed instantly. A car idled outside, audible through the thin kitchen window. James muttered something under his breath before striding past me, his forearm brushing mine with enough pressure to leave a phantom burn.

I followed, jam knife still in hand, watching as he yanked open the front door. A bored-looking delivery driver held out a slim parcel. "Felicity Armitage?"

James took it automatically, his fingers flexing around the padded envelope—just as my parents' looping handwriting came into view across the front. Dubai postmark. My throat tightened.

"You expecting something?" His voice sounded strained, like he'd been caught mid-thought. I reached for the package, our fingers brushing in a way that shouldn't have sent sparks up my arm. The paper tore easily under my nails, revealing folds of turquoise fabric that smelled faintly of duty-free perfume. The bikini slithered out, barely-there triangles connected by strings, the kind meant for oiled skin and reckless decisions. A note fluttered to the floorboards: *London weather's crap but thought you could use some sunnier thoughts x Mum*.

James cleared his throat. The silence stretched long enough that I caught myself counting his breaths—three shallow ones before he spoke. "Your mum's got... interesting taste." His voice had dropped an octave, gaze fixed rigidly on the hall mirror behind me like the sight of those flimsy strings might scorch him.

I rolled the fabric between my fingers, pulse hammering in my throat. The bikini was pretty tiny, the kind Bella would joke belonged in a "stepdad's spank bank." The thought of James—*don't look down don't look down*—sent heat pooling low in my stomach.

"Guess she's hoping I'll find a pool," I said, too brightly. My fingers trembled slightly as I held up the scrap of fabric, the afternoon light catching on the gold rings sewn into the triangles. The strings dangled provocatively, swaying between us like a pendulum.

James' throat bobbed. He didn't reach for it—didn't even glance below my collarbones—but his grip tightened on the doorframe. "Turquoise," he said after a beat too long, voice rough. "It'll... complement your eyes." The way he said it sounded clinical, like he was commenting on paint swatches, but his knuckles had gone white against the wood.