"I WON'T STAND IN AN OPEN FIELD OF SAND JUST TO 'RELAX.'"
Grayson stood on the edge of the terrace, his arms crossed over a linen shirt that was already suffering from the humidity. He looked less like a man on vacation and more like a general contemplating a scorched-earth policy.
"It's called a picnic, Grayson! And the 'aerial bombardment' you're worried about is a seagull looking for a cracker!" Mailah stood at the base of the stairs leading down to the private beach, a wicker basket hanging from her arm. "Put the binoculars down. No one is coming to assassinate us via jet ski."
Grayson didn't move.
His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the gray Atlantic met an equally gray sky. "The coast is an open wound, Mailah. There are no walls here. No reinforced glass. Just miles of uncontrolled space for things to crawl out of the deep. You want to sit on a blanket and eat fruit while we are surrounded by variables?"
