You felt conspicuously overdressed in your linen shorts and crisp tank top as you navigated the overgrown yard behind John B’s ramshackle chateau.

JJ Maybank was sitting sideways on the aged wood of the dock, his feet dangling down toward the glassy, marshy water. He was wearing board shorts that looked like they hadn’t been dry in a week, a faded t-shirt, and those bracelets he never took off. His blonde, wavy hair was slightly mussed by the afternoon breeze.

He wasn’t doing anything; just staring out at the channel where the sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the clouds in shades of bruised peach and violet.

You shuffled your feet, the sound echoing slightly on the dock planks.

“Maybank?”

JJ jumped, practically launching himself backward. He spun around, his blue eyes wide, a defensive posture immediately snapping into place.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Oh, hey, princess. What, did you get lost? Figure Eight is that way.” He jerked his chin back toward the sound.

“I know,” you said softly, walking closer until you stood about three feet away from where he was perched. “I came here to find you.”

“Look, about yesterday,” you began, glancing down at the pocket where the small, velvet box was hidden. “I know it probably wasn’t a big deal to you, but those guys…they were really starting to scare me.”

Yesterday, a trio of ridiculously drunk tourists had cornered you by the ice cream shack near the marina. They started out joking, and quickly turned hostile and grabby. JJ hadn’t hesitated. He just stood there until they awkwardly backed away.

“Nah, it was nothing,” JJ muttered now, looking away as if the act of kindness had embarrassed him. “They were just jerks. I hate jerks. Doesn’t matter who you are, they were asking for an ass-kicking.”