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Sex on the Beach

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"Sex on the beach."

Lewis glares at his sergeant. "This your idea of a joke?"

"No, sir," Hathaway says earnestly. "Tropical Tuesday. The drink on special is Sex on the Beach. Vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice, cranberry juice."

Lewis sighs. That's what he gets for visiting an unfamiliar pub at a conference. "Likely comes with more fruit than a Christmas pudding, and a little paper umbrella. I'll have a pint of Brown."

Hathaway returns. Smirking, he sets down two glasses of ale adorned with gaudy paper umbrellas. 

Only much later does Lewis wonder if it was more than a joke.

"Sex on the beach?" James asks.

"The charge would've been public indecency. I let them off with a warning. The BVI are more tolerant than our lot."

"Just don't do it in broad daylight and scare the tourists?"

"It usually is the tourists. The locals know better. Sand gets into awkward places, not to mention sand flies."

James grimaces. "How romantic."

Robbie glances around the chippy. "I think that romance is about the person, not the place." He reaches across the table to clasp James's hand.

James is speechless, but his answering smile is all the poetry that Robbie needs.

Robbie stirs. Where? Oh! He's on the porch of their holiday cottage. Must've fallen asleep after dinner. They'd spent the afternoon watching a sand sculpture contest. Now it's night. The moonlit Caribbean glitters.

James emerges from the shadows. "You're awake."

"Hello, love. Sorry I'm such poor company."

"You needed the sleep. And I've kept busy." James gestures towards the beach, and a sand sculpture of two naked men, intertwined.

"You made that?"

"Yeah. Not exactly Michelangelo. I call it 'Sex on the Beach.'"

Robbie chuckles. "It's a masterpiece. Now come inside." 

James smiles. "Life imitates art?"

And so it does.