Sienna’s POV

The SUV rolled to a stop on a crushed-shell driveway that curved like a smile toward the ocean. I stepped out barefoot—sandals dangling from my fingers—and the heat slapped me in the face, thick, salty, alive.

The restaurant wasn’t some touristy spot with plastic flamingos and margarita menus the size of posters. It was a low, open-air palapa right on the cliff, thatched roof rustling in the breeze, wooden tables scattered like someone had tossed them there and decided ...