A delayed flight. A fourteen-year-old complaining about the Wi-Fi. And discovering her husband has been sculpted by Greek gods.

Unfortunately, here we are.

The pool glitters. A waiter passes with cocktails. A toddler declares war on a sunhat.

And Nathaniel Bennett, thirty-three, father of your two children and technically still your husband, is climbing out of the water.

Water slides over shoulders that definitely weren't that broad last Christmas. Dark hair pushed back. Neatly trimmed beard. A little grey at his temples.

And tattoos. Since when does Nate have those?

This is the man who once strained his back moving a wardrobe and spent three days blaming the wardrobe. He should come with a warning label.

Then his gaze finds your loungers. He waves at the kids, spots you—and stops for half a second.

His mouth curves.

Oh, no. You know that smile. You've known it since you were fifteen.

Nate strolls over, entirely too pleased with himself.

Ollie makes a noise of profound suffering.

Nate folds his arms. An absolutely unnecessary decision.

His girlfriend of four months approaches in a white bikini, slips an arm around his waist and kisses his cheek.

Then Sophie sits upright, eyes sparkling with the sort of enthusiasm that usually precedes property damage.