Chapter 1 #2
"I mean I finally—finally—got approval for this research after two years of being told no.
" His voice rose, the calm facade cracking.
"Two years of grant rejections and permit denials and some jackass at SPECA telling me my work wasn't a 'funding priority.
' I'm not giving up the only shelter on this island because some influencer's assistant booked the wrong coordinates. "
He said influencer like other people said cockroach.
"I'm doing important work," he continued, "and I have a limited window to get it done. I don't have room in my schedule—or my cabin—for whatever it is you think you're going to do here."
She balked. "So you're just going to let me sleep on the beach? What if I get eaten by a shark or something?"
"Not likely as long as you stay out of the water at night."
"What do you mean, at night?" The blood drained from her flushed cheeks.
"Sharks are most active during low-light conditions." He shrugged like they were discussing the weather. "Stay out of the water at dusk and dawn. And if you're menstruating."
Her cheeks flared with instant heat. She didn't need a stranger discussing her period. "Thank you for the survival tip," she said in a clipped tone, "but that doesn't solve my immediate problem of needing shelter. You can't possibly expect me to sleep on the beach on an uninhabited island."
"I fail to see how your problem automatically becomes my problem." He folded his arms across his chest. "Besides, you'll be perfectly safe. The only predators on this island are in the water. Stay on land after dark and you'll be fine."
"I will not be fine. Do I look prepared to sleep outside?
" She gestured at herself—the carefully curated beach outfit, the manicured nails, the sandals that were shamelessly expensive.
"In case it wasn't obvious, I'm not exactly the camping type.
I'm more of a 'glamping' girl, you know what I mean? "
His expression didn't change. "You can't stay here. This cabin is a one-bed, one-biologist operation."
She stared, dumbfounded. This asshole was really going to make her sleep in the sand?
Think, Lily. Find the angle.
She drew a deep, cleansing breath and started fresh.
"Okay, clearly we've gotten off on the wrong foot here.
Let's start over." She extended her hand with her best camera-ready smile.
"My name is Lily St. John. I'm a travel influencer.
My channel, WanderLily Adventures, has six million followers, and I've been featured on YouTube's ten most up-and-coming travel influencers of the year. Pleased to meet you."
The man stared at her outstretched hand with open disinterest, his lip curling ever so slightly. "Influencing isn't a real job."
And there it was. The dismissal she'd heard a thousand times before.
You're wasting your education on this nonsense, her father had said when she'd told him about her channel hitting one million subscribers. He hadn't looked up from his phone. Call me when you have a real career.
She'd sent him the Forbes feature six months later. He'd replied with a single text: Interesting.
"Hey, my work is important too," Lily shot back, hands landing on her hips. "I inspire people to explore and appreciate this beautiful planet."
"By traipsing around in a bikini, sipping cocktails, and encouraging unsustainable tourism?
" His judgment came swift as a monsoon rain—unfiltered and cold.
"Winning the genetic lottery and getting followers to fund your vacation isn't a career.
It's people like you destroying natural resources one viral post at a time. "
"Excuse me for not being a professional wet blanket!" Lily retorted, matching his frosty demeanor with fiery indignation. The tropical heat suddenly seemed to rise a few degrees as they locked horns.
No one had ever been so mean to her for no reason.
Well. That wasn't entirely true.
Her father had perfected the art of casual cruelty over twenty-four years.
The difference was that John St. John delivered his disappointment in measured tones over expensive dinners, his criticism wrapped in phrases like I'm only saying this because I care about your future and you have so much potential, if only you'd apply yourself properly.
At least this guy was honest about his contempt.
She withdrew her hand and glared. "So what do you do, Professor Stick-In-The-Ass, that's so damn important you feel comfortable judging another person's livelihood?"
"My name is Dr. Alex Carmichael. I'm a marine biologist studying this island's unique ecosystem."
"Why?"
"Because this island is home to rare and endemic species that exist nowhere else on Earth."
"And?"
His nostrils flared with annoyance. "And their survival is critical for maintaining global biodiversity. My job is to document these species, understand their ecological roles, and develop conservation strategies to protect them."
Wow, what a snooze-fest. But there had to be a way to squeeze this giant lemon into lemonade.
"Cool," she said, clapping her hands together.
"I have an epic idea—why don't I turn this little misadventure into a learning experience?
I could document your research project while I'm waiting for the next boat.
Could be fun. Actually, I think I could turn this into something really interesting—"
"Absolutely not." His glare looked potent enough to scare off sharks.
"Oh, okay, well, maybe I can help with your research? I'm actually quite good with—"
"Fish don't care about your Instagram feed," he interrupted, clearly finished with the conversation and her. "I've wasted enough time on your issue. I need to get back to my work. Good luck."
And then he shut the door in her face.
The wood nearly clipped her nose. She stood there for a stunned second, mouth hanging open, before indignation surged through her like wildfire.
She marched forward and banged on the door. "I may not be a scientist, but I am an adaptable human being who can survive a little inconvenience. So whether you like it or not, we're roommates for the foreseeable future. Now open this door!"
His firm "No" sounded from the other side.
She grabbed the door handle and shook it hard. "How can you have so much compassion for a bunch of fish but none for a fellow human being having the worst day of her life?"
"Fish don't exaggerate. You'll be fine."
"Yeah? What about food, genius? Am I supposed to fashion a spear out of driftwood and go fishing for my supper? I could starve out here!"
"Humans can go a surprisingly long time without food. It's water you need to worry about, but it's bound to rain at some point."
You've got to be kidding me.
"You're a jerk," she called out, taking a seat on the edge of the wooden bench that looked as comfortable as a bed of nails. "We'll see how long that no-help policy lasts, Dr. Carmichael."
Silence from the other side. She imagined him already back at some microscope, having dismissed her entirely.
Then, just when she thought the day couldn't get worse, a rapidly darkening sky swallowed up the sunshine and a large crackle of thunder made her jump.
Just great. Now a freaking monsoon?
She pulled a large banana leaf free and huddled beneath it for some kind of protection from the sudden tropical storm, but within minutes she sat there a sodden mess.
The rain came down in sheets, warm but relentless, plastering her carefully styled hair to her skull and turning her designer beach cover-up into a second skin.
Mascara ran down her cheeks in tragic black rivulets.
She gasped, trying to keep her luggage protected so her laptop didn’t end up in a soggy puddle amongst wet clothing.
I should be knee-deep in adult beverages right now, but no—instead I'm living my worst nightmare, trapped on a beach from hell with Dr. Crankypants as the sole inhabitant.
Was this karma for not donating to the Monterey Bay Aquarium fundraiser last fall?
A particularly fat rivulet of rainwater rolled off the banana leaf and splashed directly on her face.
Ugh.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, succeeding only in smearing more mascara across her cheekbones. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled like the universe was laughing at her.
Okay, no pity parties allowed. You got this. Every man has his weakness. You just need to find his.
She was Lily St. John. Adapting was part of the adventure—even if it meant dealing with the world's meanest marine biologist on an island that time—and apparently GPS—forgot.
If she could survive twenty-four years with John St. John as her father—a man who'd once told her that "participation trophies are why your generation lacks character" while she held her high school valedictorian award—she could survive anything.
Including Dr. Crankypants.