Excerpt from Esme’s Novel
S wimming with sharks wasn’t on the agenda for today, but neither was going on my honeymoon to Bora Bora alone. Yet, here I am. Staring out at shark-infested waters and contemplating throwing myself to them even though I don’t technically see any.
Hey! Maybe the hidden sharks will do me an immense favor and unalive me. Death by a hungry shark sounds much better than five more days on this god-forsaken island, drowning my sorrowful worries in strawberry vodka shots and shrimp. Which, trust me, does not taste as good coming up as going down.
I’m only here because I paid for half of this stupid honeymoon, and my parents are of the old-fashioned Southern mindset that women should be married off by the time they’re twenty-one.
Ha, here I am, continually breaking the mold by being unmarried at twenty-six.
When I told them I didn’t want to go on my honeymoon alone after Ryan never showed up at the altar, they practically shoved me out of the house yelling, “It’ll be good for you to reevaluate your life.
Besides, maybe you’ll meet someone new.”
I’m my parents’ only hope for grandchildren as I’m an only child, and I’ve never liked disappointing them.
At least they don’t blame me for the absent groom.
I think.
That text message he sent me still shouts in my head.
Ryan: Esme, I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m in love with someone else. - Ryan
I hate how he always signed his name on text messages.
Hot sand burns the soles of my feet as I shuffle across the white beach, looking out into the crystal blue ocean where stingrays freely swim alongside humans, yet I haven’t dared to step foot into the salty water.
The sun is brilliant and bright; it would ruin my eyes if not for my big black sunglasses.
I loathe the sun.
I crave gray skies and teary clouds. Maybe the occasional clap of thunder and bolt of lightning.
A massive, raging hurricane branding my name would be sufficient and up to par with my macabre mood.
Anything other than this soft, salty breeze against my sun-kissed skin, beckoning my spirit to shift the slightest degree toward the happy setting.
Day two of my spouse-less honeymoon, and my lips itch to twitch upward at the beauty around me. But no. Ryan has another woman he loves. I wasn’t enough for him. And he just had to wait until our wedding day to come clean of his two-month affair.
No amount of vibrant flora, luscious fauna, and mesmerizing sea creatures can divert my thoughts far enough away from the fact that I’m now a twenty-six-year-old woman who has been cheated on and stood up at the altar.
I down the Mai Tai in my hands before waving down a resort employee to take the glass away from me.
“And a refill, too, please,” I shout as the young Polynesian woman dressed in khaki shorts and a tucked-in light blue polo with Forever Summer —the resort name—embroidered on the left chest nods and rushes off.
I browse for an open umbrella and chair to occupy and wait for my third cocktail of the day, which is not normal for me, but when in Bora Bora…
People are everywhere. Couples in love. Children sun-drunk. Adults drunk-drunk. And an overall vibe of vivacious carelessness.
It’s almost enough to make me crack a smile, but I don’t.
Because I can’t afford to be careless. I have a job teaching high schoolers the beauty of literature awaiting me back in Juniper Grove, Mississippi.
I have hearts and minds to influence. A life to get back on track.
A new living situation to consider since I’m no longer moving in with Ryan.
Hunting down a new husband for myself so I can live up to my parents’ and the entire South’s societal expectations.
Finally, a chair frees up, and I walk the short distance, dodging humans, and shimmy out of my swimsuit cover. A high-pitched whistle coming from the chair beside me draws my attention.
“Do that dance again, munequita. ” A Hispanic middle-aged man with a bald head waggles his brows, and I fight the urge to gag in disgust as he licks his lips.
My gaze snags on the tattoo on the side of his neck.
Is that a pentagram? With a heart in the middle of it?
Disturbing isn’t the right word to describe the sight of that.
Discommoding. Ominous.
“Uh, no,” I state plainly, not bothering to hide my disdain. I’m a feisty woman as it is. Couple that with alcohol? Better watch out. The world is mine to conquer.
The man stands, taller than I expected him to be.
His slimy smile sends shivers shuddering down my spine.
“Don’t be like that.” He grabs my forearm, yanking me against his chest. I try to squirm away, but he’s stronger than he looks, and I grow ice-cold in the middle of this balmy summer island when he whispers against my ear, “I have a knife in my pocket. If you scream or try to run, I will not hesitate to use it, munequita. ”
Breath catches in my chest; my body is a statue.
I sober up real fast.
“Good girl.” The man wraps an arm around my waist and shoves against the back of my legs with his knee. “Walk. And smile. Don’t even think about calling for help. I need you.”
Help. I should call for help.
God, help. If You care, help. Please help.
He could be bluffing about having a knife.
Or not.
Fear grips its dark tendrils around my neck, and my mind runs through a million possibilities of escape.
As I take step after step with a pasted smile of horror upon my face, I imagine myself throwing my body away from his fingers digging into my waist. I would punch him and kick him down after that and then run and scream until every eye was on me. I would point at him and yell that he has a knife.
Yes. That’s a good plan. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.
Courage swells within me, and right as I decide to spin out of his arms and punch him with the force of a thousand Bora Bora suns, the man falls face-first into the blistering, white sand as gasps ring out from beachgoers around us.
I’m frozen once more as I eye the guy who tried to take me away squirming to his feet. A bronzed and broad-shouldered wall of a man steps in front of me, muscles rippling across his back as he raises his fist and punches the other man square in the nose as soon as he struggles to his feet.
The guy who attempted to take me stumbles backward before running away, holding his nose. A resort worker approaches us after he runs away and starts inquiring if everyone is okay and what happened.
I’m silent and stunned as the stranger who stepped in to help me turns around, revealing the most handsome, concerned face I’ve ever seen, stealing my breath for a whole other reason.
I don’t know who this man is, but my soul leaps and dances and preens under his intense gaze.
I have the urge to reach toward him, to cling to him forever.
Safety seeps into my bones as my eyes flick down to his silver cross necklace.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a raspy, breathless voice, running a hand through his dark curls.
His entire arm is tatted in a symphony of bramble and buds.
I manage a nod, and he turns to the resort worker.
His voice is thick like honey, slow, and Southern.
“That man was trying to take this woman against her will, I think.”
The beautiful stranger eyes me for confirmation, and I nod once more. My mind has done a one-eighty, and the kidnapping attempt is the furthest thing from my thoughts as I stare unashamedly at the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my entire existence.
He and the resort worker discuss the details back and forth. This man must have been watching the entire scene play out from afar because he tells it exactly as it happened.
Minus the knife.
“He said he had a knife,” I finally blurt, coming to my senses and wishing I would have said it sooner. The kidnapper guy is no longer in view as he’s blended into the crowds of people on the beach and boardwalk.
The stranger curses, and immediately, he and the resort employee work together to get the police on the phone.
The next few hours are spent in a whirl of questioning, describing, and doing lots of paperwork.
By the time the police let me and the man whose name I’ve learned is Noah Ashton go free, it’s well past lunchtime, and my stomach is eating me alive.
And despite my show of bravery and courage that was rudely interrupted by a Justin Baldoni lookalike hero, I’m a little frightened to leave this wall of a man’s side until the creep who tried to take me is apprehended.
Noah must sense that.
Once we leave the police municipality of Bora Bora and step foot back onto Forever Summer Resort, Noah asks if I’d like to accompany him for lunch.
“That would be nice.” I smile a smidge too widely at him, sticking close by his side as we walk on the boardwalk of the resort.
We pass person after person, and fear saturates my blood every single time I spot a middle-aged balding man.
But I have a punch worthy of a thousand Bora Bora suns, I remind myself. And I have now acquired a Noah Ashton.
Noah must take notice of the inherent fear I can’t seem to shake.
He runs a hand through his luscious-looking black curls, mussing them before he speaks.
“I know we are strangers, but I promise you I’m safe.
I’ll provide references if you wish. Would you want me to take you back to your bungalow and order food to be delivered there? ”
We pause, and I meet his eyes. They are warm and hazel with golden flecks.
His smile is genuine, laugh lines appearing as it grows wider.
“That won’t be necessary,” I state, grinning at my luck to meet such a handsome man on day two of this unwanted solo honeymoon.
“The references, I mean. Lunch at my bungalow sounds like a date.”
“A date,” he reiterates, his smile somehow growing bigger. Noah offers his large hand to me, and I take it, feeling utterly safe with the man towering over me, acting as my fortress. As we begin to walk toward the bungalows overlooking the ocean, I sneak another glance at my rescuer.
He was shirtless when he stepped in and saved me from the guy, but now he dons a classic white T-shirt taut over his well-defined chest. His waist tapers into massive legs that could rival the trunks of Mississippi white oak trees.
Noah is a wall. Beautiful, broad, and brick. Donald Trump would approve.
“Like what you see?” he asks, catching my gaze. I immediately shift my eyes away, heat creeping into my cheeks.
Very much. “Thank you for helping me,” I say, ignoring the comment until I decide if I’m going to flirt back. “I promise I was about to attempt my escape, but I was worried about it.”
“I didn’t know if the two of you were together, but the interaction didn’t look friendly from where I stood, so I just kept watching.
When he started dragging you off, something didn’t feel right, so I decided to intervene just in case something nefarious was happening.
” He pauses, then says, “I’m glad I could help.
No woman should have to experience a man in that capacity. ”
The unspecified type of treatment we both imagine that man had in store for me sends a wave of nausea over me, but I take deep breaths and settle myself. I change the conversation as we approach the bungalows. “That one is mine.” I point to number twenty-one.
“Serendipitous. Mine is that one.” He points to the bungalow across from mine. A fresh layer of safety coats me, and I grin.
“It’s like fate.”