Rule #4.5 Never Share a Bed in Paradise
CHAPTER ONE
Jeremy
I am not in love with Rex Manley.
That would be foolish, and I am not a foolish person.
Mostly.
Hopefully.
I give in to the temptation to slide my gaze to his pale, serious face as he surveys the taxis outside Fiji’s Nadi International Airport. Rex is wearing a light-weight tailored trench coat he probably got on one of the fancy shops on Newbury Street, the kind with guards as you enter and prices upon request.
It looks good on him. Everything does.
“Bula, sir! I have taxi for you.” A driver shoots me a warm, toothy grin. “You want, yeah?”
I nod, conscious that I’m sticky from the humidity outside the airport’s somewhat air-conditioned interior, and I tell him the name of the hotel.
“Here on holiday, sir?” the driver asks.
Looking for your friend who’s gone missing doesn’t normally count as a holiday, and I almost babble the whole story to the driver.
He’s started on a soliloquy of Fiji’s charms, and I can’t bear to interrupt him and ask about the chances of drowning in the Pacific.
Because let’s face it, the chances are probably high, at least when you go missing after renting a jet ski.
My stomach churns, and I scramble for the plastic bottle of Fiji water the flight attendants proudly handed out on the plane.
I wave my hand toward Rex tentatively. His eyes widen, and he waves back. I’m about to suggest we share a taxi, but he slides into a different one.
Well.
No great conversation then.
Which is fine. I don’t really want to speak to the guy that I am definitely, definitely not in love with, when I’ve just slept in a middle seat at the back of the plane on a seventeen-hour flight. I have some dignity after all, and I’m pretty sure my hair and makeup are both a mess.
Not that Rex would care about either.
Given his bemused wonder when various NHL players for the Boston Blizzards came out, he is completely and utterly straight. He’s probably never even stepped into a gay bar in his life.
He’s divorced and has two children my age.
Good thing I’m not in any manner in love with him.
Good thing silver foxes aren’t my type.
Good thing competent former ex-professional hockey players who become TV sports anchors and household names do absolutely nothing for me.
The taxi driver gives me a strange look, and I remember that I’m supposed to actually enter the taxi and not just stare at the outside.
With that, I enter. The driver flicks on some tropical music, and happy noises fill the car, even though my heart is sinking.
What happened to Cal and Larvik? Maybe I’ll go to the hotel and find out that they were discovered, after all. And though he would probably tease me for overreacting, that’s what I hope happens. When the hotel called me, and I realized that I was his emergency contact, I couldn’t just not do anything, and I decided to act like an emergency contact.
That’s why I’m here in Fiji. I don’t know Cal well, but I have the points for travel. I work from home. There was no reason I couldn’t go to find him, which is why I’m here now.
I like Cal. He’s kind and when he e-mailed me to tell me that he was moving to Boston, and that his boss Rex Manley knew that I had a spare bedroom I was renting out, it was an absolute no-brainer.
But now that he’s gone, I’m going to find him.
The car zooms toward Cal’s hotel. Palm trees sway, and everything is green and distinctly uncovered by snow.
The truth is, I haven’t known Cal for long. But it’s clear the guy needs some help, and I have the means and the time. There has to be some benefit to making a career that I can do anywhere. I don’t even have to ask anyone for PTO.
No, Cal will probably think I’m crazy for following him, but I’m worried.
The taxi pulls up at the hotel, and I’m soon swept outside. Someone thrusts a refreshing drink made out of some sort of juice I can’t immediately identify into one of my hands, another person whisks my duffel bag away, handling it with care that I could only imagine bestowing on a Louis Vuitton bag.
The male staff wear long dark skirts that reach past their knees, a modern version of the traditional grass skirts they once were. They usher me to a long stylish reception desk.
“Bula!” The thirty-something female receptionist gives me a wide smile. “How wonderful that you’ve joined our hotel.”
I try to smile. It’s not that the hotel isn’t wonderful. It clearly is. I’m just worried about Cal. It’s fucking weird that he hasn’t been in contact, and my conversation with a staff member yesterday fucking scared me.
Still. I aim for casual. “I would like to get in touch with my friend, Cal Prescott.”
Her eyes turn misty. “Oh. You’re a friend of his.”
“Yes,” I say.
“A family member?”
Shit. This isn’t going to be one of those hospital things is it?
“We’re roommates,” I say, letting her imagine what she wants to imagine from that.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jones,” she says. “One of their jet skis was recently found floating in the Pacific.”
My skin turns cold. I blink.
When I flew here, they’d told me that Larvik and Cal hadn’t returned from jet skiing.
This is worse.
Way, way worse.
But then I realize it’s fine, she couldn’t have implied what I think she just implied. Because what she just implied was… bad.
“But you found them?” I ask.
Her eyes go wide, and I’m sure she’s regretting telling me as much as she just did. She flicks her gaze this way and that, as if hopeful that suddenly a tiny room she can thrust me into, hospital bad news style, will appear where she can break the news.
“Tell me,” I say, more firmly. “You know something.”
“I—” She swallows hard. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. My manager will speak to you. And—”
My fingers shake. Does she want her manager to tell me that Cal is dead? Does she think that telling me here in the reception of the hotel is a bad idea because I might have an inappropriate reaction? Like be sad while people are checking in for their fancy vacations?
I blink multiple times.
And at just that moment, he appears.
Rex Manley.
“Jeremy,” he says, his tenor voice soft and caring. “What’s going on?”
I glance up at him. “You recognized me.”
“Of course,” he says solemnly. He leans closer to me. “Though you did change your hair.”
If it were any other time, I might give him a soppy grin. If we’d been in a gay bar, I might add a wink.
We’re not though, and I turn my head back to the receptionist, who definitely knows more than she is telling me.
“They found Cal’s jet ski,” I say. “Floating.”
“Oh, no,” Rex says, and his voice is devastated.
I nod.
I didn’t know Cal well, but he was a good guy. He didn’t deserve to, well, whatever happens to someone when their jet ski is found floating by itself in the Pacific.
My knees buckle, the room is suddenly too hot, and my view darkens.
In the next moment, I feel a sturdy arm around my waist.
“I’m going to take him to the sofa,” Rex tells someone, probably the receptionist, then he leads me a few steps and helps me sit down. “Head between your legs.”
I want to roll my eyes at him.
I’m pretty sure I don’t manage.
Rex gives a weak chuckle. “It will make you feel better. I promise.”
I sigh and put my head between my knees, then suddenly feel the gentle stroking on my back, that can only be from him.
The world reappears, and I sigh and move my torso up. He drops his hand from my back, and if I were a strategic sort of person, I would feign faintness for longer.
My only thought now though is Cal.
I look at Rex who gives me a sad smile.
“Better?”
I nod. “Yes. Thank you.”
I blink hastily. The thing is, even though I now really like Rex Manley, not love him, because that would be excessive and professionally unideal, since we’re often in the press room together when we cover the Boston Blizzards, I do hate that I’ve shown weakness in front of him.
Because when we first met, six months ago, he seemed to take one look at my admittedly not very great blue hair and put me in a box that said “not great.” I remember that version of him, and I don’t like that I showed the future version of him that I am weak.
It’s not how I wanted to present myself. It’s not how I wanted to be in front of him.
Though maybe it is how I am.
“You had a long flight and a shock,” Rex says, his voice as kind as he is unobtainable.
No one can say I have bad taste in men.