Chapter 20
Chapter 20
A fter their planning session, where Jones hovered at the edge of the room and made disapproving clucking noises like a fussy den mother, Ribs decided to “crash,” after his all night flight.
“You didn’t used to need a nap after an all nighter, but I understand if you’re feeling your age now, sir,” Jones told him. The guys might love to razz him about his innocence and big heart, but he could always get them on the age and stamina, especially because Jones was younger than most of them, if only by a couple of years. “Want me to warm you some milk, Grandpa?”
“Nah, just go ahead and enjoy the gift of time I’m giving you,” Ribs said, waving his hand like a fairy godfather toward Carol.
“ No ,” Jones mouthed, afraid Carol would overhear. He had no idea why Ribs now had it in his head that he and Carol were destined to be together, but somehow he was vaguely insulted by it. Carol was cute, maybe even adorable, but she wasn’t one of those women, the kind his teammates always somehow ended up paired with, the kind they playingly fought over the privilege to woo and win. Jones had never been included in that sort of competition, and now he saw why: they didn’t see him as capable of winning one of those women. They saw him worthy of women like Carol—cute women, quirky women, nice women. Jones was so tired of nice and normal his teeth ached. Just once he wanted to be that guy, the one who got the woman with the heart-stopping good looks with legs for miles, the one all the other guys wanted. And, really, what was wrong with wanting? Nothing, not a thing. He refused to settle for nice because it was what everyone expected of him.
Now when he wanted space the most, when he would have been happy for some of the space and alone time he had so recently eschewed, he was stuck with Carol. Ribs abandoned them for sleep, and he couldn’t leave her alone, not when her life was in danger because of him. So she tagged along, observing everything he showed her with clinical detachment and PhD-level absorption, taking notes in her little book.
“Carol.”
“Yes, David.” She glanced up at him from her crouch and he momentarily forgot what he was going to say because, okay, she actually was adorable, with her little turned up freckled nose, dimpled cheeks, and fringed lashes. Like a baby doll you wanted to pick up because it looked so lovable and cozy.
“Is it actually necessary to inspect the laundry chute that closely?” He had taken her on what was supposed to be a quick tour of the resort, one in which he impressed her with the place. Not only had she spent such an inordinate amount of time inspecting each and every atom of space, but she had found fault with all of it, making copious notes in her book of doom.
She straightened and smoothed a hand on her dress, righting it after it stuck to her and made her look like her legs were on sideways. “Yes.”
“Why? Why do you have to be so nitpicky?” Why can’t you enjoy life without finding fault in every blessed thing, was what he wanted to say.
“Because I’m paid to be. Kind of a lot of money, actually.”
“How do rusty bolts on a laundry chute help the overall function of this resort?” he demanded.
“Are you familiar with the broken window theory?” she asked.
“Obviously,” he said, a blatant lie because he had no idea what she was talking about. But it seemed like he should and he couldn’t stand to lose face in front of her. For whatever reason, it felt to him as if they were locked in some kind of strong and silent competition, one he’d been losing since he met her.
She smiled, clearly disbelieving him. “The broken window theory asserts that big problems do not begin as big problems. They begin as little problems. Violent crime in a neighborhood doesn’t begin as violent crime. It begins as silent neglect, a little bit of graffiti, a broken window here and there. And if you clean up the little things, the big things will also resolve.”
“Okay. Extrapolate that out for me. How does this broken bolt apply to bettering the resort?”
Carol took his finger and ran it gently over the broken bolt. “Do you feel that sharp edge? It grabs onto sheets and towels, ripping them. Two of my sheets and three towels are ripped on the edges, with rust stains.” She tapped his finger against the rusty bolt. “Clean laundry at a five star resort is imperative. It’s also impossible when it’s coming out rusted and frayed. Fix the bolt, fix the laundry.”
“Huh,” he murmured softly. Not only did he suddenly get her point, but it felt kind of nice, her fingers gently smoothing over his. When was the last time he held hands with a woman? He was sappy enough to admit it was one of his favorite parts, that he enjoyed the build up to a relationship as much as the relationship itself. Not that he’d had so many of those. But there was enough of the insecure former fat kid in him to get a ridiculous little thrill every time he held a woman’s hand or leaned in for that first kiss.
His eyes fell on Carol’s lips, pursed slightly as she stared at the laundry chute in concentration, her fingers still absently pressing his to the bolt, caressing a little as they made each pass. What would it be like to kiss Carol? He realized the direction of his thoughts and yanked his hand back, wiping it on his pants a few times to try and erase the sensation. If anyone was going to kiss Carol, it would be her serious boyfriend, Maine Cop, another surprise. He imagined her with an accountant or something equally subdued. A cop was unexpected. But to each her own. Maybe she had a thing for guys who lived dangerously. Guys like me. No, strike that. Also, shut up.
“Lunch?” he asked, snagging her attention. She turned to him with a cheerful smile.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Noon buffet has hot dogs,” he said.
“Do they also have corn and mashed potatoes?” she asked, her enthusiasm matching his.
He nodded.
“No,” she said deadpan, enthusiasm disappearing.
“What? Why not?”
“Because corn doesn’t grow here. That corn probably came from America.”
“What’s wrong with America?” he asked, feeling defensive on behalf of the country he’d fought for.
“Absolutely nothing. God bless it. But it’s thousands of miles away. Do you know how old that corn is by now? In corn years, it would be toothless and incontinent.”
“Corn doesn’t have years,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s corn. Don’t anthropomorphize the things I’m about to eat. It’s creepy.”
She stepped forward and clasped his hand, giving it a little tug. “You are in the middle of some of the best, most amazing fruit and vegetation on the planet, near some truly incredible local cuisine. Take a leap, try something new.”
“I don’t like new,” Jones said.
She took another little step closer, until they were chest to chest, not touching but almost. “You have ideas about things. Doesn’t mean they’re correct.”
Was she still talking about food? Surely she couldn’t know what he’d been thinking about her. The proximity and angle of their bodies made it feel natural to reach out and rest his fingers on her hips. “No tofu. I draw the line at soy.”
“Don’t you trust me?” she asked.
He had no idea what he felt in relation to her. Everything felt muddled and getting murkier by the moment. Why was he touching this strange woman who drove him insane?
“I’m starving,” Carol said, words soft and sultry. Was she staring at his lips or was that his imagination? “I really need…” she inched slightly closer.
“Yes?” he croaked.
“Pad Thai,” she breathed. “With shrimp curry.”
“Noodles? You’re thinking of noodles right now?” he asked.
She grasped his shirt in both her hands and gave it a little shake. “Spoiler alert, David: I’m always thinking of noodles. Come on, I’ll make a plate for you.”
“No tofu, swear it,” Jones said, following her as she turned toward the cafeteria.
“No tofu,” she agreed.
“And no…” he began, but she put up a hand and cut him off.
“You only get one veto.”
“What? Since when?”
“Since I decided you don’t know what’s good for you and took control of your diet,” she said.
“You can’t do that,” he said.
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because this is my mission, to proselytize those living in food darkness. You think you’re living a full life because you’ve traveled and you live in this exotic paradise, but really you’ve continued to live on the farm where you grew up in different places. I only have a few days to open your eyes and help enlighten you.”
“I’m not…that’s not…” Realizing he was once again sputtering in irritation, he took a deep breath and tried again. “Who says I grew up on a farm?”
“Did you?” she asked.
“Sort of. My grandparents had a farm,” he admitted.
“In the middle of the country, I’ll bet.”
“Nebraska,” he said, once again feeling like he’d lost something but not knowing what. Why should it matter if she knew things about him, things he usually kept hidden from others? For some reason he tried to play down his squeaky clean farm boy image. It didn’t exactly go well with the lothario image he tried to project to women he found interesting. Instead of, “That’s hot,” the reaction he usually got was, “That’s adorable.”
“Lucky,” Carol said.
“Why lucky?”
“To have that kind of heritage, that connection to land, to history and culture. It’s enviable.”
Certainly no one had ever envied his grandparents’ tiny farm in their tiny Nebraska town. When he was little, Jones loved the farm. He couldn’t wait to go there each summer, loved how his grandparents put him to work and gave him so much responsibility. As he grew into a teenager, he still loved it, but he kept that love hidden because it was mixed with embarrassment. Everyone else had grandparents who looked the same age as his parents, had large houses, an overabundance of money and nice cars. No one had grandparents as plainspoken, hardworking, and impoverished as his. No one else had to spend his summer working from dawn to dusk to help them make ends meet, to help them have enough food and chopped wood for winter. Really, he should thank them. If not for all those days upon days chopping wood when he was a teenager, he might never have lost his extra weight and made it as a SEAL.
“Are you coming with me, or do you want me to surprise you? No, never mind. If you come, you’ll get plain noodles. Find a seat, please, and I’ll bring our food,” Carol directed, walking away without waiting for a reply. Jones stood helplessly in the middle of the cafeteria. His gaze drifted toward the American section of the buffet. Part of him yearned for his daily hot dog. The other part of him couldn’t stop envisioning geriatric corn, bent over a walker and dribbling butter. Blast you, Carol. If she ruined corn for him, he might never forgive her.
He ambled to a table and waited, cheeks resting in his fists. Carol returned in short order, balancing three loaded plates of food. She sat them on the table and fussed a bit, arranging them between them. Something about the scene was cozy and reminded Jones of the way his mother used to fuss over his food, as if she cared about his wellbeing and wanted to make certain he enjoyed it.
“What am I eating?” he asked as he picked up a fork and loaded it with long and skinny noodles.
“Tofu,” Carol said and rolled her eyes when he froze. “I’m joking. You really lack a sense of humor about soy. It’s Pad Thai and a few other things.” Her fork clinked against his, urging him to continue. “Fair warning, this is the hot section. I dumped a bunch of garlic chili sauce on everything because it’s my favorite. I like the way it makes my lips burn.”
“Weird,” he murmured, but he also stared at her lips as he chewed, wondering if it would make his lips burn if he kissed her.
“What?” she asked, using her napkin to dab her chin.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. They ate a few bites in silence. Like the night before, Jones was shocked by how delicious everything tasted. He felt like his taste buds were exploding, albeit in a good way. Of course he didn’t volunteer that information. No need to make her smug. Also like the night before they shared plates. It was strange how comfortably they’d fallen into their new little routine.
“So I notice you didn’t go gaga for Ribs,” Jones said after a bit of oddly comfortable and companionably silent chewing.
“I take it that’s a thing that routinely happens,” Carol said.
“Yep,” Jones returned.
“I have friends like that. It’s the worst. I guess I’ve never been accused of going with the crowd and being like everybody else. Plus I’m always that woman, friend woman. I automatically assign myself to the Friendzone. Saves time and energy.”
“I hear that,” Jones said, holding his fork aloft in a little salute. “Lemme see a picture of the boyfriend.” What if he wasn’t real? What if she was lying? What if she came to the island in order to troll for men? What if he was being trolled and he didn’t even realize?
She fished for her phone, made a few swipes, and turned it to face him. He wiped his fingers and took the phone, pulling it closer for a look. The first thing he noted was Carol, but a cleaned up version, her hair nicely curled and wearing more makeup with a dress that hugged her curves pleasantly, much more so than the amorphous sun dress she wore today. Maybe not trolling, then. If she were trolling, she would definitely reveal those curves instead of cover them as if she were in denial about their existence.
Next his gaze moved to the guy, lingering in surprise. “Looks like he could have been on our team,” he noted. He was tall, much taller than Carol, with broad shoulders and an athletic build. Swap his face out and he could have been Ridge or Ethan or Ribs or any of the others.
“I think he had aspirations in that direction, but his parents died in a car accident his senior year of high school. He didn’t want to leave his sister, Georgette.” She reached for her phone, but Jones held onto it, tipping his head as if making a detailed study of the guy, which he was.
“He doesn’t look like he belongs in your lane,” Jones said, finally releasing the phone. “He looks like one of them. The others. The sort you accused me of aiming for instead of staying in my lane.”
Carol snatched her phone back. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not like that.” She turned the phone around, making her own perusal. “The thing about Brody is that… He’s, well, you have to understand that…” She paused and frowned at the phone a few beats before setting it aside and bursting into noisy tears.
“Oh. Uh-oh. Oh, no,” Jones fussed, feeling helpless. He hated seeing a woman cry. He was used to seeing his teammates bring women to tears. It had never been him before. “Don’t cry,” he said, reaching across the table to poke her bicep.
“You are so bad at this,” Carol said, grabbing a wad of napkins. She pressed them to her eyes, either trying to absorb or stop the flow of water.
“I’m actually not,” Jones said. With a sigh he scooted closer and put his arms around her, pulling her against him. He’d been right to resist the action because it felt a bit too right, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. He wondered if Carol felt it too because she nuzzled, fitting her face nicely in the niche between his chin and shoulder.
“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he soothed, running his hand gently over her head. Then he used that hand to wave to a passerby who tossed him a dirty look, somehow sensing he was the cause of Carol’s tears.
“I know. I wasn’t insulted. It’s not you. It’s Brody.”
His arms tightened. “What about him?” Was he abusive? A deadbeat? Lowlife? Loser?
“He’s so good, so completely perfect,” Carol wailed.
Oh. “Sorry?” he tried.
“Haven’t you ever wanted something so badly, been so certain it was the right thing? And then you got it and it didn’t match the picture in your head?”
“Incessantly. All the time,” Jones said, and he meant it. Every woman he’d ever dated, even this job couldn’t live up to the impossible standard in his head.
“How do you fix it?” she asked.
“You either let go of the picture in your head or…”
“Or?” she prompted when he didn’t continue.
She pulled back to peer up at him, lashes dewy with unshed tears. He touched his finger to one of them, taking a teardrop onto his finger. “Or you let go of the thing that doesn’t match up.”