Chapter 11
sofía
“Sofía?”
A knock rattles the door, and I groan, focused on willing the cells in my body to regenerate and get rid of the brutal sunburn covering my shoulders, back, and inner thighs.
This doesn’t happen. I don’t sunburn. Never have. It’s one of my greatest blessings in life if this is what it’s like to have sun blisters.
“Are you okay? I’ve got some aloe.”
“No,” I whimper, rolling onto my back and out of bed.
The skin on my shoulders pulls, and sharp stings prickle along my spine as I hobble over and unlatch the safety on the door. Jett greets me with a wide, charming grin and an armful of aloe and pain medication.
“Can I come in?”
I step aside, and he saunters into the room like a man who isn’t experiencing the worst discomfort of his life. Even with a base tan, sunscreen, and twenty-seven years without major sunburns, I have been taken out by the Australian sun.
Jett, however, carries no evidence he spent all day on the boat and in the water, thanks to his wetsuit and the zinc he slathered all over his face before he leaped into the water.
This is payback for laughing at him when it turned him into a ghost. Now I look and feel like a boiled lobster.
Karma is a bitch.
The latch clicks shut, and I gingerly follow him, perching on the edge of the bed. He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a spare towel, laying it out to cover the bedsheets. When he’s finished, he grimaces.
“First time?”
My mind immediately goes to the gutter. “Excuse me?”
His cheeks flush the color of my shoulders, and then he clarifies, “Do you get sunburnt often?”
“Oh, no, not really.”
“I can tell.” He chuckles when my nose scrunches and the pain contorts my features. “There’s only one way to deal with a sunburn.”
“And that is?”
“Accept the misery, slather yourself in aloe vera, and learn from your mistake.”
Well, that is not the answer I was hoping for. He laughs again, though this time it’s nothing more than a low rumble that travels straight to my abdomen, heating me from the inside.
The subtle scent of the ocean wafts through the room as he drags a hand through his salt water–curled hair. His outfit is casual, a pair of joggers and a t-shirt that reads Take me back to the Pleistocene epoch.
I make a mental note to ask Charlie what that is, but based on the image of a mammoth below the phrase, I’m guessing it’s some weird science joke.
“I can help, if you’d like,” he offers, fidgeting with the cap of the aloe bottle. “I’ve dealt with a lot of sunburns, so I’m basically a professional.”
“That’s not something I would boast about. You should take care of your skin.”
His eyes flicker to my left shoulder that peeks out beneath my flowy bathing suit cover. It’s the only item of clothing that didn’t touch my skin in the wrong way.
I ignore his expression and the fact he seems to have won the small, silent battle between us. “So, what do I do?”
I tried to take a shower, but that was like leaping into the center of an active volcano and swimming in the lava. No way I’m doing that again.
“You need to put aloe on and let it set in.” He pats the towel he laid out. “Lie on your stomach.” He scratches the back of his neck when I don’t budge. “If you’re not comfortable with me touching you…”
“Oh, no, it’s not that.” Why is it so hot in here? “I can’t move very well.”
“Ah.” He moves the towel. “Better?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Okay, now take your clothes off.”
I stare at him.
He stares at me.
And then, as if to clarify, he screams, with no composure whatsoever, “So I can put the aloe on, not because I want to see your boobs!”
“I, uh, can’t lift my arms, either,” I stammer.
Jett gazing upon my breasts was not a thought that crossed my mind prior to this insane interaction, but it’s going to be one that sticks with me, right beside the memory of his wetsuit and how little it hides if one were to glance south.
Does he want to see me naked?
The inappropriate thought sends a shiver down my spine. Fuck, that’s not good.
“Right,” he croaks. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Me neither, dude. But you made it weird.
I force out a laugh to break the tension, but it comes out choked. Great. Now I’m making it weird, too.
There’s a solid thirty seconds where neither of us know what to do with ourselves. Jett sets me off-kilter in a way I’m unaccustomed to—not in a bad way, but around him, I’m looser, lighter, freer.
That is, until I called my family after ignoring their messages for two days. My sisters are pissed about my comments on their papers. My mom is frustrated that my sisters are upset, and my dad is annoyed that all the other people in his house are in shitty moods.
Somehow, all the problems boil down to me.
I know my family loves me, but at times, it feels as though they love what I can do for them more.
I lift my arms to form a T with my body. “All right, undress me, then,” I joke, trying to infuse humor into the demand.
It doesn’t land. He doesn’t laugh, only gulps, the column of his throat bobbing before he lifts the hem of my cover-up over my head. The bathing suit I wore earlier sticks to my skin, damp from my shower.
There was no way I was getting it off my body without fainting in pain, so it’s now a part of me. The towel scratches against the top of my thighs as I lie down, and I grit my teeth.
A pillow enters my line of sight, and I slip it under my chest. Once I’m comfortable—or as much as I’m going to be with the tension in the room and my flaming skin—he turns on the television.
“I don’t think I’m gonna make it to the fancy dinner tonight,” I admit, a bit disappointed.
The dinner cruise around Sydney Harbor at sunset would have been the perfect opportunity to experience the city’s highlights while sitting in the comfort of air-conditioning.
Instead, I’m going to spend the night cloistered in my hotel room, questioning my choices and thinking about Jett and his mention of my boobs.
“I know,” he says. “I told Molly and Doug to have a date night. Figured they would enjoy the time alone.”
“You didn’t have to do that. You can go, too. I’m okay here, really. And I don’t want to ruin your fun.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Jett hums. “That you would be okay here by yourself.” He sits beside me, the bed dipping to accommodate him. “That wouldn’t be kind, and I wouldn’t have much fun without you, anyway.”
That wouldn’t be kind.
The words ring in my ears.
I don’t have enough fingers or toes to count the number of times Tommy left me behind because I wasn’t feeling well. Or because I didn’t get ready quickly enough for him. How many arguments we had because I was too uptight and he would have more fun at an event without me.
It took a while to recognize how poorly he treated me, but sometimes, when someone else shows me the kindness he never did, it’s a solid punch to the gut.
Tears threaten, and I turn my head to hide how dead-on that statement hit. Bullseye. “So you decided you would stay here and…hang out with me?”
“That was my plan.”
“I’m not fun.”
“I don’t think that’s true, either.” The cap of the bottle snaps open. “Are you ready?”
A glob of freezing aloe hits my back. I hiss, and he chuckles, another strike landing between my shoulder blades. I clamp down on my lower lip when his fingers brush against my skin, spreading the gel. After a few passes of soft, gentle touches, the pain dissipates and the aloe cools the inferno.
It’s nice to be the one taken care of instead of always being the caretaker.
Growing up, it was my job to wrangle my little sisters and handle myself. Rarely was there someone to fuss over me. My parents worked long, hard hours, and by the time they came home at night, they had the twins and their high energy to deal with. It wasn’t worth adding to their stress.
So I handled it all.
I never realized how wonderful it could be for someone else to take charge, even with something as simple as soothing a sunburn.
“We could order room service and watch a movie,” Jett offers, hands roaming up my spine and over my shoulders. I let out an embarrassing mewl, and he huffs a breathy laugh. “I’m taking that as an agreement.”
I bob my head, wrapping my arms tighter around the pillow. God, this is nice, and room service sounds incredible. The touch stops, and I miss it but keep my mouth glued shut to avoid admitting that out loud while I wait for the gel to dry.
When it’s tacky on my back, I waddle to the bathroom to wrangle the swimsuit off my body. A large sweatshirt and a pair of basketball shorts sit on the counter.
“I left some clothes in there for you in case you wanted something loose,” Jett yells through the door.
I stare down at the chaotically folded apparel.
Honestly, fuck him for being so kind, because it’s messing with my head. Tears prick the back of my eyes as I peel away the swimsuit and slip the soft, worn t-shirt over my head. It smells like him—earthy, like tea and the breeze through an old-growth forest.
The hem hits my mid-thigh, and I have to pull the drawstring tight to keep the shorts over my hips. I step out of the bathroom, cosplaying as Adam Sandler walking the red carpet for a movie premiere.
Jett bursts into laughter. I try to cut him a glare, but it’s futile, and a giggle bursts out of me. “How do I look?” I ask, twirling in my outfit.
“Marvelous,” he replies. “Stunning as always.”
I know it’s a joke, but there’s nothing in his voice that suggests he’s kidding, and I don’t know what to do with that. “Do you know what you want to eat?”
“I ordered for us.”
Panic grips my chest. I have too many horror stories of men ordering food for me, only to select something I don’t like. I’ll try anything once, but I always come back to the same thing: mac and cheese.
Doesn’t matter if it’s from a box or topped with shaved truffles, the genius combination of noodles and cheese is by far mankind’s greatest invention. If it’s covered in toasted breadcrumbs, I ascend to a new plane of existence.
Infuriated my mother when I was a kid. She’d spend hours making tamales, and I’d ask to stuff them with Kraft instead of meat or cheese.
Now, a note lives in my phone ranking every restaurant based on their mac and cheese, with judging categories of cheese, toppings, consistency, the vessel in which the food is presented, and taste.
It’s a serious system.
But if he already ordered, that means I have to eat whatever he thought I wanted, and I’m going to have to pretend and visualize that it’s mac and cheese. I might shed a tear if it’s a salad.
Removing all the panic from my voice, I ask, “What did you order?”
He’s focused on the movie options on the television, oblivious to my internal turmoil. “I got a chicken parm for me, and mac and cheese for you.”
I let out a dramatic gasp in a hushed room, and Jett whips his head in my direction.
“Did you get hurt?” He flies from his seat, reaching me in three quick steps, scanning for any explanation why I reacted that way. He reaches out to touch me, then stops, placing his hand back at his side.
“I’m fine,” I croak. “Just…excited.” His brows scrunch together, so I add, “Mac and cheese is my favorite food.”
“Oh”—he spins on his heel, walking back toward the television—“I know that.”
I follow him. “You know that? How?”
We’ve never had a conversation about this; how could he possibly know it’s my favorite?
A knock raps at the door, and he reroutes, pulling in the cart of food.
Greasy cheese fills the air, and he mumbles “Oh, yeah” as he lifts the large cover and reveals breaded chicken smothered in sauce and cheese.
Another metal cover rises, and there lies my mac and cheese, complete with a perfect golden-brown breadcrumb topping.
It’s the single most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“When you came over to present your itinerary, you chose the mac and cheese. Then had seconds and whispered, ‘Fuck yes, breadcrumbs.’ That’s how I feel about pizza.”
I don’t know that I like how perceptive he is, but I toss the thought aside when he sets the trays on the bed. Leaning against the pillows, he picks up the remote and presses play on a movie.
“Was I right?” he asks, the DreamWorks introduction rolling as I grab my dinner. My focus volleys between the second queen bed and the open spot beside him. Before I can change my mind, I crawl next to Jett. He tenses, then his muscles loosen.
“You were right,” I admit.
Ice Age starts, and we fall into an amicable silence while we eat. Jett mumbles the lines, switching between characters. A kernel of deep fondness for him lodges beneath my diaphragm.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” he says as the crazy squirrel chases the acorn.
My mind blanks on every single like and dislike, and I panic, blurting out the first thing that comes to me, something far more personal than I’d like. “I don’t have a best friend.”
I cringe. He probably meant my favorite color or movie, not that I have friends, but they all have other best friends. Charlie has Amy. Vivian has Amber. Maria and Luisa have each other. I have…myself.
“I’ll be your best friend,” he says.
“What about Mateo?”
“He can get fucked. I have a new best friend now.”
A cacophony of fireworks ignites and explodes in my chest while I flounder for a response. His foot taps mine, once, twice.
“We can add it to your list of titles,” he continues. “Chief Lady Badass. Sugar tits. PR girlfriend. Best friend.”
“That’s going well,” I tell him, switching the subject before I overthink his words. “Your fans are digging in with the theories, and we’ve had dozens of emails from people about the docuseries.”
“Keep up the good work, but no more business talk. They’re about to leave Syd behind.” His lips tick up at the corners. “They do that every year.”
The movie plays on, and my head grows heavy from the sunburn and the food, which I’d rate a solid 7.3 on my scale.
I only realize I’ve fallen asleep when Jett rustles, and I jerk up, ripped awake by the pain of moving. Darkness cloaks the room; only the light from the movie credits illuminates the space to show Jett tiptoeing in front of the bed, trying to sneak out.
“Thank you for tonight,” I whisper, adjusting to slip under the covers.
He pauses in front of the door.
Sleep drags me under again, but I swear he whispers, “You never have to thank me for spending time with you. It’s a selfish desire, really.”