Chapter 13
sofía
“Where’s the tent?” I ask, shivering from the windchill and the goose bumps left behind from the graze of Jett’s skin against mine.
It was a simple photo. I don’t understand why my body is reacting like he pushed me against the wall and swept me into a frenzied kiss.
“Up there,” Jett replies, pointing to the black metal attached to the roof.
He pulls a small ladder from the trunk and attaches it, climbing up. With a few flicks, it pops open, doubling in size. When he’s done, he climbs down and admires his work.
There’s only one problem…
“Where’s the other one?”
He glances down at me. “The other what?”
“The other tent.”
I remember making sure I had booked two tents.
“It’s on the roof of the other car?” His statement comes out as a question. “Where Molly and Doug are going to sleep.”
Every thought in my mind screeches to a halt. I’m not great at math, but if there are four people and only two tents, that means there are two people in each tent. If Molly and Doug are sharing, that means…oh, dear lord.
“We’re both supposed to sleep up there?”
The tent shrinks in size the longer I stare at it. Not a lot of space for two people to coexist with at least three feet of space between them. They call that space “coworkers valley.” It exists for a reason—one I need to remind myself of more than I expected when I left for this trip.
Jett faces me, discomfort written on his every feature. “You were the one who booked this.”
I press a palm against my forehead, but it doesn’t quell the racing thoughts.
Oh, I fucked up. Big time.
How to fix this?
Not even pacing can calm the maelstrom of thoughts as I mentally formulate a plan of action.
Could Jett and Doug share? No, that wouldn’t be fair to them.
The hotels are all booked out. There are no rental properties available.
It comes down to one solution: I have to sleep in the LandCruiser’s cab.
I’m small. I can curl up in the back seat and use my clothing as a pillow. We have towels I can repurpose as a blanket, and once we arrive at Airlie Beach, I can book a massage to remove the inevitable kinks in my neck and back.
A solution doesn’t prevent the disappointment and panic from taking over and forcing tears to my eyes.
“I’ll sleep in the back seat tonight so you can have the tent. I’m sorry. I messed this up.”
It’s impossible to meet his gaze—especially since my failure and lack of due diligence created this uncomfortable problem. Before he can respond, I snatch my toothbrush and scurry to the bathroom, fighting back the tears until I’m out of view.
Composing myself requires effort and deep breaths while I scroll on my phone, the service so spotty I can only read the messages from Charlie and Amy. I could use their special brand of advice to talk me down from the spiral rather than only being able to read their debate about condiments.
I can’t catch a break. First the sunburn.
Then the seasickness, and now this. I’ve been nothing but a liability for Jett the last few days.
It’s my job to handle things, yet he’s been the one to pick up my slack.
I take a good, long look at myself in the mirror, straightening my shoulders and smoothing my hair.
“You are better than this,” I mumble to myself.
Jett leans against the back bumper, the light from his phone illuminating his face.
A twig breaks beneath my foot, and his head snaps up. He spots me, and a grin splits across his face. It’s one of a kind—his smile. Genuine. Welcoming. All-consuming. He doesn’t show his joy with half effort, and it only adds to his beauty.
He is quite attractive—something I didn’t notice when we first met. I was so focused on my job, confident that if I executed the deep-sea documentary with no issues, I would be a shoo-in for a promotion, for recognition of my hard work.
In my tunnel vision, I missed it, but this trip switched the lens.
The sharp cut of his jawline accentuates the softness of his cheeks and lips.
His nose is crooked in a way that adds a degree of handsomeness, and his full brows draw focus to his warm, hazel eyes.
I understand why he has fan pages, even if I’d never admit out loud that I’ve stalked them every night to see how people respond to our PR relationship.
He’s unlike any man I’ve ever dated by comparison of physical appearance, but I’m finding he’s more attractive than all of them combined, even if that is a dangerous thought.
Jett meets me halfway. “So, I’ve thought about your solution, and I hate it.”
I drop my toothbrush and toothpaste into the dirt.
He hates it?
Would he rather I sleep on the ground? With the snakes and spiders and whatever else can kill me on this continent?
“You can’t sleep in the truck. It’s not safe. And you’ll get chilly.”
I retrieve my items from the ground, thankful the toothbrush is in a cover, and wave him off. “It’s one night.”
“I don’t understand your point,” he says. “Just because it’s one night doesn’t mean you should have to. We can find a new solution.”
“It’s my mistake. I can deal with the consequences.”
With the final word in the argument, I brush past him, only to be ripped back. Hand wrapped around my wrist, Jett prevents my escape. Can he detect the uptick in my pulse?
An uncomfortable, addicting warmth blossoms from the point of contact, and I force myself to focus on anything but how much I like when he touches me.
Even though he’s holding me in place, it’s comforting, not controlling. I could walk away, and he would let me. There’s an undercurrent of power in the knowledge.
“This is not something that deserves a consequence.” An odd tone colors his voice, almost like sympathy. “You don’t have to suffer or atone for making a mistake. Especially not for something as small as this.”
His words slice in a way I don’t think he intends, but the wound is there anyway.
“That’s not—I don’t always blame myself…”
I stumble over a way to explain his observation away, to disprove the blatant truth of his words, but I can’t.
“You do,” he confirms. “But you don’t need to. Not with me.”
How do I tell him that’s all I know? To absorb everything until it’s all that I am?
I don’t know how to become anything different.
Jett has a way of stripping back the layers, though. He experiences the world in a different way—one that adds to his skill as a filmmaker—but I think he sees me differently, too.
I don’t know how to grapple with the knowledge or catalog my thoughts. I’ve always fit between the neat lines others have drawn for me. It’s oddly exhilarating to grow over the old boundaries.
“Why don’t we come up with a solution together?” he offers. “I’m a pretty awesome problem solver, if I do say so myself.”
He leads us to a picnic table beside the campsite, and I sit across from him, tucking my knees to my chest. “What did you have in mind?”
“We could share the pop-up tent,” he suggests.
Excuse me?
“Wouldn’t that make you uncomfortable?” I squeak.
He drags his fingers through his hair, the strands curly from the humidity.
“No, it wouldn’t. I’m comfortable with it if you are.”
I contemplate the offer, and then, against my better judgment, I nod. It’s only one night, and tomorrow we can pretend it never happened, and I can stew in my mistake until I inevitably make another.
“We have an early morning. Why don’t we hit the hay?”
Yes, hitting the hay. We should do that. I follow him back to the truck in silence, collecting the thin blanket and pillow from the back seat. There’s more space than I expected in the tent, and if we each stay on our sides, we should make it out alive.
Uncertain of the rules for sharing a tent, I shuffle to the edge—as far as I can go—and adjust to the most comfortable position on the sleeping mat.
Jett rustles, and then silence descends, thick and heavy.
The urge to apologize sits at the end of my tongue, but I clamp down on the words. I don’t think they would help, anyway.
In the dark, mere inches separating us, Jett speaks. “Can I ask you something personal? Or is that breaking a professional boundary?”
“Depends on the question.”
I don’t like the way he says “professional boundary” like it’s some dirty phrase. I know we’re friends and that can blur the lines, but he signs my paychecks, and that establishes a power imbalance, whether or not he recognizes it.
“Why do you always put the blame on yourself when something goes wrong?”
The question lingers for a while before I respond—before I know how to respond. “Because it’s my job to make sure things don’t go wrong.”
“Says who?”
The question surprises me. Society, I guess. The pressure to be perfect constantly weighs down on me. If something goes wrong, I pay the price. I try to trace back the origin of the mindset, but maybe it’s me.
“It’s in my job—”
He cuts off my flimsy response. “That is not why I hired you. I don’t expect you to be perfect. In fact, I would prefer it if you weren’t.”
My head snaps to look at him. His arms are crossed beneath his head while he stares up at the top of the tent.
“What?”
“You spend all this time so focused on not fucking up, on making sure everything is perfect, that you’re not appreciating what’s in front of you.”
Blood rushes to my brain, a ringing sound filling my ears as his words punch me squarely in the chest.
“The most fun I’ve had so far on this trip are the times when you didn’t take things so seriously.
I get there’s work to be done—I respect that—but it’s not the only thing that matters, either.
I don’t want you to look back on this trip and think about everything that went wrong.
I want you to think about the bird in the tree today, or the dingo running across the beach at sunset, not that you accidentally forgot to rent another tent.
In the end, that’s not what matters. Not to me. ”
“I’ll try. I can’t promise it will go well, but…”
“Isn’t that what matters, anyway? That you continue to try, even when things don’t always go right?”
“Maybe you’re on to something.”
“I am pretty smart, you know.”
“And oh so humble,” I tease.
It’s the laugh he offers me, barely a huff of air, that dissipates the last of the nervous energy bottled in my chest. Maybe we’ll survive this after all.
“Are your teeth chattering?” Jett asks, his voice thick with sleep.
“N-no,” I croak, the single syllable cracking on me.
It doesn’t help the believability of my lie. My shoulders shake, and I curl tighter against myself to hide the involuntary movement. For how warm it had been during the day, I didn’t expect the temperature to drop so drastically.
Jett rolls over, and his palm lands on my shoulder. I stifle a sigh as the warmth of his skin seeps into mine.
“Jesus, Sofía, you’re freezing.”
“I’m fine, really.”
The sound of my teeth colliding fills the quiet tent.
He grumbles, almost too low to hear, “Mateo warned me about that awful fucking phrase.”
“What?”
Surprise rips through me when he repeats himself. “That’s a stupid saying. You are not fine. You are nearing hypothermia.” His voice elevates—not in a way where my pulse skyrockets, but where I know he’s rattled. “I never want to hear those two words again. Now, come here.”
A pocket of space beneath his blanket beckons to me, singing sweet songs of warmth and comfort in his arms.
I do not move.
So what if I’m a little cold? I’ll survive. Morning is only seven hours away. I can make it. He doesn’t need to save me—again.
I’ve never seen a man more exasperated in my life. Cool, calm, go-with-the-flow Jett is gone, and he has the nerve to rub the skin between his brows like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation. Well, he and I both.
“You’ve given me no choice. Remember that.”
“What do you—hey!”
With no warning, his arm darts out and snakes around my waist, dragging me across “coworkers valley” and right into his chest. I wiggle around, trying to escape, but he’s strong, and the heat melts away the last of my fight.
“You need the warmth,” he argues. “You’re shaking. Fuck, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I’m—”
“Do not say that fucking word.”
Delicious, lively warmth curls around me, and I shift deeper beneath his blanket and into him. The shivers subside, and when I stuff my fingers between my armpits, the blood flow returns.
Jett’s breathing is deep and even, but his fingers tap against my stomach, a subconscious action I refuse to comment on.
“Are you mad at me?” I finally ask once the tension in the tent has simmered down.
His hold around me tightens. “No. I’m mad you’ve gone this long believing you have to do everything on your own and that someone caring for you is a vulnerability you can’t afford.”
I have nothing to say to that. All the words are stolen from my mouth. He says nothing else either, and I fall into a pitiful sleep with those words replaying in my mind.
Vulnerability you can’t afford.