Caribbean Crush

Chapter Eight CASEY

Chapter Eight

CASEY

I’ve never seen water as crystal clear as the ocean surrounding the dock in Key West. It’s a tropical paradise, so irresistibly inviting, especially with the late-morning sun bearing down from overhead. I’m almost tempted to shuck off my shoes, toss my bag aside, and take a quick dip. Unfortunately, I’m on the clock.

We’re waiting on the dock for the rest of our group to arrive so we can start our tour of Old Town. There’s a local tour guide, a guy about my age with shaggy brown hair and intricate tattoos along his right arm. He’s a total beach bum, but he pulls it off well. Not my usual type, per se, but I still blush a little when he gives me a quick once-over as we go around the circle and introduce ourselves.

He does a head count as he walks around the group, finding an excuse to stop right beside me. Smooth.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Casey,” I say, smiling.

“Ricardo.”

I accept his handshake and find it refreshing that he seems eager to be in my company. It’s a far cry from Phillip, that’s for sure.

“Been to the Keys before?”

The way he asks the question, it’s dripping with innuendo.

“Never.”

He grins, flashing a white smile. “You’re in for a treat.”

“I’m here! I’ve arrived!” singsongs a familiar British accent. “Call off the search party!”

It’s Sienna, strolling toward our group without a care in the world. She’s wearing a thin crochet dress that reveals a neon-green bikini underneath. Whereas I’m trying to skirt the line between paradise chic and business casual, she’s able to go full-on vacation mode, and the difference is glaring. She looks gorgeous.

I half expect Ricardo to realize his mistake in chatting me up first and push me off the dock in an attempt to get to her, but he only gives her a smile and a nod. “Our last arrival.”

“Hello, everyone! Apologies . I got turned around on the boat.”

That’s probably a huge lie. If she’s anything like me, she’s nursing a killer hangover and wishing she could lie in bed all day. I’m actually feeling better, though. Breakfast helped.

Ricardo introduces himself to Sienna and then directs us over to the curb where another tour guide gives us a wave. “Now that we’re all together, we can set off. We have two three-row golf carts, big enough for our entire group if we split in two. Joseph will drive the second golf cart, but we’ll be making all the same stops and largely staying together.”

Sienna sidles up next to me, mouthing a complaint about her head aching. I can’t help but laugh, thinking back on our night.

As we all head toward the golf carts, she asks if I’ve eaten. “I didn’t manage to snag anything on my way down here.”

I open my bag and tip it toward her so she can peer in. There’s a to-go box from the dining room, sitting on top of all my stuff. “I brought you food.”

Her jaw drops. “You’re joking.”

I take out the small container and hand it over to her. “It’s a few pastries. They’re probably a little smashed, but they were delicious. Here.”

“Oh my god, where have you been all my life?” She cracks the lid and laughs. “Christ. There’s enough here to feed an army.”

“Casey?”

Ricardo tries to get my attention, and I look over to see he’s waving me toward his golf cart. “There’s room up here.”

He’s indicating the seat beside him.

Sienna titters under her breath. “Ah, a little vacation romance brewing? My, my. You work fast.”

“Don’t even go there.”

“He’s cute. What’s wrong with him?” she asks, taking a huge bite of a croissant.

“I’m working,” I say as if we both weren’t three sheets to the wind and acting like fools in her suite last night.

“Oh, please. This is hardly a stuffy boardroom. Who cares if you live a little? Surely, that’s better for your writing anyway. Getting the inside scoop from letting Ricardo get inside—”

I cut her off by clearing my throat. “Noted.”

I accept the seat beside Ricardo, and Sienna hops in right behind me in the second row. While Ricardo drives us around Old Town, pointing out the sights, Sienna wastes no time at all in prying into his personal life.

I’ve got the gist. He’s lived on the Keys his whole life. He works part time at a bar by Sunset Pier. No girlfriend.

“You don’t have to keep humoring her,” I tell him while we’re stopped at the Key West Lighthouse. Sienna and I listened to Ricardo’s spiel about it. It is as interesting as an old lighthouse could be, but the rest of the group is still roaming the grounds, taking their sweet time. Sienna and I sit in the golf cart, wanting the shade. “She’s about to ask you if you have a 401(k) ... when you last had a dental checkup, that sort of thing.”

Sienna leans forward, not even denying it. “Yes, actually, those are both good questions. Let’s see your teeth.”

Ricardo laughs. “I don’t mind. Swear. You two should come out tonight.”

“ Out ? Where?” Sienna asks with a mouthful of pastry.

“I’ll be bartending. Free drinks ... dancing. It’ll be a good time.”

“And they say romance is dead!” Sienna jokes.

“Ricardo?” A guy in our group waves to get his attention. “Who did you say built this lighthouse again?”

Ricardo hops out to answer his question.

Sienna moans quietly. “Who cares about some shitty lighthouse? Can’t we go to the beach already? It’s sweltering. I feel like I’m sweating out every ounce of alcohol we consumed last night.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing ...”

“I don’t know. At this point, I feel like I could lick my arm and come away tasting tequila.”

The thought makes me laugh.

“I had breakfast with Tyson, sort of by accident.”

“Oh, really?”

Her brow arches. I remember him carting her off yesterday to give Phillip and me a moment to talk by ourselves. I wonder if there was more to it.

“So ... what do you think of him?”

I expect her to go gaga over how handsome he is—styled, groomed, charming. All of the above.

She holds up her hand. “Save it. He’s not single.”

I’m more than a little surprised. “How do you know?”

She shrugs and crosses her arms, squinting over at the lighthouse. “I looked him up last night in my drunken stupor. He has an Instagram account. He doesn’t post much, but when he does, it’s all pictures of the same woman with these nauseatingly sweet captions. The whole account is like an homage to her. The lucky cow.”

“Oh well. Ricardo’s nice.”

“He’s interested in you ,” she points out, shifting her gaze to me with a waggle of her brows.

“Well, I bet he has friends,” I say with a teasing wink. Surely there’s more just like him. Sexy locals.

“ True . All the better for me. I need a proper lay.”

“ Same , but it’s kind of hard to get things going on a vacation like this. We leave Key West in the morning, so it’s now or never with men like Ricardo. I’ve never had a one-night stand,” I admit, recognizing the truth of my earlier suspicions about cruise ship relationships. Sienna and I have known each other for barely twenty-four hours, and already, I’m spilling secrets to her. We’re on friendship warp speed.

“I have, twice.” She scrunches her nose in distaste. “They were just okay. Sort of not worth the trouble of having to sneak off in the morning all awkward and guilty. Still, I have mates that swear by them. I’m willing to give it another go.” Her expression turns wicked with glee. “Maybe we should both live a little on this trip. Explore our options .”

I shrug, mulling it over. “Could be interesting.”

With everything else in my life quite literally in the gutter, I don’t see any issue with letting loose and having fun with a guy. Distracting myself for a few hours sounds perfect. No strings attached. No need to fill him in on my sad little life.

She claps. “Okay, so it’s settled. We’re going to sow our wild oats.” She leans closer, perusing our tour group. “I’m afraid to say, but outside of Ricardo, we’ve managed to get the oldest and crustiest of the bunch. I mean, where are the hunks ? Ignoring this sad lot, who would be your pick for a one-night stand out of everyone we’ve met so far? Ricardo?”

Her eyes spark with the idea that there’s something brewing between me and our tour guide. Unfortunately, Phillip , not Ricardo, is the first man to come to mind. The realization startles me like I’ve just had a bucket of cold water poured over my head.

I remember the spark we shared at breakfast. My stomach curls in on itself as I think back on the way he watched me from across the table. There was no shy glance, just a bold, arrogant perusal. A look that said I own the place . Literally . I’ve never experienced a man like him. Not on a date, definitely not in bed. I’ve always gone for quiet, studious boys, mostly due to ease of access. The guys in my journalism classes in college were not exactly the most intimidating creatures on Earth. And after college, the guys I dated were much the same. Most recently, I went out with an associate editor at Bon Voyage for a few weeks before it petered out partly due to lack of chemistry but mostly due to bad timing. It was around the same time my grandmother was at her sickest, and the guy wasn’t looking to hold someone’s hand through that amount of intense grief. I don’t blame him for ending things. In fact, looking back, it was for the best. My feelings for him were lukewarm. We would have probably dated for a few months and then gone our separate ways anyway.

Since then ... well, there’s been a veritable drought. It’s kind of complicated to piece together a dating life while I’m living out of a suitcase, like Hey, baby, want to come back to my place? Yeah, it’s the Motel 6 just off the highway ...

I suppose I would make it work if the right man came along, though.

Someone like Phillip.

My heart races with startling clarity.

Though he’s absolutely, ludicrously wrong for me, I’m still intrigued by him. I’m convinced a one-night stand with him would be incredibly hot. All that angsty tension. Jesus.

I’m aware of the flush creeping up my neck, and I feel like an absolute pervert fantasizing about the one man who should be completely off limits. Not only does Phillip hate me, but he’s also the subject of my work assignment. It’s not outlined in the company handbook—which I’ve definitely read all of and didn’t just skim through on my first day on the job—but it seems pretty obvious that it would jeopardize my integrity as a journalist.

I realize Sienna’s watching me, still waiting for my choice for a one-night stand. I smile and shrug.

“Ricardo, I guess.”

She nods approvingly, turning to look at him as he goes about his tour guide duties. “Yeah. He’s a great option. Fit and tan. I might go for that cute photographer from Spain. Did you see him at dinner last night? The one a few seats down from me? God, he was sexy. There’s the language barrier to contend with, but I took Spanish for two terms, so we’ll have no problem working it out. How do you say ‘Let’s el bono’?”

A laugh bursts out of me, and we draw the attention of everyone in our group.

Whoops.

Our blisteringly hot tour of Old Town lasts another two hours. I take notes as best as possible, but outside of the hour we spent at Hemingway’s house, it wasn’t all that noteworthy. People come to Key West for the beaches, not a roundabout tour of an old cemetery. By the time Ricardo pulls the golf cart up to the beach, Sienna and I are melting like two Popsicles left out on hot asphalt.

“Oh, thank god,” I sigh quietly.

Sienna wipes sweat from her brow and leaps off the golf cart before it’s even come to a full stop.

“So help me, I’m going to drown myself in that water. Look at it ! It’s so blue.”

She takes my hand and starts tugging me onto the sand so that I’m half running, half stumbling after her. My bag slips off my shoulder, and I have to secure it before everything falls out.

“Slow down!”

Ricardo races after us, laughing. “I was supposed to tell you guys, there’s a picnic set up for you all. That tent right over there.”

I look to where he’s pointing, and my jaw drops.

“Well done, Aurelia ,” Sienna says with an impressed tone.

A few yards from where we stand, closer to the water’s edge, there’s a large-scale blue-and-white-striped tent under which sits a long banquet table set low to the ground. Around it, throw blankets and pillows have been arranged by careful hands. A bartender serves cocktails in carved-out pineapples, and there’s another table overflowing with charcuterie.

“This could be someone’s wedding,” Sienna notes, already reaching for her phone so she can take pictures for social media.

She’s right. There are floral arrangements set out everywhere and morning glory vines twist around the tent poles. Everything is so beautifully done that it’s hard to believe it’s just for a beach picnic.

“Good afternoon,” a kind voice greets us, and we turn to find a crew member smiling at us.

I recognize her from the welcome reception in the observation lounge. She has pale-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that seem to leap out at you. Shannon, her metal name tag reads.

“Would either of you care for a cocktail?” she asks.

“ Absolument ,” Sienna teases in French, all too happy to skip off to the bar.

Shannon looks to me, and I smile. “I’m all set for now.”

My stomach feels a little off after I’ve been baking in the heat all day. Ricardo wasn’t the best driver behind the wheel of the golf cart either. My insides feel like slush, and I’d rather not tempt fate by adding alcohol to the mix. Shannon points toward the water.

“If you’re interested, we’ve arranged surf lessons.”

Now that sounds fun.

I’ll take any excuse to slip out of this sundress and get in the water.

“I’m game,” I say excitedly.

“You can stow your things over there with the attendant for safekeeping and then head down to the water.”

I see a row of surfboards set up in the sand, six of them lined up one after another. Though we’re early to the beach—most of Aurelia ’s guests have yet to arrive—two of the surfboards are already being claimed. One by a girl I don’t immediately recognize and one by Sienna’s Spanish lover (or soon-to-be lover, that is). I claim the surfboard beside him after slipping out of my sundress and applying a quick spritz of sunblock.

I’m eager to help facilitate a wingwoman situation, so I introduce myself with a little wave.

“Hi, Casey Hughes, Bon Voyage .”

Sienna’s man turns to me with an easygoing smile. “Javier Mendez, freelance mostly.”

Oh, his accent is heavenly. Sienna’s going to melt.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I say before turning to the girl.

I realize she’s one of the influencers Sienna told me about yesterday, the ones she wanted to steer clear of. I can see why. My welcoming smile is met by a sour expression.

“ Avery ,” the girl says with a snooty tone. And that’s all, no last name, no job title. It’s like she’s on par with Beyoncé or Madonna. One name, and we should damn well know it.

I can’t help myself. “And what do you do, Avery? Are you a writer?”

She gives a little pitying laugh, like she feels sorry for me that I don’t already know the answer to my own question. “I’m in digital marketing.”

I scrunch my nose like I’m confused. “So you’re in advertising? Client side or ...?”

“No,” she says more sternly now, her cool gaze slipping to Javier for a moment like she’s worried about his opinion of her. Oh. Oh. Maybe that’s why she’s giving me the cold shoulder. I wonder if I’ve interrupted something she had going with Javier. “I’m an influencer.”

“Like Sienna,” I say, pointing over to where my new friend stands at the bar. Javier follows my finger just in time to see Sienna laugh with the bartender and then look over at me. She wiggles her pineapple cocktail beside her head, pointing to the drink and mouthing, “ It’s huge !”

I laugh and peer over to see Javier inspecting her from head to toe. For the moment, he’s forgotten that Avery and I exist. I have a hard time suppressing my satisfied smirk.

“I recognize her,” Javier says.

“Oh yeah?” I say, wanting to press the subject.

“We run in the same circles,” Avery says quickly, trying to remain relevant.

“She didn’t mention that,” I say before deciding it’s probably time to reel it in. I’ve done my job. I’ve ensured that Javier’s aware of Sienna. There’s no need to rub Avery’s nose in it. “So ... have either of you surfed before?”

Today will be my first time attempting it. Bold, considering I’ll have an audience watching me make a fool of myself. More guests arrive by the minute. Other tours are wrapping up, and everyone’s converging on the beach. The last few surfboards fill up, and our instructor starts the lesson.

It will come as a shock to no one that a girl who grew up surrounded by books and nowhere near a beach (unless you count the less-than-pristine beaches in the greater NYC area) isn’t all that great at surfing. I try my hardest. The instructor walks me through the motions—paddle hard, plant your feet, pop up, keep your knees bent, and stretch your arms out by your sides for balance as if you’re walking a tightrope. Logistically, I understand it. Physically, my limbs won’t cooperate. I tip over into the water time and time again, crashing through the waves, plunging under the refreshing blue surface. I don’t even mind. It feels good to get soaked, though the competitive spark in me grows annoyed that I can’t quite figure it out. Somehow, Avery’s even worse. She takes up most of the instructor’s time, but Javier sticks close by me, trying to help coach me as best as possible. He’s a natural, though he’s admitted to surfing a lot.

We sit side by side on our surfboards bobbing in the water, waiting for our turns.

“Last time I surfed, I was in Hawaii. The waves were massive.”

He arcs his hand up over his head to emphasize his point, and I laugh.

“Sounds awesome. Were you there for work?”

“Yeah, I covered the Kapalua Wine that’s probably what you encountered. Let me see.”

He’s bending down already, crouching low enough so that he’s eye level with my butt. Just great. “Your left calf?” he asks, gently touching my leg just below my knee so he can turn it slightly and get a good look at the developing rash.

His fingers on me are barely there, whisper soft, and still my heart is thundering .

I clear my throat before giving him a nod, which he doesn’t see.

“ Yes ?” he asks, baring his impatience. I take back my earlier musings about his cruelty.

“Yes,” I say with a little bite in my tone.

He runs his thumb along the perimeter of the rash. It doesn’t hurt one bit. I can’t even feel the jellyfish sting anymore. Not now that he’s doing that. “I’ll drive you back to the ship so our medic can take a look at you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

His dark eyes look up, displeased with me and my arguments. “I’m not absolutely certain it was a moon jellyfish. Did you happen to see anything in the water?”

“No.”

I leave out the part about me not seeing anything because I was already leaping and jumping around like an idiot.

“So then we’ll proceed with caution. I’d rather not take any chances.”

He turns his attention to my calf again, and then he slowly draws his gaze upward, behind my knee and inner thigh ... higher. I know he’s checking for any other stings, but it feels intensely hot. So hot, in fact, that I can’t help but mentally throw water on the fire kindling low in my belly.

“Now don’t be silly and miss out on a perfectly good opportunity to get me off your ship for good. You’d love any excuse to send me packing. No need to go to the trouble of fixing me up first.”

There’s an answering spark in his gaze when he looks up at my face, and then he holds my attention captive as he slowly rises to his feet. Once he’s back to his full, intimidating height, he leans in, though barely enough to make it noticeable.

“I would relish the opportunity to send you off, of course. Still, I don’t like the idea of you getting in harm’s way. Have I given the impression that I would?”

His brow furrows as if he’s genuinely concerned that I have the wrong idea of him. Oh, just great. Wonderful. Just when I’ve concluded that he’s bombastically entitled and rude, he has to go and show his kind side. Where am I supposed to file that away? I refuse to start a Reasons-Phillip-Isn’t-So-Bad list. Not that it matters. I’ve already subconsciously begun to compile reasons in my mind. Foremost on that list would be his good looks. Don’t tell him I said that, though.

“No,” I say with blushing cheeks. I feel childish for insinuating otherwise.

“I want to be cautious, but there’s only the minor sting on your calf.”

My chin lifts infinitesimally. “It didn’t feel minor while it was happening.”

“Only two, maybe three inches ...”

“More like five at least .”

He smiles, and our eyes lock. There’s a fleeting moment of lightness—the promise of more teasing banter—before I regain my good sense and look away.

“Can you walk over to that golf cart on your own?” he asks, pointing over to where we parked earlier.

“Of course.” I bend down to undo the Velcro strap around my ankle; then I stand. “Where can I put my surfboard?”

“I’ll have someone collect it. Don’t worry about it.”

He drops his hand to my lower back, presumably to direct me toward the row of waiting golf carts. Warm, large, possessive—that’s how his hand feels before I step out of his grasp. I doubt he realized what he was doing, touching me in that way. It might not have been an issue if I were in normal clothes, but I’m still wearing my bikini, and it was too much to have his hand on my bare skin so close to the top of my bikini bottoms. Having him touch my leg was bad enough ...

“Casey!” Sienna cuts in front of us, reaching out for my hand to squeeze it. “Are you okay? What happened?”

I tilt my leg out so she can see the rash on my calf, and she sucks in a sharp breath as if she’s never seen anything worse.

“Just a tiny sting. It’s really not that bad.” I look up at Phillip as if wanting his opinion; then upon realizing that, I frown and turn back to Sienna.

“I’m so sorry.” She grimaces and lets go of my hand. “I bet it’s painful.”

“It’s fine, promise. I’m just going to head back to the ship to get it looked at.”

“Smart. We’re so early on. Barely one destination in! Best to get it checked out so you can be on the mend.” She steps closer and lowers her voice. “I was hoping we’d still manage to go out on the town tonight with Ricardo, but if ...”

“I’ll keep you posted,” I promise. “I bet I’ll be good as new in no time.”

She grins. “Want me to come with?”

“No. Stay . Go enjoy the rest of the picnic. I’ll knock on your door later.”

She doesn’t look convinced, and I’m actually touched that she’d be willing to forfeit all the fun of the afternoon to be by my side, considering we only met yesterday. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Phillip touches my shoulder in an effort to get us going again. I slip off to collect my things, and then we walk the last leg of the journey back to where the golf carts are parked. He points to the black one nearest us.

“This is Ricardo’s cart,” I note, like it matters.

“Ricardo?”

“My tour guide for the day.” When he doesn’t say anything, I tack on, “He was nice. Is he employed through your company?”

“We hire local vendors at all the ports. It ensures a more authentic experience for our guests. We try to ensure they’ve really got the lay of the land.”

When we’re beside the cart, I drop my bag on the seat and rifle through it for my sundress. I feel Phillip’s gaze on me, watching me as I unfold it and slip it on. I adjust it at my waist and look up just as he looks away.

“Are you ready?” he asks, a tight set to his jaw.

“I’m happy to drive myself.”

He ignores this and takes the seat behind the wheel. I have no choice but to slide in next to him. All day, I sat beside Ricardo as he drove us around, but it didn’t feel like this. There’s half a foot of space between Phillip’s thigh and my leg, and it’s like I’ve just been slid into a furnace. It doesn’t help that we’re alone.

“For the record, I don’t think this is necessary.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “I do.”

“And what you say goes?”

“Usually,” he says, not even bothering to conceal the beginnings of a cheeky smile. He likes his lot in life, that’s for sure.

“Except when pesky little journalists come knocking?”

He throws his head back with a laugh. “Exactly, Ms. Hughes. Exactly.”

“I’m hardly the first person to give it to you straight, I’m sure. Tyson seems to have an open, honest relationship with you.”

His gaze seers me, though I don’t get the sense that there’s much anger behind it, just curiosity. “Did you enjoy picking his brain at breakfast? Trying to gain information on me?”

“I did, actually. All of the social prowess you lack, Tyson seems to have in spades.”

“ Watch it .”

“Or what? You won’t give me an interview? That’s already off the table. It seems like there’s nothing left to do but to needle you, and it just so happens that I enjoy it immensely.”

“Are you always so difficult?”

“ Pfft . Never. At work? I’m a wallflower.”

“Impossible.”

I nod to prove my point. “I barely say two words. When I make it into the office, I’m stuffed in a tiny cubicle.”

He turns a corner, and a car veers slightly into our lane. With lightning-fast reflexes, Phillip reaches out to band his arm in front of me, a human seat belt. Though it wasn’t necessary. He barely had to swerve.

He hisses a curse under his breath and takes ahold of the steering wheel with both hands before asking, “And how are you with your friends? The ringleader?”

It’s hard not to bristle at the word friends . “I’m a lone wolf these days.”

We could leave it at that. We’re venturing into personal territory, and he’s the one who’d rather keep things surface level between us. Instead, he studies me out of the corner of his eye, as if this reply doesn’t quite sit right with him. “Why?” he presses.

“It just sort of happened that way. Just ... the phase of life I’m in.” I could put the kibosh on this entire conversation, but instead, I make a conscious decision to proceed with caution, to open up in a way that might be reciprocated down the line. “My friends are mostly settled, married, expecting children. Meanwhile, I’m not. More than that, I’ve found myself in a tricky spot, not that you’d understand.” I can’t fight the urge to roll my eyes. Envy bleeds into my tone. “You couldn’t even imagine my life at the moment, living out of hotels.”

His brow furrows as he tries to keep up. “Because you travel so much for work?”

Now I’m the one laughing. “Oh, I wish it were because of that. No, I’m not moaning about too many exciting travel assignments. I’m currently homeless, I guess, for lack of a better word.”

He rears back like the declaration alarms him. Likely, he’s never encountered anyone in my position. His friends likely have multiple homes. Their only issue? Deciding which one to stay in. Saint-Tropez for the summer? No, we absolutely must go to Saint Barts.

“Don’t worry,” I say, tacking on an easygoing smile. “I’m not destitute. No sleeping in my car or anything. I’ve been hotel hopping and all that. Just ... I’m currently between places, and all my stuff is in storage. And actually, it’s not the worst thing ever. I’m just trying to figure out where I go from here, careerwise, lifewise . Don’t let it depress you. I only brought it up to say that it can be a little isolating. Anyway, you asked if I was always so difficult, and the answer is no, plain and simple. You bring out this side of me.”

“A privilege,” he teases.

I look away and smile as we slip through the streets of Old Town. We’ll be back at the dock in a few minutes.

I think I’ve managed to mostly gloss over the most personal details, throwing in enough fluff to distract him from the actual issues at hand (i.e., the fact that I have no tether, no one in my life who loves me—yeesh, it’s sad to say it like that), but still, when I glance back, I see him looking at me with an indiscernible expression that almost makes me shiver. It’s like he’s trying to look for something I’m not willing to give. It’s almost unsettling. Provocative at the very least.

“I told you, it’s really not that bad.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all.

With a frown, he asks, “Where will you go after these ten days at sea?”

“Back to New York, I guess ... though now that you’re bringing it up, I’m not absolutely sure. Most everyone works remotely at Bon Voyage . I could stay in a shitty hotel anywhere , I suppose.”

I smile at the idea. It’s tempting, for sure.

“There’s no family to tie you to the area? No relationship?”

“Neither.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“About the relationship? Who cares. About my family? Yes, well, that’s the straw I pulled, so there’s no sense in dwelling on it. Are you going to get me to this medic or not?”

We pull up to the dock, and he turns off the golf cart. Before I can reach for my bag, he has it in hand. He looks over at me and waits until I finally meet his gaze. Oh dear ...

“If you’re in dire straits—”

“I’m not,” I say with a heavy eye roll. “I’m merely young and wild and free. Stop feeling sorry for me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re looking at me like I’m a poor orphan you found living under some freeway overpass.”

He flinches and reconfigures his features, wiping the pity away and replacing it with a void of indifference.

“Let’s go.” With that, he starts striding down the dock, still holding my bag.

“You don’t have to stomp off like that.” I hurry after him, wincing over my stinging calf. “I’m not as tall as you are—I can’t keep that pace even if I break into a run. Are you in that much of a hurry to be rid of me?”

He slows down. “So this hotel thing—”

This again?

“You really can’t drop it, can you?” I shake my head before muttering under my breath, “I never should have told you.”

“Where were you before?”

“A house. My grandmother’s house. She died. There, you’ve found my deepest, darkest wound. Feel better?”

“No. When did she die?”

“None of your business,” I say with an icy tone.

I try and yank my bag away from him to prove my point—that I don’t need him for anything, not even to carry my stuff—but he doesn’t let go. In fact, he holds it up out of reach like we’re in grade school. Though he was definitely not tall enough to do this back then. The nerve.

“And why don’t you just get an apartment?”

“I don’t want one,” I say bluntly. In the following silence, I realize he’s forcefully unveiled a little nugget of truth.

I’ve been looking at apartments in White Plains for the last two weeks, and there were some decent contenders, but I managed to find fault with every single one of them. One apartment complex didn’t have any vacancies for another month. Another one only had apartments on the fourth floor with a dingy view. Yet another had so little natural light the whole place felt like a dungeon. Even the last one I looked at, what should have been the Goldilocks apartment, left me wanting more. It was a cute one-bedroom, slightly under budget, in a good neighborhood with a park view. I couldn’t find a single fault, and yet when the leasing agent asked if I wanted to proceed, I said no, flat out. I looked online the next day to find it was no longer available. Relief was the only thing I felt.

I realize now, in this unlikely moment with Phillip, that I don’t want an apartment back home. I don’t want to move on as if my grandmother never existed. I don’t want to simply trudge through and save face. I don’t want ... any of it.

“Let me walk you to the clinic,” Phillip says, his voice gentle as if he’s realized he’s struck a nerve. He lowers the bag within reach, and I yank it away from him before turning on my heel.

“No need. I can find it myself.”