Chapter 3 #2
“You alright?” I hear someone call, and I look over to see that the lone runner is heading in my direction.
Not just a runner, I realize—a very hot one.
Curly surfer-gold hair falls over his dark sunglasses as he speeds towards me, his tan shoulders glistening with sweat.
Beads of it run down the length of his chest to his perfect, caramel abs: the kind of abs Marianne would call “lickable.” Holy shit, I almost say aloud.
Is being gorgeous a requirement to live on this island?
I look down at my own ratty sports bra and Chicago-pale stomach.
Would it have killed me to put on some self-tanner, just once?
“I’m good,” I wince, waving him away. I’m not about to embarrass myself any further in front of GQ’s cover boy, even if I have to die out here in the no-ozone sun.
The runner pulls off his sunglasses, an almost comedic gesture given his Baywatch-level body, to reveal a pair of striking, sea-water blue eyes.
“You sure about that?” he asks as he stops beside me.
I put my injured foot down to stand and let out an involuntary yelp.
“Woah” he says, grabbing my elbow to lift the weight off my foot. His accent isn’t American—Australian? British?
“Sit back down,” he instructs. “Let me have a look at it.”
I let him help me to the ground, where I plop unceremoniously in the sand. I cringe, fully aware that my wild hair and sand-covered limbs give me the overall air of a beached sea creature. Of course he has to be hot. Of course I had to go swimming in my enormous airplane underwear.
“I think I stepped on something.”
I tense as the stranger cups his hands beneath my left ankle.
“I’ll say you did,” he says in his mystery accent. “You’ve got half a dozen urchin spines lodged in there.”
“That sounds bad.” I crane my neck to see what he’s seeing. “Is that bad?”
“Depends if you like the feeling of your foot on fire,” he jokes. New Zealander, I think. “I reckon there are people somewhere on the internet who’d pay big bucks for that.”
“Please don’t make me laugh,” I plead. “It’s hard to be mortified and amused at the same time.”
“Then I’ve accomplished my mission.”
Hot runner smiles, and I can see from the fine lines around his eyes that he’s not as young as I originally guessed. Maybe thirty, give or take a few years.
“Are you here alone?”
I shake my head.
“My friends are up at the resort.”
“Good,” he says. “Can you walk, or would you like to be carried?”
I shake my head. The only thing more embarrassing than hobbling up to the pool in my underwear is being carried there like an injured grandmother.
After refusing to be piggy-backed no less than three times, I let the stranger stabilize me while I hop on one foot back up the beach.
With no crystal ocean to greet me and only one functioning limb to go on, the hotel seems a lot further away than it did on the run down.
It’s not helping that I have to actively stop myself from staring at the runner’s chest as he pulls me across the sand.
I can’t even remember the last time I was this close to a shirtless man, let alone one this gorgeous.
It figures that the only time I’m touching a body this sexy, it’s as an urchin victim.
But when we get back to the gungy pool, Will and Marianne are nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of their presence is a plastic tiki cup holding an eviscerated bag of M&Ms. From the corner of my eye, I see hot runner checking his watch.
“This is fine,” I tell him, easing myself down onto the busted sun lounger. “I’ll have the front desk call me a cab to urgent care.”
“Clinic’s closed on Sundays,” says hot runner. “Nearest emergency care is two hours drive. We’re gonna have to pull ‘em out.”
My stomach clenches and I pull my foot towards me instinctively.
“Doesn’t sound great for emergencies.”
“Nothing to worry about, love,” the runner assures me. “I’ve done this a dozen times. No shortage of tourists getting too close to the reef.”
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. Of course Liam Hemsworth 2.0 thinks I’m just another dumb tourist—it’s kind of hard to be sexy when you’re doubling over in pain.
“Is that your job?” I bait him. “Trolling the beaches for senseless women?”
“Just a favorite pastime,” he answers.
Hot runner looks around and locks eyes on the derelict poolside bar. He makes it there in four long strides and reaches a long arm over the counter, emerging with a half-finished bottle of unlabeled, dark rum. At least, I hope it’s rum.
“I don’t think that’s sterile,” I grimace as he trots back. “Aren’t you supposed to use vodka?”
“It’s not for your foot,” he tells me as he crouches beside me, uncorking the bottle with his teeth and handing it over. “It’s for you.”
He passes it to me and fishes in the pocket of his trunks and produces a very serious-looking pocket knife. When he releases the catch, a blade as long as my hand flicks out of the black handle.
“And what’s that for?” I can feel the contents of my sad airplane breakfast churning in my stomach.
“Don’t look so worried, my uncle’s a doctor,” hot runner says.
“And he taught you to do this?”
“No. But if I botch up your foot, I can get you a good deal on a prosthetic.”
“What?” I yelp. But he just winks as he cocks a cheeky half-smile. I try not to pass out from embarrassment as he positions himself beneath me so that my outstretched leg is resting in his lap.
I clutch the bottle like a life-ring, sure I won’t need it until hot runner pulls a plastic lighter from his pocket and uses the flame to sterilize the steel blade of his knife.
I tilt my head back and take a massive gulp of the alcohol, trying not to cough as the spice sears my throat.
“Don’t be nervous,” he laughs. “I promise—I’m good with my hands.”
Hear that, Stella? I can practically hear Marianne whispering to me. He’s good with his hands.
Where the hell is Marianne?
“Ready?” he asks, tilting his sky-blue eyes up to meet mine. I try to pull back my foot, but he’s got it firmly wedged between his knees.
“Wait!” I say, doing anything I can to stall him. “What’s your name?”
He raises his left brow for a moment, as if weighing whether or not to tell me.
“Caleb. But you can call me any manner of expletives if it makes you feel better.”
I grip the plastic edges of the sun lounger as he points the blade into the skin of my foot. I’m definitely going to take him up on that.
“Gah!” I scream.
“It’s not even in yet!”
“I changed my mind. I can live with a few splinters. I’m sure my body will push them out eventually.”
But Caleb holds my foot in a grip so strong I can’t even pull it back.
“You won’t want to do that, sweetheart. It’s not a splinter—these suckers are full of poison. If you don’t get them out, your foot will be double its size by morning.”
I lift up the bottle and pour another big gulp down my throat. After I swallow, Caleb nods once before slipping the knife into my skin.
Generally, I like to consider myself a girl with grit.
After all, I spent most summers of my life in an ancient VW van with two people and zero bathrooms. But when it comes to physical pain, my tolerance has always been embarrassingly low.
By the time Caleb gets the first spine out, I’ve screamed four times, bitten through my lip, and called him so many cruel names they’ll have to start a new page on urban dictionary.
“This is going to take a very long time if you keep trying to kick my teeth in,” Caleb says as he wrestles my foot steady, his forehead damp with sweat from the midday sun. I suddenly remember the way he kept checking his watch earlier and wonder how much he’s regretting scraping me off the beach.
“Sorry,” I tell him, and mean it. “I’ll get it together.”
“Why don’t we talk about something else?” he offers as he digs the blade of his knife into the side of my big toe. “What brings you to Fiji?”
I wince, fully having given up the effort to look cool about ten screams ago. I know he’s just trying to distract me, but I’m grateful for it.
“Would you believe me if I said I was dragged against my will?”
He laughs.
“Can’t say I’ve heard that one before. You on the run from the law?”
“If only,” I joke. “I got suspended at work.”
Caleb cocks his head at me, and I don’t know which one of us is more surprised.
The words just came rolling out like shampoo after a long flight.
I’ve been so careful not to tell anyone about what happened at work, but if I’m going to have to confess to Jules, maybe explaining things to this likely-brainless demi-god will be good practice.
“I was a wreck about it,” I continue. “I am a wreck—and my best friend wanted to get me out of dodge. She kind of dragged me here, actually.”
“Sounds like a good friend,” he says, pulling out another spine and dropping it onto the lounger. “But I’m sorry about the job. Is it too soon to say that sometimes doors close so windows can open?”
“Definitely too soon,” I tell him, my muscles tensing at the thought of it. “And it’s not gone. I’m going back this spring. I just need a little reset first. Something to clear my head. Re-hone my focus.”
“You’re making me jealous,” he says dreamily. “A reset sounds pretty nice right about now.”
“What are you talking about? You get to work here. In paradise. You’re on a beach run midday on a Tuesday.”
“It’s not all sandbars and coconuts here, you know. My employers run a very tight ship.”
“Is that literal or metaphorical?” I ask, tilting my head towards the sea.
“I guess it’s both.”
A shock of pain zings through my foot, and I grab onto Caleb’s shoulder, hard.
“Must be a pretty big boat to have its own doctor,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Just the First Mate, I’m afraid,” he informs me. “But I’ll consider adding medic to my resume.”
“So, what’s the problem?” I ask him as the pain subsides. “Your captain a hard ass?” Does he make you swab the decks with a toothbrush?”
“He’s something, all right,” Caleb says. “I think he’s under a lot of pressure. Maybe in a little over his head.”
“What kind of pressure?” I ask.
“I think I speak for the whole crew when I say that yachting is one thing, but working a private ship is another animal entirely. My employers go through crew members so quickly that everyone’s terrified to work for them. And you wouldn’t believe the drama that goes on.”
“Among the crew?”
“Between the guests,” he stresses, and I can’t help but think of my soon-to-be in laws. “Screaming matches, drunken near overboards—"
“Hookups with the crew?”
Caleb scoffs.
“Not if they want to keep their jobs. But don’t even get me started on the requests.
Last trip, we had a guest demand mid-journey that we fly in organic marcona almonds she didn’t even touch.
Another would only drink water out of a plastic bottle that was poured in front of her in case it was poisoned.
I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about yachting that puts people on their worst behavior. ”
“I’m going to go with ridiculous amounts of money and ambiguous maritime laws.”
Caleb shrugs—an impressive feat while he’s excavating urchin parts.
“Your guess is as good as mine. Seriously, some days I feel more like a babysitter than part of the crew.”
He shakes his head.
“Shit—I really shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”
“Violation of the pirate’s code?” I ask, and Caleb flashes me another shameless smile.
“Oh, most definitely. If the captain hears about it, I’ll be waving to you from Davy Jones’ Locker.”
“Well, luckily for you,” I tell him, “I’m a steel trap. And what else are perfect strangers good for? Besides, obviously, makeshift foot surgery.”
But I can tell Caleb’s a little on-edge. I guess the same thing between us that made me spill my depressing guts got ahold of him, too.
“Speaking of,” Caleb grabs the Samaroli and pours a splash over my foot before giving my calf a gentle squeeze, “you’re officially urchin free.”
“Really?” I ask hopefully.
He lifts his hand to show me the excised spines and I grimace. One of them is as long as my fingernail.
“Really, really. Was that so bad?”
“Yes,” I tell him emphatically, but the adorable way his brow creases when he smiles is already melting away the memory of the pain.
“The pain should be gone in an hour as long as you don’t go too hard on it,” he instructs. “Might want to take a rain check on any long runs, dancing…”
“My friend is pregnant,” I interrupt him. “The only excitement we’ll be getting up to tonight is the buffet.”
Caleb looks towards the near-derelict excuse for a hotel.
“You might want to take a raincheck on that too. I don’t want to get any phone calls about you choking on a fish bone.”
“Maybe you should escort me, just to be safe,” I joke, then reel it in as soon as I remember I’m talking to a cover boy who knows me only as a flailing idiot. He pauses and inhales sharply, the smile on his face twisting into an awkward line.
“Trust me, I’d love to,” he says. “But I’m chained to the ship tonight. Barely escaped long enough for this run.”
Caleb stares at me a little too long, and I realize, with a flutter in my stomach, that his golden-brown hand still hasn’t left my calf.
“Will you be in town long?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Probably a good thing,” he winks at me, and everything inside me melts like spilled ice cream. “I’ll sleep better knowing there aren’t any sharks or sea snakes I need to rescue you from.”
Is hot runner… flirting with me? Am I actually flirting back? We lock eyes, but the moment breaks when he looks down at his watch. His expression falls.
“I’m sorry, I’ve really got to get back,” he tells me, brushing his hand over my leg ever so gently before standing to go.
“Don’t go walking in any mud for a while. And see if the front desk can stick a plaster on it.”
“A plaster?”
“Band-aid,” he translates for me.
The left side of Caleb’s lip curls up into another half-smile, and for a moment, I feel a buzz of electricity pass between us.
In an instant, all of my man blocker defenses come crashing down like an overplayed game of jenga.
Did I learn nothing from my situation at home?
It’s probably a good thing I’m heading out tomorrow.
“Enjoy your trip,” he calls to me, and as quickly as he appeared, Caleb jogs off towards the beach, Pantene ad curls bouncing around his head like an ombre halo.
Maybe, just maybe, this vacation isn’t going to be so bad, after all.