His Cook Islands Roommate (Take a Holiday #4)

Chapter 1

Daniel Jones’s left hip ached like a bitch. He gripped the armrests of his airplane seat as he breathed through the pain.

“Are you a nervous flyer?” the woman next to him asked.

Dan glanced at her, his teeth clenched. In the five minutes since he’d sat down, she hadn’t stopped talking, even though she’d been busy strapping her little boy into the window seat.

“No,” he said. “I’m not nervous.”

“Lucky you.”

Yeah. He was lucky, all right. Lucky to have survived the freak horse riding accident that had put him in a coma last summer. Lucky that his muscle mass had protected his vital organs and that the horse’s hoof had struck only a centimeter from his brain.

“I mean, I don’t freak out or anything like that,” the woman continued.

She had an American accent, short hair that was dyed pink and purple, and lips that were stained red with long-ago-applied lipstick.

Her eyelashes were covered in glitter too, like she’d been dressed up for a party that had ended yesterday.

“It’s just that when I think about being so up high with nothing below my feet, it sometimes does make me want to freak out, but I guess the trick is to not think about it, huh? ”

“I s’pose.” Dan laid his head back and closed his eyes.

“I should be used to flying,” she added, “but I still get anxious before take-off. Although as soon as the engine fires up and it’s all go-go-go, it’s kind of exciting, isn’t it, baby?”

Baby?

Dan cracked one eye open.

“So, you’re British?” she asked. “As soon as we’re up high in the air, you can sit on my lap.”

Dan jerked his head. Ah. The child. That last bit was for the child.

The way she kept switching like that in the same breath, Dan couldn’t keep up—and neither did he want to. Stealing himself against the agony of moving his body, he turned as much of his back toward her as was possible in his cramped airline seat.

“Don’t do that,” she said firmly.

What the—? “Look, I—”

“Aw, c’mon, honey. Work with me here.” She was talking to her child again. The small boy was wriggling in his seat and shoving away the toys she’d placed around him. “We’ll be flying soon. Look, here’s the flight attendant, getting ready for take-off, yay! Vroom-vroom, we’re going up, up, up!”

Ugh. Baby talk. His sisters used that same tone with his nieces and nephews. Dan pulled his painkillers out of his pocket and popped another into his mouth, hoping this one would take the edge off—or, at the very least, drown out this woman’s voice.

“Got a headache?” she said.

Head, legs, knee, hips. Heart. Everything ached. Dan sighed. “Yes.”

“Traveling takes it out of us.”

She could say that again.

Six months after the accident that had nearly killed him, Dan’s body still needed to heal.

But he’d needed to leave England. Those journalists and photographers were still camping outside his house, always so trigger-happy to take shots of the Great Daniel Jones—Olympic sprinter, once the fastest man in the world—now limping like an old man.

Conspiracies and rumors about his long-term health were already rife.

Flipping out at those obnoxious paps outside the clinic last month had only fueled the gossip and speculation, and his agent dropping him last week had been the last straw.

Now, according to the headlines, Dan Jones was all washed up.

His reputation as Britain’s National Hero in shreds.

And soon, those same gutter press churnalists would be sniffing out the truth about him and Isabella.

That’s why he’d had no choice but to put himself through this horrendous thirty-five-hour-and-counting journey to the tiny South Pacific island of Rarotonga, part of the Cook Islands.

The objective?

Get as far away as possible before his and Isabella’s split hit the headlines.

The irony?

If he’d never got on that stupid horse in the first place, he would’ve been on his way to the Cook Islands anyway—with Isabella.

On their honeymoon.

“I totally loved the UK.” Motormouth next to him started up again.

“And I loved London. We stayed with my good friend, Rick. We met at night school in LA a few years ago, and it was great hanging out with him again. But don’t worry,” she added, “I’m not going to ask if you know him.

It’s wild when people ask that, isn’t it?

” She chuckled. “Like London is some tiny village. It took me days to get my bearings. Rick would say, Let’s meet on Oxford Street, the Tottenham Court Road end, and I’d be like, Eh?

I’d see it on the map, but then I’d take the wrong exit out of the subway.

So, I ended up walking away from Oxford Street, toward Leicester Square, and… ”

Oh. Good. God.

Dan closed his eyes, his brains banging against his skull.

This journey had already been so painful, riddled with mistakes and delays.

At Heathrow, his first-class ticket had been downgraded to economy due to some error beyond everyone’s control.

Seeing as Dan had to get on that plane or risk those journalists catching up with him, he’d squeezed his six-foot-four frame into the standard-class seat.

No problem. It was a twelve-hour flight to Singapore for his connection.

He’d watch a couple of films. Eat, zone out, and be ready for the next stage of his journey.

But then they’d sat on the runway for hours, and he’d missed his connecting flight to New Zealand.

Had to wait eight hours for the next one, only to be given another standard-class seat.

But even though his legs and hips were screaming to stretch and lie down, Dan had kept his cool.

Mostly. Until he’d arrived in Auckland for the flight to Rarotonga.

An incoming storm.

More delays.

Another standard-class seat.

And this time, it was next to an irritable child and a motormouth who wasn’t picking up on his I don’t want to talk vibes.

The plane began to taxi. Air stewards ran through the safety briefing.

“Anyway, I eventually found my way back and figured out how things worked. The London street names are cute, though. They carry so much history…”

Earbuds. Where the hell were his earbuds? He patted his pockets.

“So, you here on vacation?”

“Yes,” Dan muttered, finding only painkillers and tissues.

“How long are you staying?”

“A month.” He searched for his bag under the seat.

At least this woman didn’t know who he was. Journalists shooting questions at him every time he opened his front door were bad enough, but the general public could be just as vicious. Always with their phones. Always ready to post on their social media. And the pity!

Dan hated it.

And it would only increase when everyone found out about Isabella. The beautiful, shining star of the British music industry, the woman who’d have been his wife if it wasn’t for his accident. If it wasn’t for—

Motormouth’s child whined. The sound drilled into Dan’s sore head, making his bones hurt even more.

Or was that because he’d been thinking about Isabella?

Blocking her completely out of his mind was hard. Back home, her new hit song played everywhere. Every time he went online, every time he switched on the TV or radio, there it was—Give my love a home this Christmas… It had even been playing in the cab on the way to the airport.

Maybe flying out to his honeymoon location wasn’t the best move.

But seeing as he’d gifted the whole honeymoon package to his mother and aunt, Dan could only think that spending time with them on a hot beach would bring him comfort.

Not that they knew anything about his last-minute decision.

He’d needed to escape, and they’d understand.

“We’ll be flying soon, honey,” Motormouth said to the boy, who was still whining.

“He’s not normally like this. Maybe something’s bothering him?

Do you have a pain somewhere, honey? Does it hurt here?

Or here? Or maybe you want a snack? You didn’t eat much earlier.

” There was rustling and bags being opened and closed. “Maybe you want one of these, baby?”

The child squealed no.

“But you love grapes. They are so yummy, aren’t they?” Motormouth made some ridiculous chomping noises and nudged Dan’s elbow. “Here, take one. Please.”

Dan glanced at the tub of green grapes. “No, thanks.”

“Fake it,” Motormouth whispered, her glittery lashes fluttering like worn-out butterflies.

Dan couldn’t be arsed to fake anything, least of all his enjoyment of having to sit next to this annoying woman and her awful child.

Stifling a huff, he pinched a grape between his fingers and popped it into his mouth like one of his pain meds.

“They’re nice, kid. Now do as your mother says and eat them. ”

The child stared at him, blinked, and then bawled even louder.

Bloody hell.

Motormouth ditched the grapes and hugged her child.

“Come on, honey. It’s been a long day. We’re tired.

We’ll feel better when we’ve had a sleep.

” She then gabbled on to him about the beach, and the fishies and seashells, the clear water and coconut trees, until her voice was drowned out by the wheels firing up on the runway.

The engines revved and roared. Dan found his earbuds, and a few minutes later, they were in the air. The airplane straightened. The seat belt sign came off, and Motormouth lifted the armrest and settled her son into her lap.

“Got any plans for when you’re in the Cook Islands?” she asked.

“No. Just resting.” Dan popped his earbuds in and tapped his phone.

“We spent the past three months in New Zealand,” Motormouth went on. “Have you been there before?”

“Nope.” Dan found his music app, raised the volume, and—boom!—Isabella’s damn Christmas song blasted through his brain. He whipped his earbuds out, but it was too late. All the hurt came flooding back. He reached for his pain meds and popped a couple more into his mouth.

“Haven’t you taken enough of those already?”

Dan glared at her.

Her eyebrows raised. “I guess you know what you’re doing.”