Chapter 3
The horse reared up, silhouetted against the bright-blue summer sky, its front hooves galloping in the air, ready to smash down on his head. Tasting dirt and grass, Dan body-rolled…and then landed flat on his face on a hard, tiled floor.
“Ooof.” His breath hitched, and his pulse raced.
Bloody dreams!
He should be used to them by now, but… Hold on. Falling out of bed usually hurt a lot more than this. Raising his head, he clocked the low sofa. Are Moana.
The flight. The child.
That woman.
He shifted to his butt and glanced over to the bed on the other side of the room, rubbed his eyes, and glanced again. There was no mistaking the curvy shape of a woman under those sheets, nor the short pink and purple hair on the pillow. She was still here.
Stiff and aching, he scraped himself off the floor and dropped back onto the sofa, the bright-orange shorts he wore bringing back memories of the night before.
His clothes. His bag, still in Auckland.
From start to finish, that whole journey had been unfortunate, to say the least. But he was here now, and he needed to pull himself together. His mum would be here on Wednesday, and for the first time since his accident, he’d like her not to have worry in her eyes every time she looked at him.
Dan rubbed his face and then caught sight of the little bistro table in the private garden.
If not for the dull dawn sky, the table and all the flowering shrubs behind it looked exactly like the images on Are Moana’s website.
Daydreams of sitting out there with Issy, enjoying breakfast and evening meals, squeezed his stomach.
For the whole of December, they’d agreed to leave the rest of the world behind and spend their first month as a married couple alone. No agents booking them in for work. No appearances. No social media. No TV shows. No recording studios. No interviews.
And definitely no prying journalists.
But then came the horse, and the hooves, and the nearly being trampled to death.
Haunting memories flashed before him again—his most recent nightmare mixing with real-life trauma that still left him shaken. He dropped his head into his hands, and only when the bout of nausea settled in his stomach did he haul himself to the small kitchen in the corner of the room.
He searched the cupboards for a glass, found one, and ran it under the tap. Another wave of sadness gripped his gut as he glanced at the cooker. He and Issy wouldn’t be cooking together either.
As he drank another glass of water, a red toy truck on the breakfast bar caught his gaze, and on the floor leaning against a cupboard were Motormouth’s bags and her son’s stroller.
Slowly, Dan turned to look at the woman and child in the bed, both still sleeping. Pukey Kid didn’t look so evil now, and as for his mother… No wonder he hadn’t instantly recognized her last night. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, her eyelashes no longer covered in glitter.
Who was she? Apart from someone who had the same surname as him…
Well, whoever she was, he’d been rude to her, and he owed her a massive apology.
“Wholesome heroes” like Daniel Jones couldn’t be human at the end of a bad day and snap at people.
That was a lesson he’d learned when he’d left hospital, surrounded by those obnoxious reporters asking how it felt knowing he could never run again.
How the fuck do you think it feels?
He’d lashed out, smashed one of the cameras onto the ground, and ignited a whole load of rumors about his mental health. His agent had urged him to give him interviews, to give everyone the facts, but as far as Dan was concerned, all journalists could go to hell.
They weren’t interested in facts.
They were interested in money.
And knowing they were out to make money from his trauma disgusted him.
But back to the woman in his bed. She wasn’t a reporter.
She wasn’t out to make money from him, so he’d find a way to smooth things over with her.
But first, he had more pressing things to deal with—like how to move his hip and knee again without this stabbing pain shooting up his body.
Physio would help, but first he had to loosen up his muscles and joints with a hot bath.
He grabbed his carry-on bag and limped to the bathroom. There was no lock. Instead, he dumped his bag and a heap of towels in front of the door as a Keep Out sign should Motormouth wake up, and then he turned and stared at The Bath—looking exactly like it had in the photo on the website.
But the bath, Issy. Look at that bath! It’s huge! Dan had joked about it whenever Issy had said she’d rather stay in a luxury resort. Think of all the fun we can have in it…
You want to spend our honeymoon in a bath?
He’d hugged her, and she’d laughed when he’d whispered in her ear. I’ll show you how I’d like to spend our honeymoon…
Misery and betrayal clawed at his heart.
Why did you do it, Issy?
Dropping to his knees on the hard floor, Dan squeezed his eyes shut, horrified at the sting of tears. Fatigue clung to his bones, his stomach lurched, and the wound Isabella had left on his soul was seeping, bleeding him dry.
Pull yourself together, Jones!
It was the journey. It had taken more out of him than he’d ever imagined. Steeling himself against more movement, Dan ran the bath.
While the water poured, he plugged his phone in to charge in the shaver socket and checked if his mum had replied to his message.
She hadn’t, but Mum wasn’t the type to be glued to her phone, especially on holiday, and neither was Auntie ZeeZee—who rarely even switched her phone on, let alone checked it.
There were several repeated messages from his sisters.
What the hell were you thinking!
Then a message from Isabella.
The official announcement will be Thursday morning 8 a.m. I’m so sorry, Dan. I never planned for any of this to happen.
So that’s it.
In two days’ time, he and Isabella would be completely over, no more the Nation’s Favorite Couple—as if that title had stopped her from shagging another man.
Not that anyone, other than a carefully chosen few, knew about that rather unfortunate, upsetting fact. Lawyers were now involved in their breakup. Discretion was fundamental. There were too many careers at stake. Too much money involved. Not even his mum and sisters knew what Issy had done.
Nor who she’d done it with.
Something small, warm, and soft patted Libby’s cheek.
“Mamma, splash!”
“Hmm? What?” Libby cracked her eyes open, pained to be awake after sleeping only two minutes—or that’s what it felt, anyway, until she was blinded by broad daylight instead of a dawn sky.
Karim jumped on her. “Mamma, splash!”
“Hey, honey,” she croaked. “Did you have a nice sleepie?”
Karim climbed over her, his little legs hanging over the edge of the bed as he lowered himself to the floor.
“Splash,” he said again and toddled off to the bathroom.
“You need to pee? Good job for telling Mommy. Let’s go.
” Somehow, Libby hauled herself out of bed and reached for Karim’s hand.
In her sleepy daze, his fingers slipped away from her, and he pushed through the bathroom door.
He stumbled over a bag and some towels, which she saw too late. She tripped and burst into the room.
“Hey!” a rough voice shouted.
She screeched to a halt at the tub, where her gaze hit large male hands cupped between muscular thighs.
“Do you mind?”
“Oh, man!” Libby slapped her hand over her eyes. “Why didn’t you lock the door?”
“I would’ve if it had one,” he growled. Skin rubbed and squeaked against the tub, as if he were clambering to cover himself up. Water spilled onto the floor.
“Splash!” Karim squealed.
Right. Now it made sense why he’d said that earlier. He must’ve heard the water running.
“Excuse us,” she said and fumbled for Karim with her eyes half shut. She steered him toward the toilet. “Come, let’s pee-pee and leave Mr. Jones in peace.”
Libby sat Karim on the toilet, rushed through the shaky-shaky routine and handwashing, and then hustled him out as fast as she could, closing the door firmly behind her.
Gee, that woke her up!
Last night’s fiasco slapped her in the face. She had to get dressed, find Mr. Hehu, and sort this mess out.
She also needed to pee badly herself.
“Let’s go, honey.”
Both dressed in record time, Libby scooped Karim up, grabbed her go bag—what she liked to call her combination purse, diaper bag, and emergency bag all in one—and then called through the bathroom door to tell Cranky Jones that they were heading out to the main house to resolve their rather awkward rooming situation.
Making her way through the tropical garden, she tried to point out interesting things to Karim—the pretty flowers, the tweeting birds, the palm trees—but she was in too much of a hurry, and way too flustered, to properly absorb her new surroundings.
Seeing that in their bathroom definitely wasn’t how she’d imagined her and Karim’s first Cook Islands morning.
The sky was still overcast, too, not the tropical blue she’d been expecting, and the air, though fragrant, was uncomfortably sticky.
As she approached the house, she followed the music toward a large, spacious kitchen, where other guests—mainly young backpackers—mooched around, eating breakfast.
Libby greeted them and asked the way to the nearest bathroom. Once she’d relieved herself, she headed to the office.
“Kia Orana,” Libby said to the woman behind the desk. “Is Mr. Hehu here, please?”
“Kia Orana. Dad’s gone to fetch his delivery. Can I help?” With a cheerful smile, the woman turned her full attention to Karim. “And Kia Orana, gorgeous boy. What’s your name?”
Despite the woman’s sunny gaze, Karim rubbed his head shyly against Libby’s shoulder, but he couldn’t hide his little side smile for long, amused and intrigued by the woman’s round and happy face.
“Say, key-ah-o-raah-nah, honey. Kia Orana.” Libby had practiced the Cook Islands greeting for Hello with Karim many times.
The literal translation was, May you live a long and fulfilling life.
Which was just the loveliest thing to say to someone.
Karim babbled his own version of Kia Orana, and Libby kissed his head.
“Good job, honey.” She turned to the woman. “I’m Libby, and this is Karim.”
“Nice to meet you both. I’m Serita. You having a lovely holiday, little man?” When Karim nodded, Serita’s face bloomed even more. “I heard the flight from Auckland was delayed,” she continued. “My son works at the airport, and Dad said you and your husband arrived late last night.”
“That’s just it, Serita. That guy isn’t my husband. There’s been a mistake.” Libby explained all that had happened. “He said his mother was supposed to be here, so I’m assuming she’s Mrs. Jones. I’m Miss Jones. No relation.”
“Ah, right.” Serita’s smile didn’t fade, even though her brow had puckered into what might look like a frown on most people. “Let me check the books. You reserved online, didn’t you?”
“Yes, two days ago.”
Serita typed into her computer and clicked on a few things.
“A Mr. and Mrs. Jones have the bungalow booked until January 3rd. But hold on. There’s a note here saying they won’t actually check in until Wednesday, which is tomorrow.” Serita did her version of a frown again and drummed her fingers on the desk. “I think there’s been a mix-up.”
Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Libby pushed up a smile. “I can understand how your father could think I was Mrs. Jones last night, but where’s the room I reserved? Can I move into it now?”
“I’m afraid we’re fully booked, and we have been for a couple of weeks.”
“Then how did my reservation get confirmed?”
At that moment, the old man shuffled in, carrying three large pineapples.
“Delivery from Atiu,” he announced.
“Dad, have you been using the computer again?”
Mr. Hehu waved his daughter off and smiled at Libby. “Mrs. Jones, how did you sleep?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid, Mr. Hehu.”
“Yes, the storm. It’s over now. Blue skies for you from now on.”
“I hope so, but you, um, put me in the wrong room last night,” Libby said, glancing awkwardly at Serita.
Thankfully, Serita took the hint and explained to her father that there’d been a mistake.
“So you share,” the old man said. “He already paid, so it’s free accommodation for you.
” He let out a wheezy laugh at his own joke but was soon hushed when Serita spoke some curt-sounding Māori words to him.
He replied in Māori, which—going by the old man’s happy shrug—Libby translated to, So? It’s no big deal.
In the grand scheme of the world’s problems, sharing a pre-paid honeymoon bungalow with a former British athlete on a tropical island really wasn’t a big deal.
Just an extremely awkward and inconvenient one.
And she didn’t think for one minute that Cranky would appreciate it either.
Mr. Hehu ambled off toward the kitchen with his pineapples. Karim wriggled on Libby’s hip, wanting to get down. She lowered him to his feet and held onto his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” Serita said. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll find you someplace else.”
“That’ll be awesome. Thank you. I’ll have a look, too.” Libby asked for the Wi-Fi details. “And one more thing. Do you know if Mr. Jones is expecting anyone else to join him here, other than his mother and aunt? Someone called Isabella, perhaps?”
“Nope.” Serita shook her head. “The bungalow only sleeps three people, anyway—two in the double, and one on the pull-out sofa bed, so it’ll be cozy enough when his other guests arrive.”
Interesting.
“Thank you. Meitaki ma’ata, Serita,” Libby said. “Did I pronounce that right? May-tah-key mah-ata.”
“Perfect, and you’re welcome. Meitaki ma’ata to you, too, for your understanding. We don’t usually make a mess of our bookings here at Are Moana.”
“It’s no problem, and I’m sure Cranky—er, Mr. Jones—will understand too.” If he ever manages to pull his head out of his ass. “Come, sweetie. Let’s go get some breakfast.”
Libby led Karim toward the kitchen.
She needed coffee, and she needed it quick.