Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
LEXI
Dinner was amazing. I can’t believe the food that came out of that kitchen tonight. If this is the Beaumont standard on a tiny speck of an island in the middle of the ocean, I wonder what the food is like in France, where they have their stronghold.
Tristan and I are walking back to our cottage after saying goodnight to Don and Miriam and the waiters who were cleaning up.
Our cottage is in the opposite direction from the guests’ accommodations, and this time we take the boarded walkway that starts at the main reception area.
At the end of the lit walkway, one sign says Private and the other way says Forest Trail.
At this fork, Tristan lets go of my hand and we step down onto the sand.
We’re finally out of sight and earshot, and I stifle a yawn. It’s still early, but I’m happy to go to bed. We’re both on duty at seven in the morning. There is a daily housekeeping briefing first thing, and obviously, I need to be there.
Tristan’s first dive is at around nine thirty, but he told Don he’d be at the dive center early to see what’s plotting there.
The hints were few and far in between, but I saw the signs.
Despite the pleasant smiles and happy island vibes, some of the staff here are disgruntled.
The red flag that waved during my interview with Nathan Beaumont now flaps in the wind.
Who knows how this is going to manifest in my day-to-day? But that’s tomorrow’s worry.
I’m too tired to be nervous around Tristan. Our first night alone in this intimate space loomed over me earlier, but he said the bed is mine, and I’m happy to have it, despite feeling crap about it.
“You use the bathroom first,” he says as we walk into our cottage.
We both freeze on the spot as we approach the bedroom.
There’s been a room turndown of sorts. Some windows are now covered with the roll-down grass-woven curtains, but the breeze still moves through the space.
The mosquito net has been pulled closed and tied just beyond the bed frame, forming an intimate box of protection.
Where we’d shifted a pillow or put anything out of place, things have been rearranged to perfection.
Citronella is burning somewhere. A standing light is lit in the living area, and a moth dances in the golden hue.
“Nice,” Tristan mutters as we stare at the bed.
Here’s something we didn’t consider: bugs.
I try not to freak out, now even more aware of how exposed Tristan will be in the open, since there’s only one mosquito net.
“Can’t be that bad,” he says, as if reading my mind. Then he turns away, leaving me standing, indecisive, as he disappears into the night.
My indecisiveness doesn’t last long. Not much I can do about the bugs now.
I go through my nighttime routine and am very grateful when I finally slip into the safety of the netted bed and switch off my bedside lamp.
Everything is weirdly open, but here, ensconced behind a veil, there’s a false sense of security.
And yet…this bed is the most dangerous place of them all.
I glance to the side—Tristan’s side—and then to the light in the living area I’ve kept on for him.
I have no idea when he’s going to come back, or what he’s going to do, so I roll on my side and look the other way, hoping to be asleep before he returns.
It’s too warm for anything more than the tank top and sleep shorts I’m wearing, and I don’t bother to get under the light covers.
Two minutes later, I turn back to face his side. Shit. We haven’t made a plan about extra bedding for him to use on the sofa. And it’s not as if we can ask for it…
I get up and go in search of some extra linen in the walk-in closet.
It’s quite spacious and serves as a storage place too.
Thank the Pope there’s an extra linen set and a blanket on hand.
I take it, fold it neatly, and lay it on the sofa that looks the most comfortable, then add a pillow from the bed to the stack.
There. Housekeeping perfection. I would know; I’ve worked that branch on weekends and holidays hands-on for four years, from the most standard double room all the way to a St Chalamet penthouse suite.
I clamber back into bed and wait, listening for Tristan’s footsteps over the gentle whisper of the waves.
If the bugs become too much, there might be a point during the night when he decides to get behind the mosquito net and into bed with me.
I turn my back on the light, heart pulsing with the possibilities of that going on long term. Nope. Nope. Nope.
My head is still chanting those words when I wake up.
The first morning light filters through the dark forest surrounding our cottage, and I sit up and look around, confused.
The other side of the bed is untouched, and there’s no sign of Tristan.
No lights are on, so he must have switched them off last night.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and check the time. It’s just after five in the morning.
A soft groan floats over to me, and I sit straighter. “Tris?”
“Hmm?”
That doesn’t sound good. “You okay? Slept well?”
“It’s been a night of blood donation.”
Eh… “What?”
“I might need coffee so my body can have some liquid for hematopoiesis.”
I have no clue what he’s saying, but I got the coffee part.
I get out of bed and wrangle the mosquito net for a second before I find the slit and get out.
I go over to where Tristan is lying on the sofa, a flat sheet covering his stomach and thighs but the rest of him naked.
He’s lazily scratching his chest, eyes closed, dark circles under his eyes.
My heart stills. Oh hell. He looks like he has measles.
“You got chowed.”
He opens one eye. “You think? Itches like Satan’s crotch.”
“Don’t scratch! You’re only going to make it worse.”
“Pfft.” His fingers move from one bite to the next. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yes.” I slept like a log and wasn’t annoyed by a single mosquito. He struggles up, and now I get to see his back. I suck in a breath. Ouchy ouch ouch, itchy itch itch.
“You’re welcome, babes. Anything for you. Really.”
For the first time, I don’t protest about him calling me babes. “I’ll make coffee,” I say, guilt nagging at my conscience. “Did you bring Afterbite or anything?”
“Nope.”
God. This whole situation pounced on us so quickly, we didn’t properly prepare. “Maybe they’ll have something in the boutique or in their first-aid kit.”
Tristan says nothing, and it’s quiet as I make coffee.
With two mugs in hand, I find him leaning against one of the supporting poles in a pair of sleep shorts, still scratching.
Through the vegetation, the sea is a slate grey brushstroke on the horizon.
The ever-present breeze stirs the palm leaves, but the heat of the day is a promise nothing is going to break.
“Here.” I hold out Tristan’s coffee.
“Thanks.” His stubble is thick and about the only place he isn’t littered with bites. “Walk with me?” he says as he meets my gaze.
“I’m sorry about all of that.” I wave at his body in general, trying not to stare at his naked chest. It’s warm, yes, but it would’ve been harder on those skeeters if he’d worn a T-shirt. And it would be easier on me too, not living with his bare chest in my face.
“Not making this easy on ourselves, are we?” With that, he stalks off, leaving it to me to follow him or not.
Of course I don’t stay behind, already feeling like total shit about the situation.
We walk down to the beach as the sun’s first rays shimmer over the sea.
A flock of black birds swoops up as we come closer, and with a groan, Tristan sits down.
I follow suit, and in silence we watch as the colors change rapidly around us as day dawns.
“I’m sorry about last night. If you want, I can take the sofa tonight,” I offer quietly.
Tristan sighs, and thank God it isn’t an awkward, unwelcome silence between us. It’s one of resignation.
“No. Imagine your skin—won’t let anything take a bite out of you, Lexi.” He chuckles as his hand comes up to stroke my hair away from my cheek.
His touch is warm and gentle, and my stupid head runs on with the sentence.
Unless of course, it’s me. A tingle idles down my spine, and my skin pops a spread of goosebumps.
Oh my gawd. He’s sitting so close, I can feel his body’s warmth.
I can smell his intoxicating male scent, the same from that night so long ago, but breathing him in makes it feel like it happened yesterday.
“You’re cold?” Tristan asks, but he must know better because his gaze travels over my face where a heady blush blooms at the thought of his lips and teeth on my skin. His hand on my breast. His thumb grazing my nipple.
“No.” I suck on my lip, forcing my mind back to neutral.
“Good.” He finishes his coffee and lets the mug dangle from his fingers. “Here’s what we’re going to do. See if you can get an extra mosquito net from housekeeping. I’ll make a plan to put it up somehow. I’ll dig in the maintenance area for tools.”
“Okay.”
He stands and holds out his hand to pull me up.
I place my hand in his, the ultimate gesture of trust. As I rise, his gaze, which for one long second holds my own, dips down to my breasts in this stupid tank top that leaves little to the imagination.
I’m not exactly in a wet T-shirt contest, but you’ll have a hard time missing my nipples, which seem to play a dirty game of treason here.
My mind is trying its best to find a way out of this Don’t Perve Over Tristan escape room, but my body just wants to stay put and play. With him.