Chapter Twenty-Seven
We stumbled out of the Belize Chocolate Factory carrying a bag of confections (and with the kind of sugar coma that could level a small city). The sunshine hit me like an instant defrost button after the freezer-level AC that had been blasting inside the shop.
Leo glanced at his watch. “Time for the next stop on our itinerary,” he said.
A short ride on the moped later, we pulled up to a desolate stretch of road that seemed to lead nowhere at all.
The hotel desk clerk hadn’t exaggerated when he called this place a hidden beach—there wasn’t a trace of shoreline in sight.
Leo grabbed the snacks and wine we’d picked up on our food tour from the back of the bike and led the way through what could best be described as someone’s overgrown backyard.
We ducked beneath a weathered No Trespassing sign (the same one the hotel clerk had instructed it was okay to ignore) and followed a narrow, rocky trail for another five minutes, the sound of waves drawing us forward.
The trees finally opened, and white sand stretched out before us.
The untouched beach went on for what seemed like miles, turquoise water lapping gently at the shore like it had all the time in the world.
The sand was soft as sifted sugar, and the only sounds were the hush of the tide and the occasional call of seabirds overhead.
It reminded me of some of the spots we’d visited in Mykonos last summer, except this place was quieter and far more secluded, and it seemed to remind Leo too, because he said, “Doesn’t this look a lot like that cove near Agios Sostis?
The one we had to hike down to barefoot because it was so slippery? ”
I remembered.
I remembered how we’d grabbed a bottle of crisp white wine, a mix of dips like tzatziki and hummus, and warm pita bread from a taverna on the way.
We packed them up, and Leo did his best to traverse the steep hill without dropping any of our precious cargo.
We spent the rest of the day swimming, snacking, and sunbathing, and it ended up being one of the best of my life.
“Since we didn’t bring an umbrella, what do you think of that spot over there,” Leo said, pointing to a clearing of the beach shaded by a few large palms.
I nodded. “Lead the way.”
We settled beneath the leafy trees, Leo laying out two brightly striped towels he’d borrowed from the hotel, side by side. I kicked off my sandals, slipped out of my cover-up, and stretched out on the sand.
Digging around his bag, he said, “I brought thirty or fifty,” and held up a bottle of sunscreen in each hand.
“Fifty, I think. This Caribbean sun is no joke, and the only thing that could add to the circus-level chaos of a wedding is me showing up sun-blistered and molting like a lizard.”
“Good choice,” Leo confirmed, tossing the thirty back into the bag. He flipped the cap and squeezed a thick dollop into his hand, the lotion smelling of coconuts and lime. “Let me get your back.”
Before I could protest, his warm palms smoothed over my shoulders, dragging his thumbs slowly down the line of my spine.
His touch was firm, practiced, the glide of lotion leaving behind a cool sheen that contrasted deliciously with the heat of his skin.
Every deliberate stroke lingered a fraction too long, his fingers brushing just beneath the strap of my suit, teasing as though he was daring me to stop him.
I closed my eyes, aware of the shiver that ran through me, the kind that had nothing to do with the ocean breeze, as I relished the way his hands felt, mapping my body like he was memorizing me.
“Turn,” he directed, pulling me from my almost catatonic state of bliss, and I spun around to face him.
He squeezed another little pearl of cream into his hands and warmed it between his palms before cupping my face. His thumbs swept gently along my cheekbones, tracing the delicate skin beneath my eyes with a tenderness that made me almost forget my own name.
His fingers skimmed down to my jaw, sliding slow and sure, until he smoothed the lotion into my neck with a careful, almost reverent touch.
“You’re glowing already,” he teased softly, though the heat sparking in his gaze had nothing to do with the Caribbean sun.
I cleared my throat, desperate for something to ground me, and snatched the bottle from his hand. “Your turn.”
He smiled and scooted closer, squaring his shoulders and sitting tall, and I squeezed a bit of lotion onto my fingers.
My hands spread across the firm planes of his chest, slicking the cream over muscles I was appreciating maybe a little more than I should have.
His skin was soft beneath my palms, and the scent of the sunscreen mingling with the salt air was almost dizzying.
I dragged my fingertips deliberately, slow enough to make him suck in a breath.
“Careful,” he murmured. His eyes had fallen closed, and his voice rumbled low, “You’re enjoying this.”
I smirked, rubbing in another sweep down his rippling abs. “Maybe I am. Sun protection is serious business.”
He chuckled, and as soon as we were both sufficiently lubed up, we lay down next to one another, just close enough that our arms nearly touched, but not quite.
We stayed like that for a while, soaking up the sun in easy silence, when Leo turned to me, pushed his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose, and said, “I packed some snorkeling gear I picked up at the beach shop. Wanna give it a go?” He pulled a pair of flippers and a mask from his small duffel and held them out.
“Let’s do it,” I responded as I slipped the mask on and carried the flippers to the shoreline. At the foamy edge of the surf, I grabbed the crook of his elbow for balance and leaned into him to slide my feet into fin-shaped shoes.
We waded in, side by side, the water so clear it felt like walking into glass.
Tropical fish darted beneath the surface like moving confetti, and when I dipped my face below, I gasped through the snorkel at the sudden explosion of coral and color.
Leo pointed at a school of yellow tangs and blue angelfish, then at a curious sea turtle that hovered near a rock like it was eavesdropping on us.
The Aegean Sea had been beautiful and crystal clear but didn’t have anywhere near the variety of colorful sea life as in the Caribbean.
Time slipped away underwater as we allowed the gentle current to pull us along the coastline.
When my fingers were sufficiently prune-y and my mouth tasted like a salt lick, we drifted back to shore, our limbs loose and heavy.
We collapsed on our towels with a collective sigh, like the ocean had rinsed us clean of all our stress and worries.
I stared up at the sky, letting the sun dry the droplets on my skin.
This . . . this peace, this weightlessness wasn’t what I was used to, and the calm of it felt liberating.
I looked down the beach where the shoreline sparkled with pastel-colored shells as far as the eye could see.
Even though Mom and I hadn’t mended fences after our argument last night, I knew they’d look beautiful decorating the tables at her wedding reception.
I emptied the contents of my tote, brushed the sand from my knees, and told Leo I was going for a walk.
I’d barely made it a quarter of the way down the beach when a sharp pang sliced through the taut flesh of my foot.
“Shit!” The cry escaped before I could stop it.
A jagged edge of glass or coral, I couldn’t tell which, bit into my skin. Blood was already pooling from the cut, and I stumbled backward, landing hard on my ass. Within seconds Leo was jogging toward me like a character on Baywatch . . . minus the bright-red bathing suit.
“Elliot! What happened?” He dropped to his knees beside me, scanning the sand before zeroing in on the gash.
“I’m fine,” I lied, gritting my teeth as the sting bloomed sharp and white hot.
“You’re bleeding. That’s not fine.” His tone was firm but not harsh, the kind of voice that didn’t invite argument. Without hesitation, he scooped me up, just lifted me as if it was nothing, and carried me toward a large flat rock tucked just past the shoreline.
“You really don’t have to do this. I can hobble,” I muttered half-heartedly, suddenly acutely aware of my arms around his neck, the thud of his heartbeat against my own chest, the way he held me so protectively.
“Just relax, I’m not trying to hijack your independence or anything. I’m simply doing my best to keep the sand out of the open cut. Now, hold still.”
He grabbed his water bottle and poured a slow stream over the gash, the blood swirling with the clear liquid like smoke curls before dripping into the sand.
The coolness was a relief, but what really undid me was the way his hands worked, confident, gentle, and precise.
He ripped a strip from his shirt—his actual shirt—exposing his impressive stomach, and wrapped the material clean around my arch.
I watched him work in silence, the pain already dulling beneath the tide of something else. Something warmer. Something softer.
“There,” Leo said, satisfied with the makeshift bandage and seeing that my foot had stopped bleeding. “Let’s just make sure to get some disinfectant and a clean bandage when we’re back at the hotel.”
“You didn’t really have to do all that, but thank you.
It already feels a lot better.” I glanced down at my wrapped foot, then looked back up at him.
“Have you ever thought about how people dealt with cuts and scrapes like this . . . say, in the seventeenth century? Must’ve been brutal without anything like antiseptic.
Something as simple as a foot gash could have been the literal end of you. ”