Chapter 23 #2
Jett walks with him, a backward cap covering the bedhead he ignored this morning.
My gaze travels down the crisp collar, which I secretly ironed for him while he was eating breakfast, and snags on his ass as the distance between us grows.
Molly, ten steps ahead of me, clears her throat and raises a brow, and heat creeps up my neck as I catch up with her.
Lush green plant life inhabits the path to the dock, vines and bushes and small saplings shifting into dense mangrove forests lining the edges of the river. A large white bird wades through the shallow waters between the roots of the trees, dipping its head beneath the surface for food.
A rustic boat, with rows and rows of benches, bobs on the river, and our captain waves as we approach.
“Welcome to Captain Jack’s Crocodile Cruises,” he cheers, dipping the brim of his hat. “I’ll be your captain today.”
“Jack?” Jett asks.
“No?” The man gives him a befuddled look. “My name’s Frank.”
“Right, well, I’m Jett,” he says, recovering far better than I could. “This is Molly, Sofía, and Doug.”
Jett’s hand clasps mine as I step on, a familiar zap of electricity racing up my arm, the hum of energy taking up residence beneath my breastbone. Our eyes connect, and his head dips to hover beside my ear.
“Who the hell is Jack?” he mutters, the words rippling along my skin like a current.
A startled laugh tears out of me, and I clamp a hand over my mouth, finding a spot on a bench in the back, far away from Captain Frank-not-Jack.
Doug and Molly sit in the front on the opposite side, and Jett selects the seat closest to the water to take photos and videos.
“Does Jack even exist?” I whisper once we’re settled.
“The world may never know.” Jett chuckles, pulling the baseball cap from his head and placing it on mine, adjusting the brim so it doesn’t fall over my eyes. “Hold on to that, would ya?”
He runs his fingers through his hair, the strands of dark brown turning golden from the Australian sun, and I fixate on the flex of his forearms, the way the muscles move as he ties his hair back.
I have the sudden, concerning urge to kiss him.
“Come here,” I whisper, tugging on the hem of his shirt. He slides over, skin pressed against mine, and I lean my head on his shoulder, snapping a photo of us.
His full face is cut off, only his jawline and the scruff of his beard visible, and the brim of his hat covers most of my face, but my lips turn up in a cheeky smile.
I hold my thumb down, capturing dozens of angles until he reaches out, turns my jaw, and drops a kiss on my lips, stealing the breath from my lungs. My lashes flutter shut as I fall into the touch.
Could he hear my thoughts?
The kiss is short, but his hand lingers on my jaw, a gentle pressure as he tilts my head to meet his gaze.
“Why did you do that?” The question comes out as a puff of air.
“Because I wanted to.” His brow furrows. “Are you good?”
He kissed me earlier when we were alone in the parking lot, but this one felt different, oddly claiming in a way that makes me nervous.
“Uh, yeah, it…” How do I say I’m beginning to fear I won’t be able to compartmentalize this with him? That he’s the first person I haven’t been able to keep casual with since Tommy? I land on “It surprised me, that’s all.”
“I enjoy surprising you,” he admits.
I let the conversation die, unsure of how to reply. Jett digs his camera gear out of his bag, attaching a lens and slipping the strap over his neck.
“We’re on the mighty Daintree River,” Frank says, his microphone echoing his voice to the back of the boat. “Part of the Daintree Rainforest, this river is home to mangroves, birds, mammals, and the saltwater crocodile.”
We meander down the river, and I snap a few photos, mostly of Jett with nature in the background. He glances over his shoulder, catching me in the act, and winks. The man fucking winks, and it causes a flutter in my stomach that I try to stomp out like a rogue ember from an overexcited bonfire.
“I had planned to take you guys on the normal loop, but ole Hank was basking on a sandbank about thirty minutes upriver, so we’ll go give him a visit and get you folk a good show for your docuseries.”
Jett pats my thigh. “Ole Hank,” he whispers. “Do you think it’s a man in a speedo or a crocodile? Or a crocodile man?”
“Is it weird to say I’m kinda hoping for a crocodile man in a speedo lounging on a pool chair, reading a magazine?”
“Incredible imagination,” he replies, and my heart skips at the compliment.
The boat ride is accompanied by Frank offering facts and history about the Daintree Rainforest and the river.
The Daintree Rainforest is the world’s oldest tropical rainforest, estimated to be 135-180 million years old.
The estuary is home to half the world’s known mangrove species, and the plants are specially adapted to filter salt water through their leaves.
The Eastern Kuku Yalanji people are the traditional owners of the Daintree and represent one of the oldest living cultures on the planet, deeply connected to their country, both spiritually and practically.
Ole Hank is a cranky bastard, but he’s a ladies’ man.
The last one is more of an opinion, but I jot it down in case Jett wants to include it in the voice-over of the series. It’s still unclear whether Hank is a man or a crocodile, and the vagueness adds to the anticipation.
Jett films as we mosey along, capturing clips of colorful kingfishers weaving between mangroves, and herons patrolling the water’s edge, plus longer videos of the plant life, densely packed against the bank.
We round a tight corner into a small outcrop, and Frank calls out over the speakers, “There he is, ole Hank!”
Lounging on a mudbank, consuming the space and absorbing the sun’s warmth, sits a massive saltwater crocodile.
“Holy shit,” Jett mutters, aiming his camera at him.
A similar response sounds from Doug, who practically shoves his wife to the ground to make it to the other side of the boat. Molly laughs and follows him, everyone leaning over the railing to get a better look at Hank, who seems unperturbed by our presence.
Mottled green and brown scales blend into the thick mud, and Frank circles the boat a few times before Hank decides he’s over the fanfare and disappears into the murky depths.
There’s nothing more than a ripple to indicate he entered the river, and a chill slithers down my spine. I covertly slide back toward my seat.
“These creatures are stealth experts, using the water to conceal their movements and lying in wait for prey,” Frank says as the boat makes course for the dock.
I can add saltwater crocodiles to the list of animals I fear, right beside triggerfish and spiders.
Jett slides beside me, slinging an arm over my shoulder. “If he attacks, I’ll keep you safe,” he says with a goofy grin.
I raise a brow. “Against a thirteen-foot crocodile?”
He squeezes my bicep. “Well, I would try really hard and wrestle it so you could run away. Remember, straight lines, not zigzags.”
There’s nothing but humorous truth on his face, and when his fingers press into my muscles again, I allow myself to melt into the touch. Somehow, Jett saying he would sacrifice himself to a saltwater crocodile is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.