Chapter 27
sofía
Jett crashes onto the bed—a wild, frantic look in his eyes—wrecking my neatly folded clothing and packing system.
“My shenanigan,” he shrieks.
I pull a pair of shorts from beneath him, refolding the denim and placing it in my suitcase.
I’m exhausted from the final day of filming, having spent all day driving around to find a platypus.
We were eventually successful, but the heat and long hours in the car frayed my nerves, even after taking the whole day yesterday to relax.
I’m on edge because in forty-eight hours, our stupid deal expires, and I’ll be left with a shit ton of things to handle. My never-ending to-do list. Preparing for the release of the first episode. Squashing the crush I’ve developed for my boss.
“I forgot about the…thing I planned, but then I saw our calendar,” he continues, handing me a top wedged beneath his abdomen. “We leave in an hour.”
“We fly home tomorrow. We need to pack.” I take the clothing, my heartbeat thumping in my ears as our fingers graze. “I figured you canceled that.”
“Nope.” Plucking the shirt Charlie made from the pile, he dangles it in front of me. “Wear this.”
“No.” Embarrassment floods my cheeks, and I snatch it away. “I will not.”
“Please?” My resolve melts into a puddle when his gaze softens and he swipes his thumb against my wrist. Does he recognize how easily I turn into goo around him? “Couples wear matching outfits.”
One look, and I’m folding like a camp chair. If I’m going to agree, I may as well do so with dramatics. I sigh with gusto. “Fine, but I’m bringing a backup shirt in case this one magically falls off the side of a cliff.”
Jett laughs, and the sound ripples along my skin, goose bumps forming on my arms. He slips his shirt on, far too proud to wear the monstrosity.
He can never know how handsome he is right now—satisfied smile, ballcap twisted backward, a golden glow to his skin from our pool day.
I throw a tank top under mine and stuff two spare shirts in my bag in case this shenanigan involves children.
I will not be explaining this to any youths.
An hour later, I’m standing on a random street corner in Cairns, wearing the Sugar Tits shirt, with a satisfied version of Jett beside me.
A strand of hair whips in front of his face, and he pushes it away, that grin of his never faltering, even when I stomp on his toe so he stops staring at my breasts.
“Sorry,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “The words are a beacon, and then I remember I know what they look like beneath, and…sorry.”
That might be the most adorable way someone has ever complimented my boobs. The most genuine, for sure.
“They are pretty great,” I confirm, bumping him with my hip. “Now, where’s our ride?”
Jett lifts an arm and points at a van whipping down the street, a tiny magnetic sign on the side donning a pair of binoculars.
“I am not getting into a nondescript white van,” I say, digging my heels into the pavement as Jett wraps a hand around my bicep and drags me forward.
I still can’t believe I let him convince me we should wear the insane shirts Charlie made. But I will not be persuaded to get into a white van in a different country, where the plan is to go out into the wilderness.
“It’s going to be fun,” Jett responds, unaware this is the start to every horror movie ever.
A middle-aged man waves from the driver’s side, a pair of large sunglasses sitting on top of his head. He slams on the brakes, and the vehicle jerks into park. Before the car settles, he’s out of his seat and rounding the front to greet us.
“Are you two ready for an adventure?” His blend of a British and Australian accent drowns out the curse I mutter.
Oversized binoculars hang from his neck, and he wears the identical adventure outfit Jett wears: a short-sleeve shirt, khaki pants with a million pockets and hoops, and hiking boots. Same outfit, two contrasting physical responses they elicit from me.
He falters a step when he reads our shirts but graciously says nothing as Jett steps forward and shakes his hand. I sling my bag over the words Sugar Tits written right over my breasts. Charlie missed the mark on my sizing, so the shirt tugs against my bra, emphasizing the bright-red text.
“The name’s Pete. I’ll be your guide tonight. If you’re ready, we can get on the road.”
He opens the side door, and I climb in. A two-person seat takes up the middle, and I slide in, making room for Jett. When he sits, his thigh presses against mine, his body heat seeping through the fabric of his pants.
Eighties rock filters through the speakers as the engine roars to life, and with a jerk, we’re off, heading to the next hotel to collect our fellow travelers.
“In the bag on the floor, you’ll find some binoculars. You can each take a pair,” Pete says, whipping through the streets of Cairns like it’s Grand Theft Auto.
I hold on to the seat for dear life while Jett grabs the binoculars. He slides a pair over his head to dangle around his neck, then does the same for me, his finger brushing against the back of my ear as he adjusts the strap.
I suck in a breath, energy crackling beneath my skin. His hand lingers, eyes dipping to my lips, before he tears his focus away.
The thudding of my heart drowns out the music. This was supposed to be simple. Clear, concise lines. But it’s all blurring in ways it never has before, and I don’t know how to redraw the boundaries between us.
More so, I don’t know if I want to.
After a few sharp turns, we skid to a stop in front of a massive hotel on the water. Pete hops out of the van and rips the door open, and an older couple and teenage boy enter the vehicle.
Lynn and Cecil are from the Gold Coast but on vacation with their grandson Tanner, who developed a newfound passion in film. This sparks Jett’s interest immediately.
A small part of me had expected him to use this tour as an opportunity to film content for his docuseries, but when I asked him if he wanted to capitalize on it, he said, “I want to spend time with you.”
I had to hide the blush that creeped up my cheeks.
“I could give you a few tips,” Jett offers, gesturing at the GoPro the teenage boy has strapped to a selfie stick. “I do this for a living.”
The smile on Jett’s face falls when the boy gives him an incredulous look. “I doubt it,” he mumbles, fiddling with the camera.
Pressing a fist to my mouth, I choke on my laughter. Jett whips his head over his shoulder, glaring at me. It only makes it worse, my stomach cramping as he tries to convince the kid he’s who he says he is.
He pulls up his YouTube channel. “I’m Jett Parks,” he says, shuffling through his more popular videos. “I’m here filming a docuseries about wild, crazy creatures found in Australia.”
“Cool.”
One monosyllable word spoken with zero interest and enthusiasm. Jett slumps back into the seat beside me. “Tough crowd.”
“Well, I think you’re very impressive,” I whisper, patting his arm.
I pull away, desperate to create some space for my heart’s sake.
Instead of maintaining distance, Jett snatches my hand, weaving our fingers together. His smile is sheepish. “Is this okay?”
Is he serious? No, it’s not okay. None of this is okay.
The slip of his fingers between mine is too natural, too right, and every time I experience the gentle affection, another part of my heart transfers to him.
Tomorrow, I will be crushed, but I lack the strength to tell him no, not when I want him to hold my hand, to hold on to me forever.
I’ve used up my allowance of greed by taking these moments for myself. Asking for anything more is unfair.
Green blurs through the glass window, and I focus on the forests passing by and ignore how his thumb makes small circles on my skin as he hums along to a song.
Twenty excruciating, tension-filled minutes later, we pick up a family of five; three small girls, all under the age of ten, climb into the van and take over the back bench. Giggles and noise fill the vehicle, and two tired parents follow close behind.
“We’re Johannes and Hedda, and these are our girls: Ada, Ella, and Mia.”
One pointed glance, and Jett tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, replacing it with the one in my bag. I suppress a victorious smile as I shed mine.
These are going into a trash bin at the next stop. I’ll donate to a charity when I get home for adding to the global waste problem, but I never want to see or hear the words sugar tits ever again.
“I’m Jett,” he says once we’re in appropriate clothing, “and this is my girlfriend, Sofía. We’re on vacation from the United States.”
“Girlfriend?” Quirking an eyebrow, I pointedly ignore the weird flutter in my lower stomach.
“Well, I wasn’t going to tell them you’re my fake girlfriend,” he says while Pete takes a hard left and my body collides into my so-called boyfriend’s. “Didn’t feel right.”
Any response I could offer is ripped away when the guide bellows “Oi, it’s a long-nosed bandicoot,” then slams on his brakes and points at his windshield. “Bloody magnificent.”
“Let me get a shot of it,” Tanner yells, climbing over his grandparents to the right-side window, pressing the camera against the glass.
Jett huffs. “Total noob move,” he whispers from the side of his mouth. “The camera isn’t even recording.”
Sure enough, the light in the corner is dark and the screen is blank. He didn’t even turn it on properly. I slap a hand over my mouth.
We make a handful of pit stops as we traverse deeper into the rainforest, short walks around boardwalks and a longer hike around a lake. Mud cakes my running shoes, and Pete almost left me, Cecil, and Lynn behind because we couldn’t keep the pace he preferred.
Needless to say, our little group of three stragglers is not his biggest fan.
The car jostles as we hit every pothole on the road, and Jett chats with one of the toddlers, Ada, ranking all the princesses in order of prettiest dresses.
“Purple sparkles are better than yellow sparkles,” she argues, and Jett sighs dramatically.