Chapter 21 Pop Tarts
Pop Tarts
Poppy
“This should be in all the Florida guidebooks.” I tilt my head back, reveling in the sun coating my face, my throat, and everywhere
except where the bikini is touching. It’s spreading over me like liquid gold. “Don’t mention all the swampy stuff. Just this.”
Jack snorts. He’s underneath the shade of a palm, scraping the scales off the fish he caught earlier. He has assured me several
times that it will be delicious, although right now it just looks very, very dead. I swear the eye is staring at me. “We get
plenty of visitors. Too many, really.”
“Hey, those are your future patrons.”
He wipes the scales off his fingers with a dishcloth. “True.”
“Do you feel like a visitor now?”
He considers that. “No. I don’t think so.”
“You look comfortable here. I had no idea you fish so well.”
“It’s pretty much all Chester and I did, growing up.”
I pile sand on my belly, then scrape it off. We snorkeled by the small reef on the other side of the island before ambling
to the dock, and Jack held my hand the whole time. I guess he was worried I’d get distracted and swim too far from shore.
This version of Jack—on this tiny island, not in the kitchen—is softer. More patient. He knew all the names of the fish we
saw, and he repeated them as many times as I asked. I don’t know how to feel about it.
Just like how I don’t know what to do with the fact he trusts me. That he regrets using that word, brat, even though I’m clear-headed enough about the incident now to know I was, in fact, acting bratty. Whenever I think I have
Jack Hartman figured out, he throws me for another loop.
“What else did you do?”
“I worked, when I got old enough.”
I roll onto my belly, kicking my feet in the air. “Other than that. What about for fun?”
“How about you? You rode horses, right?”
I gather sand into a tower, then smush it down. My neck itches, thanks to the damp ends of my hair, but I’m willing to ignore
it for the sunshine.
“Yep, I was a horse girl. Had a horse of my own and everything. His name was Bartholomew. Yes, I know that’s a weird name.”
I start on another tower. “I stopped riding when he died. But Ki wants to take me to see Charger sometime, so I don’t know,
I might try again.”
“What was he like?”
“Very gentle.” I sit up, wiping sand off my body in an effort to look presentable, rather than like a toddler covered in sand
from head to toe. I can’t quite tell, given Jack’s aviators, but I think he’s amused by me. “I wasn’t very good at horseback
riding, but he was the kind of horse that didn’t mind. Did you play a sport or something?”
“Sometimes.” He starts in on the other side of the fish. His body tightens, as if I touched his burn again. “I always wanted
to play hockey, actually, but it was too expensive. And I never had anyone to take me to practice, anyway.”
“Ice hockey? In Florida?”
“We do have two professional teams, you know.”
“I didn’t know, actually. I’m allergic to sports.”
“Didn’t you date a basketball player?”
My lips quirk up. “Well, yeah. But I never paid attention to the games.”
He shakes his head, smiling, and points his knife at the soft-sided cooler. “I brought beer, if you want.”
I grab a can, glancing down at the label. “Oh, it’s pineapple flavored.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I’m allergic.” I toss the can to him, and he catches it one-handed. “Pineapple makes my face and throat swell up.”
He sets down the beer, hard. “What?”
“Weird, right? But it’s not like pineapple is in everything. It’s pretty easy to avoid.”
“You have a food allergy and you didn’t tell me?”
I blink. “It’s just pineapple.”
He scowls at me like he did earlier this week, when he disabled the fire alarm after I burnt not one, but two batches of potato
purée in a row. “We’re working with food every day. What if I asked you to cook with pineapple? What if I made something for
you that had it as an ingredient?”
“Then I would have told you. Believe it or not, I can handle myself just fine.” I kick the sand with annoyance.
“Something could have happened anyway.” He sets the fish aside, then stands, wiping his hands. He stomps to the edge of a
group of scrubby trees and picks up a few dead branches. “Is there anything else you want to share? Some other medical condition
you conveniently forgot to mention?”
“What’s the big deal? I have an EpiPen just to be safe, but it’s not like it’s a nut allergy or something. I have to ingest
it, and it’s super easy to avoid. Like now.”
As I watch, he squats, digging a little pit and arranging the sticks inside. I guess we’re going full desert island today.
I try for humor to wipe the irritation off his face. “Maybe I should get a tattoo of a pineapple on my thigh. That way if
I have a reaction, you know where to stab me with the pen.” I inspect my leg, turning it from side to side. “It could be an
upside-down pineapple. Give people something to think about.”
Shocker of shocks, he doesn’t laugh.
“You know, because an upside-down pineapple is a symbol for—”
“I know what it means.” He gives me another tight-lipped look as he rummages in his bag, pulling out a lighter. “The menu won’t have pineapple on it.”
What feels suspiciously like butterflies tickle my belly. “It’s fine if I don’t touch it. It’s not like pineapple fumes will
kill me.”
“Don’t use those words in the same sentence.” He rubs his temples, as if I’m the unreasonable one here. “And that tattoo idea
is terrible. You’re not even married.”
“Do you have to be married to be a swinger?”
“I have no idea.” He lets out a breath. “Here’s today’s cooking lesson. Pay attention.”
He finishes cleaning the fish quickly. I hold back a gag when he pulls out the guts to discard. Inside the prepared interior,
he rubs salt and lemon and a drizzle of olive oil from a flask. After a crack of pepper and some more salty lemon slices,
he wraps the entire thing in a foil packet and nestles it into the hot coals, away from the flame so it won’t catch fire.
“Wow. If I had to be stuck on a desert island with anyone, I’d choose you.”
He snorts. “They’d discover our murdered bodies one day.”
“No way. I think we’d have a treehouse like in The Swiss Family Robinson.”
“Really.”
“Definitely. Or we’d be like the couple from The Blue Lagoon. That movie is such a fever dream. Poor Brooke Shields.”
“I have no idea how these things come into your brain.”
“Trust me, if I knew, I’d tell you.”
He pokes at the foil packet with his fingers. He’s so used to the heat inherent to cooking, it’s no wonder he didn’t panic
during yesterday’s accident. I shiver from the breeze; despite the hot day, my still-wet bathing suit is giving me the chills.
With his attention occupied, I get a good look at him: the mostly-black ink spreading over his chest and arms, the defined
muscles, the light smattering of hair on his chest. His damp swim trunks—plain, army green—cling to his groin in a way that,
from this angle, doesn’t leave much to the imagination as to what’s underneath.
My stomach does a flip. I bite the inside of my cheek. I thought guys were supposed to shrink in cold water? If that’s true, then even with that, he’s exceptionally well endowed.
I wonder what he looks like with nothing on at all. If he has any tattoos that, even now, remain hidden. If I leaned over,
and we tumbled onto the sand together . . . if I pulled his hair until he groaned . . . I wonder if he’d kiss me.
It doesn’t matter. There’s no one in the world I’d loathe kissing more than Jack. I must be dehydrated from all the heat,
if my thoughts are wandering in impossible directions.
“Winfield.”
“What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re looking right at me.”
“I’m just thinking about how thirsty I am,” I blurt. He laughs, startled. I clap my hand over my mouth. “Not that kind of
thirsty—I mean literal thirsty. Obviously. Don’t be a caveman.”
He laughs harder, finally wheezing out, “I packed some waters, too.”
I dive for the cooler, gulping half the water down in one go. Did his laugh always sound so nice? Maybe I just haven’t heard
it directed at me until now. Whatever. It’s an objectively sexy laugh, the kind that feels like a physical caress. Warmth
sparks in my belly at the sound. My nipples tighten, and I know it’s not from the breeze this time. I should have thought
twice about this string bikini plan. My body must think we’re trapped here and is already giving in to the instinctual imperative
to preserve humanity. Or more likely, I’m just relieved to have swept his bad mood away.
When he declares the foil packet done, he carefully unwraps it, balancing it on top of the cooler. The smell of salt and lemon
hits me, pleasantly strong.
“We’re eating with our fingers?”
“It’s normal in many cultures.”
“No, I know.” I eye the packet. “I’ve just never done it.”
He picks off a bite of fish, grinning as he chews. “Try it.”
The poor dead fish eye staring into nothing makes my stomach squirm, but I gingerly pick out a bite.
The moment it hits my tongue, my eyes slide shut.
The succulent, almost sweet flesh of the fish, the bright hit of lemon, the tang of the ocean and smoke of the fire—it comes together into a beautiful bloom of flavors.
I can’t help but wiggle with happiness, which inflates Jack’s ego to the point that he’s practically glowing.
He looks exactly like Gator when I give him a dried sardine treat.
“Fuck me.” I shove another bite into my mouth. “I think I just came.”
Another peel of laughter. “You’re funny today, Winfield.”
“I’m always funny. You just pretend not to notice.”
“The pineapple thing doesn’t count.”
“Excuse you, that was some of my best work.”
“What’s your first food memory?” He nudges the foil packet over to me. “This was mine.”
“Fish on the beach?”
“Three ingredients, no utensils, no fucking around.”
“Who cooked it for you? Your dad?”
He shakes his head. “My parents never cooked for me.”
Seems like there’s a lot his parents didn’t do for him. I frown. “And what, the fish awoke something in you?”