Stuck in Paradise with You

Chapter 30

30

CARRIE

Jenny has got to be joking.

I’m standing in the washroom adjacent to the terrace with my hands over my face, fingertips shielding my eyes, not daring to look and see myself in what could be Jenny’s spring-break clothes.

Why didn’t I take the clothes she loaned me and get changed in my pod? At least then I could have aborted the idea and dressed in something inappropriate but dry of my own.

I sigh. Because it’s already four thirty in the afternoon and we need to get going. The wind is increasing constantly and the sun will go down in a couple of hours, that’s why.

Could I just put my wet, dirty clothes back on? No. That’s ridiculous. I need to pull up my proverbial big-girl panties. Or Jenny’s Ariana Grande wannabe pants.

I part my fingers like it’s Halloween and I’m home alone watching the scariest movie in the world. Peering through the gaps, I gasp again on seeing my body tucked into the most hip-pinching, thigh-hugging shorts I’ve ever worn. I take a deep breath. At least they fit, they’re dry, they’re black, which maybe makes them ever so slightly more subtle, and they’re high-rise. There are some positives.

Sadly, they aren’t high rise enough to bridge the gap between the matching black tank top – no, correction, bra – and the shorts. My bust is pushed up and my midriff is bared.

Slowly, tentatively, I peel my fingers away and plant my hands on my waist. If I wasn’t me and I wasn’t here, with my client and his family, friends and staff preparing for a storm, maybe, maybe I’d feel kind of… a smidge… sexy?

But I am here, on Charithonia, as Joe Hettich’s tax advisor.

‘This is a disaster,’ I tell my reflection, though my subconscious is making a gentle note that I could invest in some new gym gear when I get home. If I ever get off this godforsaken island.

I open the washroom door an inch and peek out to the terrace. Everyone seems preoccupied. If I could just slip out of here, run the gauntlet of the entire width of the terrace, then along the pathway to my pod without being seen, I could find a modesty-preserving top to pull over this outfit. An inappropriate beach top would be better than this sorority costume dress I’m wearing.

Here goes…

I push open the washroom door, braced like Sha'Carri Richardson about to break the world record for the 100-meter sprint.

But… crap . The door is pushed right back and as I dive out of the collision path, Noah bursts past me, running with a football in his hands, Toby chasing after him and yelling, ‘Give it back!’

While the brothers exit the terrace as swiftly as they entered, I’m left standing in the open space, practically naked, with the attention of everyone out here trained on me.

I look around the faces, which feel like they’ve multiplied all of a sudden.

‘They fit you perfectly!’ Jenny calls, drawing even more attention and clearly oblivious to the intense awkwardness I feel.

‘Oh… Ah… Yeah, thanks.’ Some of the faces get back to their conversations but there are two men amongst the group who blatantly don’t. I’m vaguely aware that Henry is… ogling me ? I’m acutely aware of the way Luke’s jaw stiffens, the muscle in his cheek twitches and the slow movement of his neck as he swallows.

I’m embarrassing him in front of his friends and co-workers. Not that… I mean, how can I embarrass him ? It’s not as if he has ownership of me or something. Yet that’s the sense I get and it makes me bring one hand to my abdomen and the other to my collarbone, both covering as much of my exposed body as I can.

I need to get to my pod.

Before I can take a step in that direction, Luke reaches for the hem of his hoodie to take it off. Henry also starts to unzip his sweater but Joe places a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head, then directs him away.

Meanwhile, it’s my turn to swallow deeply as Luke peels his hoodie over his body, his t-shirt underneath rising with it, fully exposing, inch by devastating inch, his solid torso. Luke was always in good shape but this… this is something projected by men’s health and fitness magazines. An attempt to make men believe they can look like this .

I can feel my heartrate soaring and I hope, in this equivalent of a negligée I’m wearing, that Luke won’t witness it hammering out of my chest.

When did I last breathe? Have I forgotten how to do it? I think I feel lightheaded. Nope, I definitely feel lightheaded and weak legged, and also really annoyed with my superficial brain for being unable to take my eyes off the divine example of a male body in front of me.

The show is over. Luke pulls down his t-shirt as he walks toward me, hoodie in hand, and offers it to me.

‘Here, you’ll get chilly in the wind once the sun goes down,’ he says. He doesn’t mention how obviously uncomfortable, gauche and inappropriate I must look too.

I open my mouth to thank him but it just sort of hangs there, stuck in gawping mode, and as if I wasn’t angry enough with my treacherous self, Luke makes it a million times worse when his mouth turns up at just one side. Smug and hot as hell.

I want to give him some smart or sarcastic one-liner but it’s like the music has stopped while I’m playing a game of statues.

He steps closer to me. So close, I can feel the warmth of his body, the heat of his breath. His fingertips rest on my hip and I inhale sharply when his thumb grazes the flesh of my waist. He leans into my ear and I feel his words against my skin. ‘If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to keep my distance anymore.’

My breath leaves me, hot, heavy, wanton. What’s wrong with me? After everything he did, why does my body still want to betray me?

I turn my head to look at him and it’s a mistake. Our eyes meet and in his, I see a reflection of my lust. He’s serious. And though I shouldn’t, I can’t stop myself from wondering what it would be like to go there one last time. Would the flames between us still burn?

His mouth is dangerously close to mine and if he moves toward me, I don’t know if I’ll stop him.

One set of abs and toned pecs and all sensible thoughts have evaded me.

Luke straightens, winks at me. Not a cringeworthy, sleazy kind of wink, rather, a panty-melting, super-attractive, confident kind of wink.

Too sure of himself, delicious, jackass.

‘Put that on, buddy ,’ he says, and he pats me on the back. Actually pats me on the back.

Of course. When we got off the boat, I did the same thing to him, though I had been reacting to my own panic. This act of Luke’s is all about one-upmanship and I goddamn fell for it.

Oh it’s on, Luke Chalmers. Two can play that game.

Quite how those who stayed on Charithonia today managed to get through as many storm preparations as they have, while also being chef, cleaner, waitstaff, mom, aunt, security and generally human beings, is beyond me.

A bunch of us head down to the staff housing, which is closer to sea level, so a bigger flood risk from the high water levels. Apparently, the glass in the windows is the same level of hurricane proof that the main residence is, so the decision is made not to board the windows. The roofs already have storm clips in place and the various plant pots and pieces of furniture outside the studios have already been taken inside.

So our job – mine, Luke’s, Joe’s and Alisha’s – is to create a wall of sandbags as high as feasibly possible, while the staff carry bags of possessions and clothes that they want to make sure stay safe up to the main house and down to the bunker.

Luke is flirting with Alisha. I know they aren’t together now but it seems like he’s upped the ante for some reason. Is he trying to make me jealous?

I watch him as I lug sandbags, boring holes in his offensively moreish back, ignoring the way his muscles work beneath his t-shirt, or trying to at least, focusing on how childish he’s being and how mad it’s making me.

Mad enough that when Henry returns from taking his luggage to the bunker, I decide to play Luke at his own dirty tricks.

‘So, Henry, what can I expect tomorrow?’ I ask, closing in on him as he heaves up two bags and I take one, too, following by his side, as close as the job will allow, to the nearest studio.

Okay, it’s hardly flirtatious chatter but Luke can’t hear us; he doesn’t know that we’re genuinely talking about the weather.

‘Well, it’s all about humidity and air pressure,’ Henry says, seeming sincerely excited by the topic. ‘See, hurricanes happen when warm seas heat the air.’ He places down his sandbags, his slender muscles working hard, but not a patch on?—

Nope. Not going there. Not now. Not ever.

Now, Henry uses his hands to demonstrate. ‘Humidity rises and meets low pressure. That creates clouds.’ With one hand in the air, presumably acting as low pressure, Henry rotates his other beneath it. ‘The clouds start to rotate, and that’s the basis for the movement of the storm.’

I glance sideways to Luke and find him sporting the most supercilious look, which I’d like to pat right off his face.

I rest a hand on Henry’s bicep and give him more attention than the weather deserves.

‘Wow. And what was it you said about air pressure?’ Henry doesn’t seem to flinch at my touch, though in my defense, not that there’s much of one to this level of teenage prank, he has been fairly handsy with me since I arrived on the island.

‘The eye of the storm is where the pressure is lowest. Incredibly low, in fact. Because the moist air is rising from the ocean, it leaves an area of low pressure on the surface.’ He’s using his hands again to gesticulate, leaving no room for Luke to think we might be discussing how sexy Henry is or how much he’d like to get me naked. Nope. We’re still talking about meteorology.

My attention is zapped from Henry telling me about high pressure moving into the low-pressure area or something along those lines, because Luke and Alisha suddenly let out a joint, gargantuan laugh, and they’re touching, him folded forward, her head thrown back, and they look happy and really quite beautiful together, and… I’m jealous.

Jealous? Jealous of what? That Alisha and Luke might have chemistry, that they might like each other, that even if they aren’t together now, one day they might be?

Ouch , there’s an ache in my chest that makes me hold my fist to it.

‘Are you okay?’ Henry asks, finally having completed his explanation. He reaches out to my arm, I think genuinely concerned.

Me too. Am I having a heart attack? What is this dull but unrelenting pressure behind my sternum?

I nod. ‘Mmmhmm, yeah, great.’ I take a slow and steadying breath and move to the truckload of sandbags left to be positioned, distracting my mind, changing my line of vision, moving away from the sound of Luke and Alisha’s happiness. ‘I think I ate those sandwiches too quickly. Indigestion.’

God , could I be any less sexy? I’m dirty, I probably smell, my hair is as frizzy as it ever gets, I’m wearing Jenny’s tiny sorority shorts and Luke’s sweater, and I’m using indigestion as a tool to avoid being honest with myself and anyone else who can see how my body is physically aching for Luke. A man I should absolutely not want.

But damn it, I do.

I leave Henry to the last couple of sandbags on one studio and make a start on another. At the truck, as I’m wiggling a bag off the top of the pile, I sense Luke behind me before I see his arms reach across me to help, pulling down the bag as if it isn’t weighted at all. His shoulder brushes mine and even through clothes, I feel that lightning strike again, like I did when he helped me down from the boat, his hands on my hips, my pelvis sliding down his front, his dangerously dark eyes fixed on mine.

I mumble to myself, ‘They say lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice.’ But in paradise it seems there are no rules.

Is the way I’m feeling nonsensical, make-believe, or special ?

Not in seven years and a multitude of dates and failed, doomed-from-the-off relationships have I felt the pull, the draw, the irresistible smolder of a man the way I do now, in the most absurd circumstances, with Luke.

I realize, to my sheer mortification, that I muttered my words loud enough for Luke to hear. When I take the sandbag from him, his fingers coming to rest over mine and staying there, urging me to look up into those brown pools, he says, ‘Maybe it isn’t supposed to but we both know it is.’

I’m acutely aware of his touch and how it’s penetrating my skin; it’s in my bloodstream and coursing to every part of my body. My eyes fall to his lips. The same lips I’ve kissed so many times before.

He moves his face closer to mine, his eyes narrowing, hooded and dark, and I watch his attention fall to my mouth too.

‘I like you wearing my clothes,’ he says. ‘I always did.’

It would be so easy to move up an inch, closer an inch, to let him fill the space between us, to take my mouth closer to his.

Luke’s hand comes toward my face and I watch it as if his movement is happening in slow motion, the anticipation of his fingertips caressing my cheek, his thumb stroking my neck, has my insides spinning and flipping in unbearable turmoil.

‘We’re nearly done,’ Joe says, his voice coming from behind me somewhere. He’s blowing air like he’s been working out. We have, really, all day.

I dart back from Luke, hot and flustered. A lucky, lucky, lucky save.

Yep, wholly fortuitous.

Joe is my client and honestly, even if he wasn’t, I can’t just forget what Luke did to me. My job is a layer of protection I need because clearly my head, my heart and my freaking libido can’t be trusted.

I panic-grab the sandbag and tell Joe, ‘Great!’ an octave higher than my voice ought to be.

Luke doesn’t move. He holds a long blink and I watch his chest rise and fall, then his jaw is stiff as his focus shifts to Joe. ‘Yeah, great.’ His words are gruff.

Did we almost kiss?

Whatever games we’re playing with each other, the temptation is real.