Tristan walks to our stacked luggage as I dig for my phone in my purse. The last time I sent Evan and Tessa messages was in Dar es Salaam. I’d like to let them know we’ve arrived in one piece, even if things between Tristan and me are falling apart. That funny truce of the last weeks? It’s now trying hard to keep its balance on a cliff’s edge.
Phone in hand, I lean against the bedpost. There is zero reception here. Nada. Zilch. “Do you have any connection on your phone with your network?” I ask.
“Nope. No chance in hell there’s anything here.” Tristan doesn’t bother to look up. I haven’t seen him with his phone since… I don’t know anymore.
“Hopefully at the main reception areas.” I toss my phone on the bed.
Tristan tilts his head and gives me a long, hard stare. “I thought we were here so you could stop hyperventilating as you search the internet a thousand times a day, waiting for that bomb to drop.”
I glare at him. He can fuck right off. Except that he can’t. He hasn’t seen the video—thank God—and can’t begin to understand…argh.Hopefully Tristan willneversee that godforsaken Mia Reed video.
This is us for the next three months. We are firmly ensconced in the crack of butt-fuck nowhere becauseIwanted to be here. And I want him to be here too. He needs to finish his project. I close my eyes and bite down hard on my lip. This is the opportunity I desperately wanted and needed. This is the opportunity that got handed to me because ofhim. There’s no way I’m messing this up, even if Tristan and I are going to be in each other’s space like this.
“I’m going to check whether my equipment survived the flight.” He picks my suitcase out of the pile and heaves it onto the bed. “Make yourself at home.”
He turns his back, and I fight the irrational burn of tears. Iswallow hard, forcing myself to focus. My wet jeans are itchy and so uncomfortable, and all I want is to strip them off, but I am going to address the elephant in the room first. “What are we going to do about the sleeping arrangements?”
Tristan glances over, then gets busy opening a lock on one of his crates. “You take the bed. I’ll figure something out.”
“Fine.” I swivel around, only to stare at the king-size bed. It’s extra long, too. What a waste. There’s more than ample space…but—a giant fuckingBUT.
“I’m more worried about a space to set up my computer for the work I have to do,” Tristan says. “I’ll have to rearrange a few things to make a workable office.”
“Whatever you need.”Just keep busy and keep to your side of the room.I unlock and unzip my suitcase and start digging for a sundress. I’m so tense that despite my exhaustion, there’s no way I’m going to take a nap. Or lie down on this bed with Tristan right there. That feels too much like an invitation.
With my toiletry bag in hand, dress and fresh underwear gathered, I slip behind the wall that divides the sleeping and living areas from the bathroom. The jeans go first, scratchy and horrible as I peel them off my legs. As soon as I’m down to my panties, I still. Tristan won’t come in while I’m in here—that’s a given, right?
Shit.
I tug at the ludicrously expensive engagement ring, but my fingers are so swollen from the heat and the travel that it won’t budge.
Cursing sounds from the bedroom, and I swear he read my mind.
“What?” I call.
“Freaking cornstarch uncapped. It’s everywhere.”
I roll my eyes. Diver problems. What does he use cornstarch for? I don’t even care.
With the reminder of the fake deal we’ve got going stuck on my hand, I get naked and step into the outdoor shower. It has a half-circle stone wall and a glacier-blue beaded glass curtain that provides more privacy than I expected. Thank God. I open the faucet and shudder as cold water hits my skin. It’s wonderful and strips the sticky heat right off. How do they have such coolwater on tap? The water pressure is perfect, the rainfall shower pure heaven, and the Beaumont toiletries smell like expensive perfume.
“Lexi?”
I freeze at Tristan’s voice, my fingers pausing as I massage shampoo into my scalp. My skin pebbles with a rush of goosebumps, and my nipples harden. He’sright there.I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m naked! In the shower!”
“I’d hope so—would be kinda weird otherwise.” He chuckles, then sighs, and it’s as if the exhale held a thousand apologies. “Can I pour you a stiff drink? Gin and tonic? Rum and Coke? This bar is well stocked. Lemons, limes, sugar syrup, the works.”
Damn. He’s still in the bedroom, but there are zero sound barriers here. Even when I can’t see him, he’s going to be there. There’s no escape. The tears I’ve been warding off reach saturation point, and now they’re flowing down my cheeks. I clear my throat. “A gin and tonic, please. Just a single,” I manage before I lean against the wall, pressing my fists to my stomach to quiet my sobs.
“Don’t run that water tank empty, Lexi,” comes Tristan’s voice again. “Desalination takes time, and I need to shower too. Probably a couple of times a day going forward.”
God. Can he stop being so annoying? Can he give me a moment’s peace to deal with the umpteenth mindfuck I’ve had to manage since I walked in on Mia Reed and The Head?
Worst of all, The Head is so much history now, he might as well have been medieval. Over the past few weeks Tristan has crept back to centerstage, and there’s nothing I can do to boot him out of the fantasy that plays on repeat in my head. A fantasy where several aspects were real once. His hands on my skin, grazing the soft curves of my hips, his lips on mine, my hands inching underneath his shirt?—
I drag in a ragged breath, trying to get a grip, but I can’t. Now that we’re here, it’s as if all the other characters have stepped away, leaving the spotlight only on Tristan: the guy who refused to have sex with me when I was nineteen, still a kid in his eyes, and so in love with him that I was a walking hormonal mess.
I’ve never recovered from his rejection, and nowthis? Coming here with him was undiluted madness. I wipe my cheeks and tug again at the stupid ring that binds me to him. Still too tight. It’s annoyingly symbolic. Can’t get this ring off, can’t get out of this little deal, and can’t get off this island. “I’m almost done,” I call as I give up on taking it off and get under the rainfall to rinse my hair.
