“He was hot,” I call. “I crushed like every other girl who laid eyes on him.” No need to deny it. Hormones are a fact of life. And Tristan isstillhot. Another fact of life.
For a moment it’s quiet as Evan focuses on the grill and I finish the salad. I put the bowl and everything else we need on a tray and head for the outdoor table. Best I steer this conversation back to safer waters. “Why would Dr. Tristan Martinelli, marine biologist—who probably spends so much time in salt water he’s basically cured meat—give a kidney to spend three months running a dive center in the middle of butt-crack nowhere?”
Evan’s mouth splits into a wide grin, and he laughs—the hearty, full-belly laugh of someone who’s enjoying the moment way too much. “Because he’s in a pickle.”
“Ah, buzz off.” I claim propriety rights to that nickname, situation, andno—I don’t do pickles on my burger. I’m one of those people who tells themno pickles, pleaseat the McDonald’s drive-thru.
“Nope, he’s in a tight spot.”
Freaking Evan. He’s toying with me, reeling me in like little Nemo on a hook. I cave. “Why?”
“He’s been working for years on a TV series about ocean life—a David Attenborough type of thing, but notgrandiose. It focuses on symbiosis in the oceans, the break in the chain due to pollution and the oceans warming up. You know, that kind of thing.”
I don’t know, but my interest is piqued. “And?”
“He’s running out of time and money.”
I snort. “And how is this my problem?”
“This job could give him the break he needs. Imagine three months in a marine reserve where he’d be able to film and dive, all expenses paid? I can imagine that as a World Heritage Site those coral reefs must be untouched, in perfect condition, still supporting life and biodiversity.”
I stare at him. The passion in his voice catches me off guard. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because I want him to succeed. He’s pumped everything he has into this over the past five years. He’s on an environmental trailblazing mission and doing something selfless.” Evan takes a drink of his beer. “And I’ve seen his first few completed episodes. They’re fantastic.”
Okay. Maybe I’ve seen some of the footage on Tristan’s reels. They’re breathtaking, to say the least. “Why’s he running out of time?”
Evan exhales. “He sold his series to a streaming service based on the first two completed episodes. He needs to deliver the rest next year or the deal will fall through.”
I hitch a brow. “And?”
“Mother Nature hasn’t been playing along, and he’s running behind, with no options going forward.” He reaches for an empty plate and flips the burgers again. “Three months—imagine all the images and footage he’d be able to take.”
“Technically he’d be working. Running a dive center? Making sure guests who pay thousands of dollars a night are happy?” I’m talking as if this could be a reality right now, in full visualization mode. “He won’t be able to spend all his time underwater taking photos and whatnot.”
Evan smiles. “But he’ll make the most of it.”
That he will.I take a deep breath and huff it out. “Wow, just look at you, fabricating a whole scenario here. You forget that Tristan needs a better half to get this gig, a better half who knows how to run a hotel, and that isn’t going to be me.”
“And there I thought you said Ne’emba Island was yourdream job,” he deadpans, eyebrows hitched.
Our gazes lock, and I clench my teeth. I’m not sure Evan understands what he’s suggesting we do to get this job. Being coupled didn’t seem like a suggestion on the website. It seemed like a requirement. And after the St Chalamet disaster, mixing men with work sounds like a terrible idea. In fact, Lexi O’Reilly’s rule #1 for any new job should bemale co-workers are off the menu.Permanently. “I think the burgers are ready.”
With a shrug, Evan plates the meat and closes the grill. We settle at the table, my throat suddenly parched for a very strong drink.
“When’s Tristan coming?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Evan looks down at his plate as he squirts ketchup on his burger. “I don’t know.”
“Before Christmas?”
“That was the plan.”
I still have time.
We eat in silence. I peck at my salad, trying to ignore the seed that Evan’s planted in my head.Nope, nope, nope. Not going there. Even though it’s perfect. So freaking perfect.
“It won’t be for forever, you know,” Evan says between bites. “Just three months. And afterwards you’ll have the experience on your résumé and a foot in the door with Beaumont Hotels.”
