I wasn't all that worried about the beach house, though. The old structure had been built in the 1940s—solid cypress beams crafted with care by hands that understood the ocean's fury, unlike the flimsy prefabricated boxes that sprouted along the shore in recent decades. It had weathered countless hurricanes before, and I felt in my bones that it would weather this one the same way.
I worried about Xabat's boat, though, more than he seemed to. Perhaps it wasn't a sleek catamaran like I'd beenimagining. Maybe it was a Navy schooner, or even a warship. Even though I didn't know Xabat well, I was sure he had some military training. The way he'd moved when those men broke into the house all pointed to a past steeped in combat and discipline.
I snuggled deeper against him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, sighing in contentment as his warmth seeped into my bones. I could've stayed there all day being held by him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, listening to his heartbeat beneath my ear. It wasn't like we could go anywhere anyway. The storm wouldn't let up anytime soon.
I must have dozed again, because when I woke, consciousness returning in slow, syrupy waves, the oppressive darkness had lifted somewhat. While it wasn't light by any means, the suffocating blackness had dimmed to a deep, bruised gray that filtered through the cracks in the wooden boards, casting everything in muted, shadowy tones.
I snuggled against Xabat's solid warmth, but his hold on me had changed. It felt loose, almost awkward. His arms no longer wrapped around me with that unconscious protectiveness but instead rested on my waist with careful consideration. I moved just enough to tilt my head upward, my hair sliding across his chest as I found Xabat's dark purple eyes gazing down at me, unreadable in the dim light.
Damn, he was handsome. The dim light carved shadows across his strong features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the fullness of his lips. Yet he looked distinctly awkward, like a man who wanted to move away but didn't quite know how to extricate himself without causing offense.
"I'm sorry," I offered, pulling away with reluctance, immediately missing his warmth as cool air rushed between us.
"No bother," he said, his voice rougher than usual, gravelly with sleep. I scooted a few feet away, wrapping myself ina couple of beach towels that smelled faintly of salt. It was chilly, not as cold as it had been last night, but still too cool for comfort. "You were cold. I was happy to keep you warm."
His words were soft, almost hesitant. I noticed a slight tension in his jaw, a muscle twitching there, and a subtle shift in his posture that suggested he was far more uncomfortable than he let on. The skin on his cheeks darkened a shade, a flush of color spreading across his face. Was he blushing?
"The storm sounds like it's sitting directly on top of us," I said to ease the awkwardness that hung between us, and hoping it didn't sound forced.
"Yes," Xabat agreed, his gaze narrowing as he surveyed the ceiling. There were a few more damp spots than before, dark patches where water dripped steadily, creating a rhythmic plunk-plunk-plunk as droplets hit the floor, but nothing too disastrous.
"We should get some buckets or something to catch the leaks," I suggested, pulling the towels tighter around my shoulders. "It's the least we can do since we basically broke in."
Xabat made a sound that might have been a chuckle, a low rumble in his chest, as he rose to his feet. "I'll take care of it."
He took a moment to stretch, rolling his broad shoulders and extending his arms overhead, muscles flexing and rippling beneath his shirt in a way that made the fabric pull taut across his chest and biceps. A sight that made my mouth water and sent a flash of heat settling low in my belly. His purple gaze suddenly swung to me, eyes narrowing, and I saw the slight flare of his nostrils.
"I'll... uh... just use the little girl's room," I stammered, wanting to move away before I said... or did something silly. Such as climbing him like a tree.
The bathroom sat tucked in the far right corner of the building, a small, utilitarian space with cracked linoleum floorsand a mirror spotted with age. Nothing to write home about, but at least it had hot water and was amply supplied with basic necessities. I washed off the grime and sweat from yesterday, scrubbing my face and neck with rough paper towels and liquid soap that smelled antiseptic and vaguely floral. I used the edge of a rough, brown paper towel as a quasi toothbrush, the texture unpleasant against my teeth and gums, but better than nothing. I wondered if perhaps the store sold travel kits with actual toothbrushes and toothpaste... a lot of beach shops did. For now, the makeshift solution would have to suffice. As for my hair, I ran my fingers through the worst of the tangles and gave up. Without a blow dryer and styling brush, the ornery mess would do whatever it wanted to do.
When I emerged, feeling marginally more human despite my rumpled clothes and tangled hair, Xabat had commandeered a dozen or so bright plastic buckets from children's sandcastle kits, positioning them strategically beneath each leak. He'd also gathered provisions from the shelves, including packages of crackers, granola bars, and what looked like beef sticks, creating a small stockpile of sustenance to supplement our meager breakfast offerings.
I settled beside him, the floor cold even through my float, choosing a Diet Coke and a granola bar wrapped in dusty foil. I would've killed for a cup of coffee, but at least the soda had caffeine, and the granola bar was marginally healthier than the potato chips and cookies I'd had for dinner, though not by much.
Xabat seemed utterly intrigued by the potato chips, his large hands lifting each different bag with an almost childlike curiosity, turning them over to examine the garish packaging before bringing them close to his face and sniffing cautiously, his nose wrinkling slightly at the artificial aromas. When he came to the Cajun Barbecue flavor, he paused, his dark purple eyes narrowing with interest. He tore open the package with a sharprip, pulled out a single chip, and held it up to the dim light, examining its reddish coating with the intensity of a scientist studying a specimen before taking a tentative bite. A subtle shift crossed his expression—something between surprise and intrigue, his eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly—as the spicy, smoky flavor exploded across his tongue.
"Good, huh?" I asked, taking a bite of the granola bar and immediately regretting it as the rock-hard clusters threatened to break a tooth, forcing me to work at it with my molars.
Xabat grunted in response, a sound of pure satisfaction rumbling from deep in his chest, then proceeded to demolish six bags of chips in rapid succession. He ate as if he'd never tasted potato chips before. Like each salty, spicy bite was a revelation, his eyes half-closed in blissful appreciation.
We ate in companionable silence, the only sounds being the rhythmic percussion of rain hammering against the roof, the wind that rattled the boarded windows, and the steady drip of water droplets hitting the plastic buckets scattered across the floor. The store sat solid and unyielding against the storm, with thick concrete walls and a flat roof, which, while leaking in places, seemed far less likely to blow away. Sitting high on a hillside, elevated above the churning storm surge that was surely devouring the lower-lying areas, the building had an air of permanence about it. I had to guess it had been here as long, if not longer, than my beach house. Another survivor of countless hurricanes, another testament to builders who understood the ocean's wrath.
After finishing his chips, Xabat reached for a bag of chocolate chip cookies, the cellophane crinkling loudly as he tore it open, and added a granola bar to round out his breakfast. After washing it down with a bottle of water, he stood with a grunt, his hand brushing crumbs from his shirt with broad, efficient strokes.
"I'll scout around," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the wind. He moved around the perimeter of the building, approaching each boarded-up window, pressing his face close and squinting through the narrow cracks to glimpse the chaos outside—a swirling maelstrom of water and debris.
"I've never been in a hurricane before," he said, his tone carrying a note of wonder mixed with wariness.
"Neither have I, at least not like this," I confessed, wrapping my arms around myself. After buying the beach house, the storms that had brushed the coastline had been mild—tropical storms that brought heavy rain and gusty winds, but nothing like this. The Weather Channel had projected that Beatrice would intensify to a Category Four by the time it made landfall, with sustained winds up to 130 miles per hour. With the sounds from outside—the demonic shrieking of wind, the explosive crashes of debris slamming into buildings, the roar that sounded like a freight train bearing down on us—I didn't doubt the prediction for a second.
"You don't think those guys are still out there looking for me, do you?" I wondered aloud, my voice small and uncertain. If they were, if they'd been foolish or desperate enough to stay out in this tempest, then in my opinion they deserved whatever punishment the storm dished out—and nature could be far more brutal than any human justice.
Xabat turned to look at me, his gaze steady and direct. "They might have the resources to ride this out somewhere nearby," he said, his voice grave. "Men like that do not give up easily."
"I wish I knew why they were after me." I'd racked my brain for a reason, turning over every possibility, examining every interaction from the past weeks and months, but I'd come up empty-handed. Maybe Becky Jessup's parents were behind this. With me out of the way, they could bring in a teacher whowould declare their daughter the genius they claimed her to be. Ridiculous, but it was all I had.
Xabat sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of memories and returned to his inflatable float. He lowered himself down cross-legged, settling so close to me I could feel the heat radiating off his body like a furnace, warming the damp air between us and making my skin prickle with awareness.
