“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Cal says angrily. In one motion, he doesn’t even hesitate as he drops his knife and vaults over the bar. The man shoves his phone in his pocket and bolts toward the beach.
“Cal!” I shout.
The man sprints across the sand, nearly wiping out. Cal closes the distance, furious, but then falls.
There’s a waiting SUV parked beside the access path. The man dives into it and tires spray sand as it takes off.
Cal stands there for a second, breathing hard, chest heaving, looking very angry. Marina and I remain at the bar and watch as he turns back toward us. And as if they’re multiplying like rats, there are more of them. Two more outside the tiki bar, taking photos and videos of everything that just transpired. They’d been waiting. They lift professional cameras, and flashes go off.
They’re aiming at Marina and me. Cal storms toward us.
“Get out!” he roars at them.
They ignore him and keep taking photos, baiting him to keep yelling by hurling stupid accusations.
I gather my purse and go behind the bar, unsure where to hide from them. Fear flashes through me and Cal stands in front of me, protectively.
“Silvie! Did you pay this bartender to marry you to save your company?”
“Is this marriage under investigation by your trust?”
“I heard the board is reviewing the legality of the marriage?”
Tourists eating at the bar are staring, and a few are filming as well, equally into the drama.
I close my eyes, blinded by the flashes. It feels like being naked under floodlights. People are staring, talking, and pointing. I’m used to this back in New York, but not in Coconut Beach. My safe space.
Cal reaches under the bar, grabs his keys, and says to Marina, “I’ll be right back.”
Someone yells, “Temporary husband!”
Cal pulls me, his arm protectively around me, as we push out the back and race to his truck, him getting me in and racing to the driver’s side.
More flashes.
He climbs in and peels out of the lot.
A black SUV pulls out behind us.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.
They follow all the way down the coast road.
When we pull into the cottage driveway, two other cars are already parked along the street. We get out and run into the house, ignoring them as they call out more questions.
Once inside, we both exhale in relief as we shut and lock the door behind us.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
They’re here because of me. This is my fault. I’m shaking as I sink onto the couch and pull out my phone, which is buzzing with texts and calls.
“Why are you sorry?” he demands, a thread of anger still in his voice.
“I’m going home,” I say quietly.
He freezes and looks at me. “Home?”
“This is my fault. If I go, maybe they’ll follow. I can’t do this to you, Cal. You didn’t sign up for this.”
