“My friends are up at the resort.”
“Good,” he says. “Can you walk, or would you like to be carried?”
I shake my head. The only thing more embarrassing than hobbling up to the pool in my underwear is being carried there like an injured grandmother.
After refusing to be piggy-backed no less than three times, I let the stranger stabilize me while I hop on one foot back up the beach. With no crystal ocean to greet me and only one functioning limb to go on, the hotel seems a lot further away than it did on the run down. It’s not helping that I have to actively stop myself from staring at the runner’s chest as he pulls me across the sand. I can’t even remember the last time I was this close to a shirtless man, let alone one this gorgeous. It figures that the only time I’m touching a body this sexy, it’s as an urchin victim.
But when we get back to the gungy pool, Will and Marianne are nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of their presence is a plastic tiki cup holding an eviscerated bag of M&Ms. From the corner of my eye, I see hot runner checking his watch.
“This is fine,” I tell him, easing myself down onto the busted sun lounger. “I’ll have the front desk call me a cab to urgent care.”
“Clinic’s closed on Sundays,” says hot runner. “Nearestemergency care is two hours drive. We’re gonna have to pull ‘em out.”
My stomach clenches and I pull my foot towards me instinctively.
“Doesn’t sound great foremergencies.”
“Nothing to worry about, love,” the runner assures me. “I’ve done this a dozen times. No shortage of tourists getting too close to the reef.”
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. Of course Liam Hemsworth 2.0 thinks I’m just another dumb tourist—it’s kind of hard to be sexy when you’re doubling over in pain.
“Is that your job?” I bait him. “Trolling the beaches for senseless women?”
“Just a favorite pastime,” he answers.
Hot runner looks around and locks eyes on the derelict poolside bar. He makes it there in four long strides and reaches a long arm over the counter, emerging with a half-finished bottle of unlabeled, dark rum. At least, I hope it’s rum.
“I don’t think that’s sterile,” I grimace as he trots back. “Aren’t you supposed to use vodka?”
“It’s not for your foot,” he tells me as he crouches beside me, uncorking the bottle with his teeth and handing it over. “It’s for you.”
He passes it to me and fishes in the pocket of his trunks and produces a very serious-looking pocket knife. When he releases the catch, a blade as long as my hand flicks out of the black handle.
“And what’s that for?” I can feel the contents of my sad airplane breakfast churning in my stomach.
“Don’t look so worried, my uncle’s a doctor,” hot runner says.
“And he taught you to do this?”
“No. But if I botch up your foot, I can get you a good deal on a prosthetic.”
“What?” I yelp. But he just winks as he cocks a cheeky half-smile. I try not to pass out from embarrassment as he positions himself beneath me so that my outstretched leg is resting in his lap.
I clutch the bottle like a life-ring, sure I won’t need it until hot runner pulls a plastic lighter from his pocket and uses the flame to sterilize the steel blade of his knife.
I tilt my head back and take a massive gulp of the alcohol, trying not to cough as the spice sears my throat.
“Don’t be nervous,” he laughs. “I promise—I’m good with my hands.”
Hear that, Stella?I can practically hear Marianne whispering to me.He’s good with his hands.
Where the hell is Marianne?
“Ready?” he asks, tilting his sky-blue eyes up to meet mine. I try to pull back my foot, but he’s got it firmly wedged between his knees.
“Wait!” I say, doing anything I can to stall him. “What’s your name?”
He raises his left brow for a moment, as if weighing whether or not to tell me.
