“She’s not looking for a husband, William,” Marianne chimes in. “She needs to get laid.”
“No, I don’t,” I protest. For once, I’m grateful for Will’s pathological practicality. Between us, Mer certainly has a type.
“Maybe you’ll see him out in the water!” Her face lights up. “He’s probably working for one of the charters in the marina—you could anchor together! Get a private tour of his big deck.”
I can’t help but laugh at that one.
“I’m sure the Warrens would love that. Nothing saysI’m presentablelike sneaking off with a deckhand on my family vacation.”
Besides, Will’s obviously right. As charming as Caleb is, no man can have a body like thatanda sense of integrity. And more importantly, no one who has that kind of effect on me can be allowed into my orbit. I’ve got enough to worry about right now—the last thing I need is some handsome fuckboy charging in to throw off my focus.
“But those abs…” Marianne swoons. She quickly corrects herself after an eyebrow raise from Will. “Are nothing compared to yours, honey.”
She plants a big kiss on his cheek.
“Trust me, Stella,” Will says, turning his head to face me. “You don’t want to go there. If there’s anything I know about yachties, it’s that they’re all trouble.”
Like the restof the aspirationally-named Paradise Cove, our room leaves something to be desired. The “Double Deluxe Suite” I thought I booked turns out to be more like a repurposed supply closet. Luckily, we’re all so wiped after our trip we hardly notice. After sneaking off to share some a few beers and a mouthwatering Fijian dish called kokoda at the local dive bar, Will and Marianne push the two single mattresses together to create something resembling a full-sized bed. I grab a pillow and offer to take the hammock outside.
“Yousureyou want to sleep out there?” Marianne asks as she slips on her silky purple pajamas. “We can squeeze!”
“Or we can blow this pop-stand and go to the Hyatt…” Will drones from the bathroom.
“I’m positive,” I assure them. “Mosquitoshateme. And anywhere that’s warm enough to be outside for more than five minutes without my toes going numb is good enough for me.”
But even lulled by the gentle swing of the hammock, I can’t stop thinking about Caleb. After eighteen hours of traveling and approximately zero sleep, Ishouldbe out like a light. But the memory of his fingers trailing up the sides of my calf won’t leave me alone. I’ve spent the last few years completely closed off to male attention (not that I was getting much of it, anyway), so what is it about him that has me so mesmerized? Is there a chance I’ll see him again on the water? And, perhapsmost importantly—how thehelldoes he stay that fit on aboat?
Somewhere between thoughts about Caleb’s perfectly placed dimples, I drift off. I wake up just as dawn is spreading its golden fingers over the mountains on the eastern side of the island. I yawn languidly and roll myself out of the hammock. Immediately I feel the urge to scratch my arm and discover that it’s mottled with little red bites. Not just my arm, but my foot, too—any part of me unfortunate enough to have slipped out from beneath the blanket is covered in angry dots. Shit. Apparently Fijian and American mosquitos have different appetites.
The door slides open and Marianne steps out in her satin pajamas, eyelids heavy with the weight of the morning. She holds a big mug of coffee out to me and I take it, inhaling the dark, earthy scent.
“You didn’t have to make me coffee,” I tell her, but she only puts out her hand to ward off my incoming hug.
“Too early. Stop talking.”
I laugh and follow her through the open screen.
“Jesus Christ,” she says as she surveys my arms. “I told you not to sleep outside.”
“Is it that bad?” I ask, scratching my arm as she pours herself a cup of tea from the plastic pot on the side table.
“Not if youmeantto look like a smallpox survivor.”
“Ugh!”
Will chooses that moment to walk out of the bathroom, his head and body both wrapped in a blue and white striped towel.
“Looks like Stella was on the menu last night,” he jokes. “Guess the mosquitos like their meat grass-fed.”
“Very funny,” I wave him off. “You were right.”
“Don’t worry,” Marianne says conspiratorially. “You can photoshop them out. Do you think the Warrens travel with a personal photographer? Oh! And I almost forgot!” Mariannesqueaks with excitement, grabbing for the copy ofGlammagazine next to her coffee cup. “Look who I found on the flight!”
I look at the page to see who she’s talking about and find him in the second photo under the section labeled, “Yachtie or Nice.” Perched on the bow of an Italian racing boat with a ridiculously gorgeous twenty-year-old hanging over his arm is none other than Matthew Warren: Jules’s future brother-in-law.
“What about it?” Will asks, craning his neck to see the photo.
“Just Mattie Warren stirring up chaos in Lake Como,” Mer informs him.
