After so many months of thinking about her. Of avoiding her texts. Of watching those damn videos she posts online about the resort. Of reading and rereading and then trying to forget that damn email she sent on our one-year anniversary. The one where she called me on all my bullshit. And also implied that said bullshit had hurt her feelings. And that maybe she got off while looking at the picture she’d photoshopped of us together. Though I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that information.
After all this time, she’s here. In person. Mere feet away from me.
And she’s stunningly, incandescently gorgeous. I’d have better luck staring into an eclipse.
So I say the only thing I can think of.
“It’s Wednesday.”
“What?”
“It’s not Sunday. It’s Wednesday.”
Her mouth gapes. And for a second, as she stares at me with those full gorgeous lips of hers forming a perfect O, all I can think about is how she would look sucking my dick into her mouth. Just like that, I’m hard as a fucking rock.
God. Damnit.
I turn and walk back to shore.
If I have any luck in the world, if there’s anyone up there looking out for me, she won’t follow.
But, she does.
chapterthirteen
Clara
I stand on the dock, stunned as my asshole of a husband walks away from me.
My undeniably hot, gorgeous asshole of a husband.
How the hell did I get myself in this position?
I blow out a huff of frustration (because even now I have the self-restraint to resist simply screaming out my frustration) and then follow him.
Jonah is such a huge beast of a man that his legs eat up the ground in long strides. I’m not a tiny, delicate creature, but my legs aren’t as long as his and I practically have to run to catch up to him. Which, let me tell you, is great fun on the sand.
My sand—aka the beach on Creciente Caye—is a narrow swath rimming the island’s jungle-like interior. It’s pristine and pale and beautiful. But it’s also shallow, which makes it the perfect beach for long strolls at dusk.
The second I step onto the sand at Libélula, I sink in up to my ankles. I mutter a curse, slip out of my shoes, and then plod through the sand, each step a chore. There is nothing easy or relaxed about walking on this beach.
Yeah, yeah, yeah…deeper sand is why it’s the perfect nesting site for the loggerhead turtles, but it is a pain in the ass to walk across.
And an even painier-in-the-ass to chase after one’s asshole husband across.
It takes all my focus and no small amount of leg strength to follow Jonah up the beach to the squat cinderblock building that’s nestled against the trees. The building is painted a gorgeous aqua blue. It wasn’t here the last time I visited, back before Jonah moved here. He’s been busy.
There’s a grass lawn between the beach and building, which should be a relief, but the second my bare feet step on the grass, grass burrs puncture my soles.
I huff again, slide my shoes back on, and then glare at the door through which my husband disappeared. What next? A ring of fire? A rain of arrows?
What are the chances he did this on purpose?
Uncle Red brought me over to Libélula Caye as a kid. I know there wasn’t a veritable briar of evil grass on the beach then.
Of course, back then, there also wasn’t a turtle research station. Or an arrogant, nail-spitting husband.
Maybe the seeds of offensive, thorn-sprouting plants just radiate from him wherever he goes? Yeah. That tracks.
