Even with my flip-flops, by the time I make it to the door, my feet are scratched all to hell.
I pound on the shut door with my fist. “Let me in, you arrogant SOB, before—”
The door swings open, revealing said arrogant SOB. “It wasn’t locked.”
“Oh.”
His statement does little to deflect my anger because I still desperately want to rail at him about something. The annoying sand. The thorny grass. The fact that he blocks my texts. His general lack of communication skills. How amazing he looks with a beard. The density, quantity, and definition of his muscles.
He steps away from the door and lets me in. The air inside is only marginally cooler than the sun-drenched beach. Somewhere outside, an air conditioner pumps futilely against the humidity. There are windows on each wall, but my eyes are slow to adjust, so I only have a vague impression of a wide, single room with long counter-height tables, plastic milk crates stacked against the wall, and a big water-filled tank in the center.
Nodding in my direction, he asks, “Why are you here?”
I’m still blinking to adjust my eyes. “Why am I here? Are you kidding?”
He gives a grunt that I take as a no.
“I’m here because there’s a tropical storm brewing off the coast, and we’ve been ordered to evacuate. But since my beloved husband is refusing—”
“Don’t.”
I’m startled at having my rant interrupted. “What?”
He works his jaw. “Don’t call me…never mind.”
I’m reminded of our text conversation when I called him hubby and he snapped at me.
Right.
Because he would rather pretend we’re not actually married.
Fine.
I can do that.
I push my words out through my clenched jaw. “Whatever. My point is, there’s a hurricane coming. And you need to get your ass off this island.”
“It’s a tropical storm.”
“That they’re predicting will become a hurricane.”
He shrugs as if he has zero fucks to give about the weather forecast. He stomps over to the far wall, grabs one of the plastic crates, and carries it over to a workbench.
“Since you seem disinclined to follow the evacuation orders—”
“Suggestions. The government suggested we evacuate.”
“It’s the same thing!”
“No. It isn’t. They wanted the tourists off the islands because it would be bad press if a bunch of Americans die in a storm. Most of the locals are staying put.”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s safe to do so. Most of the locals are staying put because a lot of them don’t have transportation back to the mainland or places to stay once they get there. Which is why I had Eli offer to ferry people back and forth inThe Rogue.”
Jonah grunts, then nods.
I can’t tell if it’s a sound of surprise or approval or if he just has some sort of vocal cord injury.
“So if you’re staying out of some sort of solidarity with the locals, you can leave. Hell, you can takeThe Gambitand help with the evacuation.”
