Page 26 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

He’s a self-made millionaire playing the sport he loved when he was younger. He should be thrilled.

All the evidence says he isn’t.

CHAPTER TEN

Jason

The restaurant looks like it was created via Photoshop: sunlight slants through the palm fronds above, casting dappled gold across the linen-draped tables, and the ocean glitters beyond the terrace. Cutlery clinks, servers murmur greetings. Plates clatter softly as guests load up on tropical fruit and buttery pastries.

I stride in wearing tropical swim trunks. They’re dotted with iguanas sporting sunglasses that look like they’re having the sort of good time I’m pretending to have. I purchased the shorts at the gift shop this morning, along with a white t-shirt and matching flip-flops that slap across the tile floor.

I pretend to look at ease.

I’m not.

Cal is at the resort.

More specifically, he’s in the buffet line, balancing a plate piled high with breakfast delicacies. Cheese and olives squeeze beside bread pudding and bacon.

He turns his head toward me. My body jolts alert: coffee is unnecessary in his presence.

I buckle under the intensity of his gaze and swerve around. I march from the restaurant and its promise of a buffet breakfast overlooking the ocean and head back toward my villa.

But every step through the manicured resort sends a pang to my chest. I don’t want to hide. I’m not some loser.

Everything I’ve lost flashes in my mind.

I refuse to also lose the breakfast view that people fly across the world for. Maybe eggs and sausage taste better in front of turquoise waves.

I march back to the restaurant. The hostess assigns me to a table, and when Cal appears in my sight, I ask for one inside.

I’ll still see the ocean. It will just be through glass. I’ll be grateful if there’s a sudden thunderstorm or something.

The hostess is too professional to raise an eyebrow, but my cheeks flush all the same, and I avoid looking at Cal. When he rises from his table and goes inside, swinging his head optimistically toward me, I lurch up and scurry to the coffee bar where a man in a black-and-white uniform flits between coffee machines.

“Coffee,” I say in a surreptitious manner, channeling the spy cartoon characters I watched Saturday mornings during my single-digit years.

It doesn’t work.

The barista launches into an explanation of their coffee menu options, and when I say I don’t care, I don’t know the difference, he launches into an explanation of how each coffee is made.

A rush of panic flares through my body, as if someone is setting light to every organ in warning, but I pretend I don’t see Cal coming closer, closer, closer.

“Hi Jason,” Cal says.

“Larvik,” I correct, proud that my jaw is steady, and my voice firm.

“Right.” This time he’s blushing. I turn my head away, because I don’t need to see how pink spreads over his cheeks. It does that in the normal manner. Nothing particularly interesting. Just an influx of blood under his skin.

He probably looks the same in bed.

I force that thought away.

“So, Fiji, huh?”

My lips twitch. “Can’t believe you followed me to the other side of the world.”

He gives a strangled laugh, and for a wild moment, we’re teenagers again, and I’m teasing him about his skating.