Page 45 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

Even the sky’s wrong.

I miss Boston. I miss my overpriced apartment and all the people who hated me. I miss snow I used to curse.

I blink. The stars blur. My eyes sting.

I squeeze them shut like that can stop whatever’s happening. I’m not that guy. I don’t cry in the dark on beaches over bad PR and too much coconut water.

I roll to my side, biting down on my lip hard enough to focus on pain. My nose prickles.

I must fall asleep at some point, because suddenly I’m upright, heart pounding.

A scream sounds.

Adrenaline slices through my fog, and I scramble to my feet. The beach is pitch black, and the waves sound more violent than when I lay down, as if they want to drag everything onto the beach into their icy, wet, seaweed-filled grasp.

“Cal?” I shout.

Silence.

I shouldn’t have sent him away.

My legs ache. My stomach turns from dehydration or fear or both. The sand is uneven as I stumble forward, as if taunting me with new, shifting patterns.

“Cal!”

Is he in the woods? Did something bite him? Are there poisonous insects, like he feared? Snakes? Terrifying vultures that prefer eating their prey alive?

“Cal!” I trip, catch myself, then sprint the last few steps to his side.

He’s curled in a ball. His breath is steady.

He’s not dead. Not screaming.

Not even awake.

Relief slams into me so hard I nearly drop to my knees. I exhale shakily, still half expecting a bear to burst from the trees, even though this isn’t exactly the right place for them.

I watch him a moment longer, to be sure.

Then I lie down beside him.

I listen to the sounds of the island. Parrots squawk, palms sway, and the ocean crashes against the shallow shore with never-ending determination. Perhaps one day it will swallow the island whole. My gaze drifts to Cal, and I inch closer to him, until my focus is on the rise and fall of his breath, and something in my body eases.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cal

MY EYES FLICK OPEN. Last night’s inky black sky has melted away, replaced with familiar pastels that do not belong in nightmares.

Something’s beside me.

I freeze, then turn my head.

It’s Jason.

He’s only a few inches away, curled toward me, hands tucked under his head. I blink, confused. He wasn’t here when I fell asleep.

His mouth is slightly open. He’s snoring. It should be annoying, but somehow... it’s not. His blond hair’s mussed, his brow faintly drawn as if he’s fighting a battle even in sleep. Absolutely typical of him.