Page 48 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

He shrugs. “Maybe I’d have taken the bad jet ski. Maybe no one would’ve come back for me.”

A sour taste invades my throat, and someone has put my heart on a merry-go-round. “But that’s not what happened.”

“No,” Jason agrees, voice gruffer now. “And in this version of events? I’m glad I’m here with you. I don’t like that you’re stuck here, but... I’m grateful I’m not alone.”

My breath catches. “Thank you.” I swallow. “And... thanks for rescuing me.”

“I would never have left you on purpose,” Jason says. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

I can’t speak. The world tilts and dims, and I tighten my grip around the stick until splinters puncture my hand.

Jason gently takes the stick and rock from my hand and sets them down. “I have an idea.”

“What?”

“We can make a signal in the sand in case a helicopter passes.”

“Like write H, E, L, P?”

“Uh, huh. But let’s use sticks.”

I beam, and his chest widens with something like pride.

We head into the jungle together.

Jason walks ahead, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he gathers branches. He tears off leaves, working with quiet focus.

I stare a little too long. Not because I’m besotted. I’mnot.

It’s just nice he’s not dreadful.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jason

Scattered sunlight shimmers through the swaying palm trees. Somewhere, a bird sings and another chirps back, a cheerful duet that reminds me this place must be swarming with couples.

I might as well be back in the Blizzards’ locker room, watching Finn and Noah eye each other with the kind of enthusiasm usually coaxed by wedding photographers.

I dump the branches and leaves on the side of the beach, then draw the word help in big letters through the sand with my toes as Cal watches me. “Pass me some sticks.”

Cal does so immediately. I put the sticks over the letters, until the words are dark against the white sand. Cal works from the other side.

“And now the leaves.”

Cal hands me the leaves, and I tuck them under the sticks, so the words will be even more visible from the air.

Finally, I’m finished.

I turn to Cal, and he’s beaming at me, and I pretend warmth doesn’t fill me at his smile.

“Looks good,” Cal says, and I flush and remind myself that Cal is talking about the letters on the beach and not me. My skin is definitely sunburned, and I’m just thankful it hasn’t blistered. It probably will peel.

I give some version of a nod, then retreat to the shady edge of the beach.

“They’ll be able to spot this from a helicopter,” Cal says, joining me.

“That’s the plan.”