Page 51 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

Fuck.

By the time we bolt into the jungle and scrunch up by a tree trunk, the rain is pounding down on us, as if trying to rival the Pacific Ocean in wetness and force. Raindrops stream over Cal’s face, catching on his eyelashes until he closes his eyes. My chest drums faster than the storm overhead. My eyes stay locked on his mouth, helpless to look away.

When I finally shut my eyes, it’s not to shield them from the pummeling rain, but to keep myself from leaning in.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Cal

When the storm ends, and night falls, Jason remains by my side. And when I yawn and say I should try to sleep, he doesn’t stomp away to the other side of the beach.

Instead, he says, “Okay.”

We lie side by side on the not yet dry shore, like we’re on a lumpy hotel mattress missing its blanket. Moonlight spills across the sand, dotted with the pale shimmer of scattered shells in the dark. The wind’s force strengthens, and the cold settles deeper into the ground. Ice slinks through my body, where warmth once clung. The sun has vanished, and we are alone beneath the shimmer of stars.

“I have my khakis,” I blurt. “We could use them as a pillow.”

“You don’t want to wear them?”

“They’re too tight to sleep in.”

He smirks. “That’s why people wear trunks at resorts.”

“I was trying to be proper.”

“Pretty sure walking around in briefs in front of your interview subject doesn’t count.”

“Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

“Very European of you. Classy.”

“Thanks?”

“Using them as a pillow is smart, though.”

I disappear into the trees, and return with my khakis stuffed.

“What did you do?” he asks.

“Made a pillow.”

“Smart.”

I try to restrain my beam.

We settle into the sand. His elbow brushes mine. Neither of us move.

“This is sort of like memory foam,” Jason says.

“It does mold to our bodies.”

“When we get back, I’m launching a product line.”

“My uncle had a waterbed. Why not sand?”

“I don’t think sand beds are the next big thing.”

“Not super comfy?”