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I shake my head and castigate myself. It’s Declan. The jerky, toady, not-a-nice-man, pension-stealing, relationship-ruining, she’s-not-good-enough-for-me Declan Fox.
“Idiot,” I mumble.
“Isla?”
My eyes fly open. Declan’s still behind me. He didn’t leave. My cheeks burn, but I don’t turn around.
“Yes?” I drawl slowly.
“Your shorts are see-through. I can see your…bananas.”
What? Oh my gosh. No. Noooo.
I drop my hands to cover my bum. Then, I swing around quickly, my cheeks flaming.
I’m about to yell at him, but he’s already down the hall, closing the door to the bathroom.
“Jerk,” I hiss. “Idiot. Gah.”
Why did I have to wear my hot pink and yellow dancing bananas underwear? Why? Why, Isla, why? And why did I have to wear my oldest, rattiest lounge clothes? Was it to make a point, or was it my subconscious wanting to show Declan my banana-assets?
The pipes groan as Declan turns on the shower and then I hear the rush of water hitting my old porcelain bathtub.
I shake out of my mortification and rush to my bedroom. I strip out of my tank top and shorts and throw on a fuchsia wrap dress. Then I rush back to the kitchen, determined to get there, pour myself a cup of tea, calm my breathing, and act like nothing happened.
I hear the shower turn off while I’m pouring the amber-colored Earl Grey into my mug. I grab another mug from the cupboard and splash tea into it. The door to the bathroom closes and I hear Declan’s steps coming down the hall toward the kitchen.
I let out a long breath and smooth my face into a look that I hope borders between unperturbed and amused. When I hear him enter the kitchen, I turn slowly with our mugs held in my hands.
I feel the amused look slip from my face.
He’s in Theo’s shorts and shirt, but he looks way better than Theo ever did. Way better.
I set the mugs down on the table with a hard thunk.
“Have some tea,” I say.
Then I turn around so that I don’t have to look at him in my ex’s Mariposa half-marathon t-shirt and canvas shorts. Declan is broader and more muscular than Theo was, so the shirt fits him well. Too well.
I clatter around in the cupboards and pull down two plates, two salad bowls, and then grab silverware. I’ll set the table and make a quick meal. Then Declan can go.
Yes. Go. He needs to go.
When I turn back around, Declan is still standing in the entry, staring at me.
I look down at my dress then scowl back up at him.
“It’s not because of what you said.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t think it was.”
“I don’t care if you see my bananas.”
He shrugs, “I don’t care if I see your bananas.”
I narrow my eyes, but he keeps his face neutral.
“Or my coconuts,” I add, remembering the coconut conversation on the island.
“I’m not interested in coconuts,” he says.
I drop the dishes to the table. “Perfect.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “Wonderful.”
We stare at each other for a moment, neither of us breaking eye contact. Then a slow smile spreads across my face, I can’t help it.
“Stop smiling at me,” he says.
I smile even harder. “Stop looking at me.”
This time he does. He turns away and looks around the kitchen. My body loosens and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Declan’s eyes travel over the lemon-yellow countertops, the white cupboards, and the teal backsplash. Then he takes in the old appliances, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the plank floors. Funny enough, he’s giving my kitchen a more careful looking over than he’s ever given me. Even so, as his eyes drift over the room, it feels like they’re drifting over me.
Goosebumps rise over my arms and I rub them.
“I’m going to make a quick dinner, then you can call a taxi.”
Declan finally looks back at me, “That’s not necessary.”
“The taxi?”
“The meal.”
I shrug. “Your loss. I picked up snapper at the fish market earlier today. It’s been marinating in lime.”
His mouth tightens and he frowns at me. I think I’m imagining it, but I swear his stomach growls.
“And I have coconut shrimp and Johnny cakes, that’s a delicious deep-fried bread if you didn’t know. And I made cassava cake yesterday…” I trail off, because Declan is staring at my mouth with the hungriest expression on his face. And now I’m not sure that it was such a good idea to try to convince him to stay.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say.
He shakes his head and pulls out the chair at the kitchen table. The legs make a scraping noise against the wood.
“I’ll stay,” he says.
“You really don’t have to…”
I stop talking, and when he lifts an eyebrow at me I feel myself blush. Instead of continuing the conversation I go to the refrigerator and pull out all the ingredients. Then I heat the pans and start a deep fry pot for the Johnny cakes and coconut shrimp.
My grandma taught me to cook, and I move quickly through the kitchen, chopping, and mixing and tossing ingredients into the pan.
I’m aware of Declan, sipping tea at the table, his eyes following my movements. After a while, the itch that his trailing eyes leave on my skin turns into a warm, glowing buzz. Sort of like the glowy feel the bioluminescence left on my skin.
Soon, the scent of fried dough, lime-marinated snapper, and shaved coconut fills the air. The snapping pop of the oil when the batter hits it, and the crackling of the fish in the pan fills the silence. It’s a soothing sound that reminds me of weekends in the kitchen with my grandma and Sunday dinners with my family. A soothing, normal sound.
I plate the snapper, the shrimp, and the Johnny cake, then I throw freshly chopped vegetables into the salad bowls. I set the plates on the table and give Declan a small smile.
“Dinner, Mariposa style,” I say.
His eyes flick from my face down to the plates. “Thank you.”
I put the salad on the table and then grab pineapple water from the fridge.
“Bon appétit,” I say.
