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She arches an eyebrow at me. “Really?”
Even though this early morning water is so cold my nuts are retreating into my body cavity, my pits are sweating like July on the equator.
“You see,” I say, instinctively pushing up my prescription sunglasses on the bridge of my nose. “Humans in general are….”
“Relax, Dr. Jones. I’m fucking with you.”
“Oh,” I say, confused.
It’s then I notice she’s smiling. “Well, not about being freaked out about the shark. That was genuine terror. But thank you for…saving my ass.”
Her eyes drop down and back up to meet my gaze. Yes, I’m still holding on to her even though she’s fine. Completely fine.
I let go. “I’m not Dr. Jones. I’m Dr. Barrow. But you don’t have to call me doctor; you can call me Brooks.”
She has the most lovely laugh. “Once again, I’m fucking with you.”
My mind races, and finally, I see what she did.
“Oh, Indiana Jones. Now I get it. You’re funny,” I say sincerely.
Her already bright, cheerful face somehow becomes even more brilliant. She could outshine a full moon on a cloudless night. I knew from her internet channel that she was gorgeous and hilarious. In person, she’s breathtaking.
“Thank you,” she says.
Awkwardly, I find myself staring at her until I remember that I’m soaked to the skin in my rash guard shirt and Bermuda shorts. I look like a drowned rat. She, with her long, wet hair held together on top of her head, looks ready for yoga. Wet yoga.
That’s not supposed to be sexy, Brooks. Just observing she’s wet is not supposed to turn you on
. You work on an island in the South Pacific. If you’re going to think horny thoughts every time someone falls into the water, you’re going to get yourself into trouble.
Already way ahead of us, her friend in the other kayak calls out to us. I inwardly cringe, realizing her companion has witnessed this awkward moment in living color. “You guys coming?”
“Well, we’d better be on our way to yoga,” Jax says.
“Do you need to go back to the dock and grab some dry yoga pants?”
She shakes her head and smirks at me. “I’m good. I’m going to get sweaty anyway, might as well get a head start.”
I should be used to her double entendres; I’ve been watching her channel for years. She could talk about health insurance and make a joke about her pussy. I know more about her genitalia than anyone should know.
But my cock is still thinking like a thirteen-year-old boy, waking up with wet Star Wars sheets after staying up too late watching a teenage Jax romp around in her workout videos. I feel equally ashamed of myself too. She’s always been a woman to me, deserving of respect. Yet, animal attraction is animal attraction.
Her gaze dips down to my chest and back up to my eyes. I let go of her and feel myself turn beet red. God, I hope she doesn’t register a complaint with my boss for grabbing her.
We arrive at Temple Island without further incident, and I enjoy a hike around the grounds perimeter while the instructor guides her and her friend and a handful of others through a sun salutation. I’ve never done yoga; I’ve never felt coordinated enough for that. My legs are stumpy, and my arms are too bulky to pretzel on a mat.
The truth is, I shouldn’t even be here. It was by pure luck that I met Jax today. The usual guide in charge of water sports is ill this morning (more likely nursing a hangover—we all saw him stumbling off with one of the other female guests for whom he was buying drinks at the Mumbling Ahab last night).
If Baker had been here? I would have missed my chance to meet Jax because there’s no way this guest would be booking the kind of outings I conduct for the resort. Got a question about bugs, birds, and poisonous mushrooms? I’m your guy. Want to learn how to dive off a cliff? Better call Baker.
As I make my way down the empty beach, I look out from the white sand and across the turquoise waters. Off in the distance, I notice what we islanders call a “white boat,” a yacht anchored in the water, about half a mile offshore. Odd place to drop anchor, as the open sea can get 12-foot swells. Most yacht captains prefer to stick to the water within the crescent of islands that make up this country. But who knows why these one-percenters do what they do.
One thing about working on a private island is we see a lot of celebrities make bad decisions.
Up until today, meeting a famous person never rattled me. Jax is the only famous person I give a shit about. And I’m still shook.
“Get your head in the game, Brooks,” I tell myself. I then recall there’s a whole colony of sea turtle eggs on the west side of the island, so I head that way, checking my watch to make sure I have time. I spend the rest of the ninety-minute class shoring up the barricades around the nests on the beach and checking the area to make sure guests are obeying the signage. It’s usually not a problem since Temple Island is only used for day outings. There are no bars or hotels here, just pristine beaches, a donkey sanctuary, some dense forest, and a flat stone surface that marks the ruins of an ancient temple, where now people pay hundreds of extra dollars to do yoga next to some sweet, curious donkeys.
