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Brooks answers in a deep, authoritative voice. “The volcano is dormant; you’re perfectly safe with me.”
Why does this reply produce an odd sensation of flames licking my thighs and butterflies fluttering in my stomach?
He presses on, “And if you enjoy the volcano tour, then you should sign up for my jungle foraging tour.”
I snort. “I hate bugs even more than I hate lava. Especially the dragonflies that are so big they could eat m
e.”
And this is where I put my foot in my mouth because he replies, “Bugs are my life. They’re the reason I became a biologist.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No worries. But dragonflies are the best. They don’t bite, and they eat mosquitoes.”
Warming up to the idea, I tell him, “Sign me up for the volcano, and we’ll see where that goes, Doctor.”
“Okay, I will,” Brooks says, sounding very pleased with himself. “It might not be as exciting as cliff diving, but you’ll be glad you did it. Very ’Gram-worthy.”
Surprised he has any thoughts about Instagram, I awkwardly, carefully, pivot in my seat to get a look at him. Is he a follower of mine? In his wide-brimmed outdoor hat, polarized goggles, Teva sandals, and khaki uniform, Brooks is not like anyone in my world.
I doubt he’s a follower. If I had to guess when I met this man a little bit ago, I’d say he doesn’t have time for social media. He looks exactly like the kind of guy who spends all day plucking trash out of the ocean and helping beached whales find their pods again. A bigger, quieter, and less intense Steve Irwin. Now, that’s a nature show I would watch.
Chapter Three
Brooks
“This is Beth. Do you copy?”
The radio clipped to my hip chirps with the sound of the hotel concierge. I ignore it at first.
I’m in the middle of explaining to some guests on the beach that the islands have banned the ingredients in their sunscreen due to its bleaching effect on the local coral reefs. “But I burn so easily,” complains this woman, who is about thirty seconds away from a fine if she doesn’t stop slathering her children with parabens.
“Brooks, it’s Beth. Do you copy?”
I simply hand over a complimentary bottle of approved sunscreen and take away the other stuff, slipping it into my pocket while I walk away, ignoring the family’s outrage at my blatant theft. I don’t care. I’d take it away whether I was paid to behave this way or not.
Grudgingly I answer. “This is Brooks. Go.” Trudging around the protected dune, I find a shady palm tree and listen to Beth.
“Have you been checking your Google docs?”
I told the previous concierge to radio me when a guest expressed interest in one of my guided nature outings. I keep a handwritten chart in my wallet. This new one, Beth, insists on using Google docs.
“My phone is for emergencies,” I say. “That’s all I use it for.” That, and also for watching Jax Pierce gallivant around her bedroom and backyard, giving makeup, hair, fitness, and style tutorials.
Beth grumbles something. “Fine. Can you come to the lobby and look at this, please?”
“On my way,” I mutter on the way back to the hotel from the beach. Being indoors is like a punishment for me. Using technology to keep a schedule, even more so.
Beth shoots me a look of exasperation when I trudge over to her mahogany desk in the open-air lobby, next to an enormous glass urn full of fruit water. On my way over, I go out of my way to switch off the lamps in the lobby that no one is using at the moment. Beth stands aside and gestures for me to take a look at her computer screen.
What I see there might be even better than an all-night binge of Jax Pierce’s YouTube channel. Every single one of my nature excursions has been booked for the next two weeks. And the name of the guest who signed up? Jax Pierce. On every single line.
I feel an urge to thump my chest and announce I’m the king of the jungle. Hell yes. The day after tomorrow, I’m taking my childhood crush on a hike in the wilderness. Alone.
And that’s just the beginning.
Is this what it feels like to be one of the cool guys in school? That’s child’s play.
