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I roll my eyes. “Phillip,” I say. His name feels intimate on my tongue.
“I’m being picked up from the Winter Resort pier.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“It’s a three-hour trip up the coast. The guide specializes in fishing mahi-mahi and swordfish.” He shrugs. “Someone told me that swordfish is a specialty in Barbados, but maybe she hadn’t done her research properly…”
I swing my legs over the side of the lounge chair. “I’ll go with you,” I say. “What time?”
“Three.” He grabs his phone and stands, forcing me to crane my neck. He looks stupidly tall from this angle. “Don’t burn yourself to a crisp before then.”
“Very funny,” I say. “We can’t all be olive-toned!”
He snorts and heads away, and I can hear him mutter the wordolive-tonedunder his breath like it’s the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said.
The motorboat speeds along the endless blue waters, and I have to tug my cap down against the wind. Phillip is sitting across from me. He’s in shorts and another button-down, a thick watch on his tanned wrist. Sunglasses on. No smiles and all seriousness, just like he usually is, and there’s no open bar or a guidebook to help ease our conversation this time. I’d texted Becky earlier, telling her about my outings with him.
Have you lost your mind? He could be a serial killer! But didn’t you say he was attractive? Because if so, remember some risks are worth taking.
It was a typical Becky text. My response was a peak vacation me, which is apparently someone who embraces spontaneity.
If he kills me, tell everyone back home that I loved them very much. Also, I’m in a blue sundress if you need to identify my body over the phone.
Got it. I’ll make sure your case becomes the best podcast episode ever. Also. HOW HOT IS HE?
I didn’t answer her all-caps question.
It’s a tricky one. Objectively, yes, hot would be the right description of the man sitting beside me, his face turned toward the waves and a strong arm draped along the backrest. But it’s the cold, impersonal kind of handsome I’ve always struggled with. He’s a bit taller than the norm, hair a bit wavier, perhaps. His face is sterner than a man his age should have.
Yeah. He’s hot. And absolutely nothing like my ex, or any of the guys I’ve had crushes on before Caleb.
Our fishing guide’s name is David. He’s a fifty-year-old Bajan with an easy manner and a teasing glint in his eyes. He slows down the boat and lets it come to a rolling stop amid the turquoise waves.
“You ready?” he asks us. “Because I have to warn you, you’re both going to catch something.”
I eye the fishing rods David is holding. “I’m ready, I think.”
“Don’t worry,” Phillip says at my side. “It doesn’t take a lot of skill.”
“Thanks?”
His mouth tips into another one of those small, almost-smiles. “That’s a good thing.”
I get up off the bench. “You’ve done this a lot?”
“Once or twice.” He accepts a rod from David that is nearly as long as he’s tall. “To be honest, I did this a lot as a kid.”
“Really? Did you like it?”
“Yes.”
David hands me a rod of my own. He’s well acquainted with the fact that I’m a beginner and finds a lot of amusement in instructing me how to grip the rod, and how to flick and cast it.
David and Phillip take turns instructing me how to rhythmically tug on the line as I slowly reel it in, to mimic the swimming of a real fish, and draw in the bigger ones.
“Do fish really swim like this?” I ask them, my arms growing tired. “In weird bursts of energy?”
But neither of them thinks my question merits a lot of consideration.
