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Alex politely declines the stick and marshmallow. I ask him, “How many people are usually on a tour?”
I put my marshmallow on the stick and wave it near the fire.
He reaches out and steadies my hand. “Careful. It varies. Sometimes it’s just one person, but it can be a couple or a group of friends.”
Keeping my hand steady, I slowly twirl the stick. “What type of tour are you doing in Antigua?”
He watches my technique of roasting the marshmallow. “A deep hole on one of the islands leads into an underground cave. I’m taking a small group scuba diving to explore that area.”
“What will I be doing?”
“Getting certified in scuba diving.”
I laugh. “I hope that goes well. It must take a long time.”
He shrugs. “It depends. For some people, it’s a four-hour course and ten practice hours.”
I doubt that will be me. But maybe. If I can conquer my fear of eels, jellyfish, and sharks, I’ll have a chance. A memory washes over me of being on Jones Beach with my dad. I had sunburn, and he gently encouraged me to enter the water. I went in, but within minutes, I screamed in pain when a jellyfish stung me. It was so painful that I stayed out of the water all summer.
I remove the stick from the fire and examine the marshmallow. “How much time do you spend in the ocean?”
His voice is deep and relaxed. “You mean swimming, scuba diving, surfing?”
“Yes, is it a huge part of your adventures?”
Alex puts his hands in his trouser pockets. “It can be, but the tours I lead are often on land. Hiking, rock climbing, camping out. Do you not like swimming in the ocean?”
I shrug. “I grew up swimming in pools. But I’ve swum in the ocean.”
He lifts one hand. “What are you not saying?”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “I know this is irrational, but I don’t like sharks.”
His eyes narrow. “Do you mean you have a fear of a shark attack?”
I take a bite of my perfectly browned marshmallow and savor the familiar taste. “I know it’s irrational. The statistics are one in ten million.”
Alex runs his thumb along my lower lip, removing a sticky remnant of marshmallow. “Death by shark incident is one in approximately two hundred and sixty million. You have a much greater chance of being struck by lightning.”
He proceeds to lick the sweetness from his thumb, and I feel myself softening. I resist breaking eye contact and swallowing. He is seductive and so unapologetic about it.
“I won’t see you at breakfast. I’m leaving before the sun is up to deal with a few inconvenient tasks.”
I clear my throat. “I’ll see you Monday evening. Merry Christmas.”
He smirks. “Happy Christmas, Imogen.”
Something tells me that he doesn’t enjoy the holidays. I can’t imagine being a small boy alone with an alcoholic over the holidays. It must have been tough.
I want to call after him when he walks away, but I stop myself. It’s much better to give him space. We can establish a new rapport when we meet up to travel to Antigua. He survived a rather emotional weekend and probably wants to lick his wounds in private.
I spend the next couple of hours overseeing the clean-up in the billiard room and formal front areas of the house. When the last staff member leaves, I lock the main door and turn off most of the lights. I walk through the dimly lit house, take a bottle of sparkling water from the refrigerator, and head upstairs to my room.
The hallway leading to the servants’ quarters is quiet. I gave rooms to Gabby and two of her staff when they decided last-minute to spend the night. So, I’m not alone in this section of the house with Alex. Under his door appears dark. Maybe he is sleeping?
I slip into my room and switch on the light before gently closing the door. It’s six o’clock on Christmas morning in New York. Too early to call Ivy. So instead, I text herMerry Christmas.
Within a few moments, my phone rings.
