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18
RHETT
When we return to the food hut, Bailey and I make an amazing discovery. Beneath the metal stand holding the hand-crank ice crusher, there’s a cooler!
I drag it out and we bend over it, grinning at each other as I flip the top.
It’s full of oysters! And bagged ice!
“We’re saved!” Bailey cries, and her arms go around my neck.
For a moment, my vision narrows. There’s nothing here but her, the damp cover-up, her hair tickling my jaw. She’s against me, the gauze on her skin brushing my arm. She smells of shampoo and rain.
So, this is how it could be. If we weren’t boss and assistant turned adversaries. Part of a colossal corporate disaster.
This is Bailey operating in normal mode.
Then she catches herself and pulls away. “Sorry. I get excited over food.”
I have to laugh. “You can hate me and still be excited about ice and oysters.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I am. And I do.”
But even though she’s confirming our animosity, there’s no bite to her words. Hopefully, we can avoid all talk of our work history and be amicable while we wait for someone to notice we’re here.
Because, technically, I’m not her boss.
This isn’t work.
I pull out the first tray of oysters, their pearly shells glistening below the plastic cover. There are two more below.
“Did you eat any earlier?” I ask her.
“No. I only had eyes for the tacos.”
“But you like them?”
“At this point, I’d eat them raw.” She pulls the plastic top off the first tray and lifts a shell to her mouth. “You’re supposed to swallow them whole, right?”
I only get out the words, “You can. But they are—” when she tilts her head back and tips the shell in her mouth.
Then her eyes go wide. She presses her free hand to her lips. She shakes her head.
“It’s fine to chew them.” I don’t know if this information is helpful or not, because she walks in a tight circle.
She drops the shell and pleads at me with her eyes.
I’m not sure what to do. We don’t have fresh water at the moment, only ice. I pry open the pickle bucket. The large pickles bob in the juice.
She nods vigorously. I think she’s still holding the oyster in her mouth.
“You can spit it out.”
Her eyes water as she shakes her head for no.
I realize we don’t have any cups. I take the oyster shell from her and dip it in the pickle juice. I pass it to her.
She tips it into her mouth, her fingers pressed against the side wall of the hut like she’s trying to hang on.
