Page 3 of The Rebel

When I stand, I sway a little. A short walk along the beach to clear my head might be in order. I have grand plans for my first night on Gem Island: room service, any movie featuring Ryan Gosling, and a bath. I’m living it up.

I follow the path from the bar towards the beach. Tea-light candles placed on palm fronds light the way and add a nice touch. This place is gorgeous. Romantic. Pity I’m flying solo and intend on staying that way for the foreseeable future.

I stumble at the end of the path and fall headlong onto the sand. It cushions my fall and I can’t help but giggle. A giggle that turns into a full-blown laugh as I imagine how I look: on hands and knees, imitating my best cat yoga posture. Thankfully, my ankle length maxi dress hides the bits I’d like to keep hidden but it’s not a good look.

A pair of feet appears in my line of vision. Designer shoes. Dark tan. Scuffed, like they’ve been worn forever and are the owner’s favourite.

‘Need a hand?’

The voice is deep, edgy, invoking an instant sense of annoyance, like me putting a dent in the sand has somehow pissed him off. But at least he’s stuck out his hand because with my head spinning from those lethal cocktails I seriously doubt my ability to stand on my own.

‘Thanks.’ I take the hand on offer and allow him to pull me to my feet.

My first impressions in the flickering firelight cast by tall torches: black hair long enough to be unconventional, dark eyes that could be indigo or brown, sardonic twist to his lips. Nice lips. Hot lips. Crap, I sound like an idiot even in my own head. Drunk and dumb. Not a good combination.

He looks vaguely familiar but I can’t place him. He drops my hand quickly, like he’ll catch girl cooties if he hangs on too long.

‘That last step is a killer.’ He sounds disapproving as he points to a gap between the pavers and the sand.

‘Yeah.’ Way to go with the scintillating response. So I say something even more mortifying. ‘I think it’s the killer cocktails at this resort that are more dangerous than any step.’

‘You’re drunk?’ His eyebrow rises, making him rather rakish. I don’t like bad boys as a rule but I’m willing to make an exception in his case. Yikes, definitely the vodka, rum, and whatever other alcohol I consumed in that cocktail earlier making me see things that aren’t there. Rakish? Where did I even pull that from?

‘Not drunk, just happy.’ I grin to prove it but he doesn’t smile back. Instead, he stares at my mouth with an intensity that leaves me a tad uncomfortable.

‘You shouldn’t be walking out here alone if you’re feeling under the weather.’

Damn, now he sounds like Casper, lecturing me on what to do or not to do. Though Casper extended his alpha asshole-ness to telling me what to wear, what to cook, what to say in front of his stockbroker cronies. I’ve had enough of guys telling me what to do to last a lifetime.

So I snap back, ‘I’m fine,’ which only serves to raise his other eyebrow.

I wince. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long…year.’

It might have been my decision to end my engagement but I was still hurt. Disillusioned. Exhausted. Throwing myself into work seemed like the only solution at the time but after jumping through proverbial hoops for Alf for twelve months I’m still no closer to a promotion. Considering he’s an old family friend who did my dad a favour in hiring me in the first place, it’s awkward.

‘I know the feeling.’ He drags a hand through his hair, mussing it further, and now he’s staring at the ocean like he wants to swim out and never come back.

I rarely do things on impulse. I’m the good daughter, the good employee, the good girl. Everyone can rely on good old Daisy Adler.

But with this brooding stranger on a balmy beach, I take a risk.

‘Want to take a walk?’ Now it’s his turn to stare at my outstretched hand. ‘I’m Daisy, by the way.’

His brow furrows as he glares at me with disapproval. ‘Hart.’

Oh, no. Hell no. This is Hart Rochester? It’s an uncommon name so I can’t imagine him being anyone other than the guy I have to work with.

I have screwed up so badly. His first impression of me is a drunk who can’t stand up after a cocktail or two.

And I can’t hide my identity. It’s only going to make it harder when we meet in the morning. So I aim for levity.

‘I’m your new PR person.’ I force a laugh that sounds inane. ‘I’m really not drunk. I’m a lightweight with alcohol because I rarely drink and those cocktails are strong.’

‘I don’t think anything.’

His stare is intense and unwavering, and I’m increasingly uncomfortable: it’s like being looked at under a microscope, like he can see every one of my flaws. To make matters worse, my hand is still outstretched.

Mentally cursing my inebriated bravado, I start to lower it and am startled when he takes hold of it, his grip firm, decisive.

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