Page 35 of Caribbean Crush

I whip my hair back and look toward the shore to see Sienna whistling loudly. “Well done, Casey! Look at you! You’re a pro!”

I laugh and grab for my board so I can drag it behind me as I start walking the last few yards to shore. Now, one entire pineapple cocktail in, she continues making me blush with comments about my Baywatch body.

“Is that Pam Anderson?”

Never mind that I look nothing like Pamela Anderson save for my chest area (which I know damn well is awesome). Sienna is being funny, but she’s starting to draw attention. I’m about to slice my hand across my throat and tell her to knock it off when I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a sharp sting on my left calf. My step falters as I wince in pain. I hiss and start leaping as fast as I can through the water, wanting out of it immediately. The pain only intensifies as I make it up to the sand, barely keeping ahold of the surfboard. The moment I can, I drop the board with a loud thunk and look down.

I clench my teeth, expecting a huge gash or gnarly wound given the intensity of the pain, but there’s only a mild red rash starting to bloom, stretching a few inches along my calf. A jellyfish sting, most likely.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

I stiffen in surprise. I would have expected Sienna to be the first to reach me. She was nearest to me a moment ago, but there’s no mistaking that voice.

I didn’t realize Phillip had even joined us for the beach picnic, and now I’m wincing for an entirely different reason—mainly over what a fool I made of myself over the last hour. He probably loved watching me tumble off my surfboard time and time again. Get this man a bag of popcorn and an ice-cold Coke. He could have sat and watched me fail for hours on end, I’m sure.

I mostly manage to wipe the surprise off my face before I look up and meet his gaze.

I’m expecting cool indifference, silly considering he went through the trouble of coming all the way over here to check on me. It wouldn’t make sense for him to rush down here just to rub it in my face. We might not see eye to eye, exactly, but I don’t get the sense that Phillip is downright cruel or anything. Just ... difficult. Difficult in an annoying way that somehow intrigues me and infuriates me all at once. Try and tell that to a shrink.

“I’m all good. Just a jellyfish sting, most likely. It’s—”

A jab of pain has me clenching my teeth, but it’s fleeting. Already, the throbbing is starting to ebb.

“Key West is filled with moon jellyfish; that’s probably what you encountered. Let me see.”

He’s bending down already, crouching low enough so that he’s eye level with my butt. Just great. “Your left calf?” he asks, gently touching my leg just below my knee so he can turn it slightly and get a good look at the developing rash.

His fingers on me are barely there, whisper soft, and still my heart is thundering.

I clear my throat before giving him a nod, which he doesn’t see.

“Yes?” he asks, baring his impatience. I take back my earlier musings about his cruelty.

“Yes,” I say with a little bite in my tone.

He runs his thumb along the perimeter of the rash. It doesn’t hurt one bit. I can’t even feel the jellyfish sting anymore. Not now that he’s doing that. “I’ll drive you back to the ship so our medic can take a look at you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

His dark eyes look up, displeased with me and my arguments. “I’m not absolutely certain it was a moon jellyfish. Did you happen to see anything in the water?”

“No.”

I leave out the part about me not seeing anything because I was already leaping and jumping around like an idiot.

“So then we’ll proceed with caution. I’d rather not take any chances.”

He turns his attention to my calf again, and then he slowly draws his gaze upward, behind my knee and inner thigh ... higher. I know he’s checking for any other stings, but it feels intensely hot. So hot, in fact, that I can’t help but mentally throw water on the fire kindling low in my belly.

“Now don’t be silly and miss out on a perfectly good opportunity to get me off your ship for good. You’d love any excuse to send me packing. No need to go to the trouble of fixing me up first.”

There’s an answering spark in his gaze when he looks up at my face, and then he holds my attention captive as he slowly rises to his feet. Once he’s back to his full, intimidating height, he leans in, though barely enough to make it noticeable.

“I would relish the opportunity to send you off, of course. Still, I don’t like the idea of you getting in harm’s way. Have I given the impression that I would?”

His brow furrows as if he’s genuinely concerned that I have the wrong idea of him. Oh, just great. Wonderful. Just when I’ve concluded that he’s bombastically entitled and rude, he has to go and show his kind side. Where am I supposed to file that away? I refuse to start a Reasons-Phillip-Isn’t-So-Bad list. Not that it matters. I’ve already subconsciously begun to compile reasons in my mind. Foremost on that list would be his good looks. Don’t tell him I said that, though.

“No,” I say with blushing cheeks. I feel childish for insinuating otherwise.

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