Page 37 of Caribbean Crush

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “I do.”

“And what you say goes?”

“Usually,” he says, not even bothering to conceal the beginnings of a cheeky smile. He likes his lot in life, that’s for sure.

“Except when pesky little journalists come knocking?”

He throws his head back with a laugh. “Exactly, Ms. Hughes. Exactly.”

“I’m hardly the first person to give it to you straight, I’m sure. Tyson seems to have an open, honest relationship with you.”

His gaze seers me, though I don’t get the sense that there’s much anger behind it, just curiosity. “Did you enjoy picking his brain at breakfast? Trying to gain information on me?”

“I did, actually. All of the social prowess you lack, Tyson seems to have in spades.”

“Watch it.”

“Or what? You won’t give me an interview? That’s already off the table. It seems like there’s nothing left to do but to needle you, and it just so happens that I enjoy it immensely.”

“Are you always so difficult?”

“Pfft. Never. At work? I’m a wallflower.”

“Impossible.”

I nod to prove my point. “I barely say two words. When I make it into the office, I’m stuffed in a tiny cubicle.”

He turns a corner, and a car veers slightly into our lane. With lightning-fast reflexes, Phillip reaches out to band his arm in front of me, a human seat belt. Though it wasn’t necessary. He barely had to swerve.

He hisses a curse under his breath and takes ahold of the steering wheel with both hands before asking, “And how are you with your friends? The ringleader?”

It’s hard not to bristle at the word friends. “I’m a lone wolf these days.”

We could leave it at that. We’re venturing into personal territory, and he’s the one who’d rather keep things surface level between us. Instead, he studies me out of the corner of his eye, as if this reply doesn’t quite sit right with him. “Why?” he presses.

“It just sort of happened that way. Just ... the phase of life I’m in.” I could put the kibosh on this entire conversation, but instead, I make a conscious decision to proceed with caution, to open up in a way that might be reciprocated down the line. “My friends are mostly settled, married, expecting children. Meanwhile, I’m not. More than that, I’ve found myself in a tricky spot, not that you’d understand.” I can’t fight the urge to roll my eyes. Envy bleeds into my tone. “You couldn’t even imagine my life at the moment, living out of hotels.”

His brow furrows as he tries to keep up. “Because you travel so much for work?”

Now I’m the one laughing. “Oh, I wish it were because of that. No, I’m not moaning about too many exciting travel assignments. I’m currently homeless, I guess, for lack of a better word.”

He rears back like the declaration alarms him. Likely, he’s never encountered anyone in my position. His friends likely have multiple homes. Their only issue? Deciding which one to stay in. Saint-Tropez for the summer? No, we absolutely must go to Saint Barts.

“Don’t worry,” I say, tacking on an easygoing smile. “I’m not destitute. No sleeping in my car or anything. I’ve been hotel hopping and all that. Just ... I’m currently between places, and all my stuff is in storage. And actually, it’s not the worst thing ever. I’m just trying to figure out where I go from here, careerwise, lifewise. Don’t let it depress you. I only brought it up to say that it can be a little isolating. Anyway, you asked if I was always so difficult, and the answer is no, plain and simple. You bring out this side of me.”

“A privilege,” he teases.

I look away and smile as we slip through the streets of Old Town. We’ll be back at the dock in a few minutes.

I think I’ve managed to mostly gloss over the most personal details, throwing in enough fluff to distract him from the actual issues at hand (i.e., the fact that I have no tether, no one in my life who loves me—yeesh, it’s sad to say it like that), but still, when I glance back, I see him looking at me with an indiscernible expression that almost makes me shiver. It’s like he’s trying to look for something I’m not willing to give. It’s almost unsettling. Provocative at the very least.

“I told you, it’s really not that bad.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all.

With a frown, he asks, “Where will you go after these ten days at sea?”

“Back to New York, I guess ... though now that you’re bringing it up, I’m not absolutely sure. Most everyone works remotely at Bon Voyage. I could stay in a shitty hotel anywhere, I suppose.”

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