Page 42 of Stuck in Paradise with You

I don’t care, I yell at the devil, though I feel like I exhale some tension when I see Henry in conversation with the Bosun at the bow of the boat.

Irrationally appeased, I lie back on the soft cushions under the canopy of the top deck and take out my phone. I check the latest sports news on ESPN and fall down a rabbit hole with some mindless videos on YouTube – the ten worst shark attacks, the deadliest jellyfish stings, and a video about twin panda bear cubs being born in South Korea.

For the first time since Monday, I feel myself slipping into relaxation mode. I should probably check some emails, do some more work, but the cub thing is kind of sweet. I switch to my news app and see a depiction of the merging storms that have grown into Hurricane Isabel. Sources are predicting Charithonia will be hit by the outer edges of the storm. That’s still going to be huge and damaging but it’s better than a direct hit.

It suddenly seems absurd that I’m lounging on a boat when, in forty-eight hours, the surrounding islands could be struck by devastation.

It’s thinking about the storm that makes me tune in to a voice below, on the trampolines at the front of the yacht.

‘Dad, it’ll be okay. Mom shouldn’t have told you where I am, not if you’re going to worry like this. I know that. I love you too. I don’t mean to be sharp, I just don’t want you to worry. Plus, I’ve asked my client if I can leave tonight. With any luck, I’ll be home in New York well before the hurricane arrives.’

Tonight?She’s leavingtonight?

I know she asked to leave but Joe blew it off with a massage, didn’t he?

The catamaran is on the move again but that’s not the reason I feel unsteady on my feet as I overlook the bow, watching Carrie end her call and move off the trampoline to place her phone in her beach bag. Then she’s back in the middle of the springy floor, earphones plugged into her ears.

I wonder if she’s still obsessed with country music.

It doesn’t matter. She’s leaving, again.

Just like that. She was in my life, then she was gone and uncontactable. Now, she’s back again, and she’s going, without anything being resolved,again.

I don’t know what needs to be resolved or how but there’s a tightness in my chest, like something has been reignited since seeing her here and I think maybe if I just knewwhy.Whydid she ghost me, completely cut me out of her life, ruin any chance for usever? Maybe, if I know, this feeling that’s gripping me can rescind.

I’m going to head down there; I just need to take some big-boy deep breaths first and finish my beer.

Carrie has switched out her hot-pink bikini for a backless and front-plunging (if that’s the right word) green bathing suit. It sets her hair on fire and I watch as she tilts her head back, then draws her red locks to the top of her head and twists them into a knot.

As I’m doing so – fretting, I mean, rather than gawping – I notice Carrie’s back is turning pink in the sun.

Passing through the salon first to grab some SPF 50, I head out to where she’s now reclined, eyes closed behind her tortoiseshell shades, legs bent, hands out from her sides and tapping out a beat to what I know will be the voice of a man with a husky southern twang, or some poppy group like Old Dominion.

Despite feeling the enormity of trying to have arealconversation with her, I find myself remembering a Sunday afternoon at my place, me picking Carrie up by her waist as she tried to change the track on my music player to something country. Sugarland, I think it was that day. Her squealing as I brought her down to the sofa in my lounge and sobering once I was hovering over her…

My hand moves reflexively to my chin, where she gently nipped me between her teeth, mischief making her irises sparkle.

‘Garghhh! Jesus, Luke!’ she screams now, startled when she opens her eyes on the trampoline to see that I’m the reason the structure is flexing. ‘What are you doing? Why aren’t you having a siesta like the others?’

I shrug. ‘I’m not tired.’

I’m pretty sure she rolls her eyes behind her large lenses, and I’m fairly certain that over the sound of the boat moving across the ocean I hear her mutter, ‘Smartass.’

‘Here,’ I say, tossing her the bottle of sunscreen. ‘Your back is pink.’

She picks up the cream, considers it, then hands it back to me. ‘Thanks but there’s a reason my back is pink and there’s a reason I’m lying on it to shield it from the sun.’

She can’t reach.

‘For an intelligent woman, I’d have thought you’d know that’s not how sun rays work.’ I shake the bottle and squeeze thelotion into my hands. ‘Turn around,’ I instruct. She stares at me stubbornly. ‘Turn. Around.’

Eventually, she concedes, shuffling her back toward me. I come to sit behind her and she lifts the fastening of her bathing suit higher on her neck. Her neck that looks long and smooth. I blink back a memory of my lips against her skin – the taste of cocoa butter, salt and home.

‘Most of the UV rays we get are indirect,’ I say, channeling a dermatologist to distract myself. I place my hands on her shoulders and draw the cream down to her upper arms. She stiffens under my touch and goosebumps form on her skin. ‘They reflect off surfaces, which means…’ My words catch in my throat as my fingertips reach that enticing curve of her back. Her body feels like silk. As soft, as magnetizing, as it ever was. ‘Even if you’re trying to shield your back, the sun is bouncing off the sea and the boat to reach you.’

I sweep the cream just lower than the hem of her clothing and hear her sharp intake of breath.

She feels this too.No matter what’s gone between us, it’s as if there’s a spark, a flame, undeniable physical chemistry between us.

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