Page 10 of Stuck in Paradise with You

Speaking of which, that organ is currently thumping against my ribcage like a pneumatic drill.

Carrie makes straight for Joe but there’s a split second of hesitation, in which I know she clocks me in her peripheral vision.

‘Mr Hettich, it’s an absolute pleasure,’ she says, sounding unwaveringly confident, as if her world hasn’t just been knocked off its axis, as mine has.

‘Carrie, lovely to finally meet you,’ my so-called buddy says, hitting right off the bat with a reminder that we share a past. A heated, explosive, life-altering past. ‘Thank you for joining us for dinner. I like to get to know who I’m working with before we get down to business.’

Joe would have gone in for a hug – that’s his style, whether he’s in work mode or not – but Carrie thrusts out her hand and shakes forcefully, succinctly. ‘I’m thrilled to be here. Your island is stunning.’

‘Thank you, my wife will be delighted to hear it. She designed everything on it. Ella will be here in a minute or two.’

‘I can’t wait to meet her, Mr Hettich.’ She’s poised but stiff with it, increasingly so. Still not looking anywhere other than at Joe or out to sea.

‘It’s Joe or Hettich, I’ll respond to either, but no need for the mister.’

She smiles and I see the familiar shape of her face, the rise of her cheekbones, the softening of her emerald-green eyes. She’s magnetic, still. Impossible to resist.

Just like driving by a car crash on the I-95 and rubbernecking.

‘Joe,’ she says, nodding once.

‘Let me introduce you to Alisha,’ Joe says. ‘And you already know my CFO, Luke.’

Now, I feel her intentionally avoiding me, her cheeks flushing, her eyes laser-focused on Alisha, as she says tightly, ‘Really nice to meet you,’ and shakes her hand.

I think I’ve stopped breathing. Not to be melodramatic or anything but I might genuinely be experiencing the initial stages of a cardiac arrest as I wait for what I know is coming.

To anyone else, the way Carrie’s chest stutters with her next inhalation might go unnoticed, but I remember everything about her body and the way it reacts. I see it. I see her.

Yet I’m still unprepared for the moment our eyes lock on to each other’s. Still taken aback by hearing my name leave her soft, full, fucking annoyingly kissable lips.

‘Luke.’

She holds out a hand and I forget I’m holding a drink in mine as I thrust my Painkiller at her, splashing it over her outfit and somehow losing my grip of everything, as the glass shatters on the decking, the drink soaking my pants in the process.

‘Shit, sorry. I— Can somebody help?’ I ask.

Am I going to drop something every goddamn time I see her?

Monique appears from out of nowhere with a rag for the white tiles and another for Carrie’s clothes.

Fuck. If I was nervous before…

I see her jaw roll before she tells me, ‘Don’t worry about it. Clothes can be dry-cleaned.’

In her firm tone, I hear her meaning. Stains can be erased from clothes. Our history can’t be overcome so easily.

Her scathing look hits me like a proverbial slap across the face. It’s a look that reminds me thatsheblockedme. Thatshedidn’t return my calls, my endless emails, my texts, my letters that were returned unread. She left no room for a second chance; she didn’t leave the door open for us to stay in touch, be friends. Even if platonically, I’d have taken it.

I feel my eyes narrow. All the pain. All the hurt.

No. She doesn’t have the right to be pissed at me.

She’s damn right history can’t be erased.

Iloathethis woman.

6

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