Page 22 of Just One Summer with the Grumpy

“Daphne,” Chase hissed. “What were you thinking?”

“I only wanted my bag,” I grumbled, pulling free and turning to look at him. Chase Everett wore a gray tee today and denim shorts with a buckle belt. His hair looked wilder than usual, and his chin sported an extra day’s worth of stubble.

“Another second, and you would have lost your leg. Maybe worse,” he said, pointing at the river. It swirled slightly where I’d just been standing, but strangely. Unnaturally.

Oh.

“Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t meant they aren’t there. Didn’t you see the sign?”

Now I did—a great wooden contraption at the trail entrance with a crocodile’s face on it. I couldn’t even claim ignorance from the language barrier.

“Thank you,” I said sheepishly, dodging the critical looks from the tourist group who stood at least twenty feet away from the river’s edge. I’d just demonstrated exactly what the guide had probably saidnotto do.

Then I realized Chase had just wrapped his arm around my body and practically carried me to safety, and my face flamed. I could still feel what remained of his touch on my skin. Those nerve endings would be wide awake for quite some time.

“You’re welcome.” His voice was still husky, as if he’d been truly, genuinely concerned.

“Wait—why are you here?” I asked, looking around. I didn’t see any other Americans. He hadn’t been on the bus with us, or I would have noticed.

“Someone said they saw you walking in the rain, but you weren’t answering my texts or the radio. Since this is the only dead zone on the island, I came looking here first. Never thought you’d try to become some crocodile’s dinner.”

“Hey, they need to put some kind of fence up,” I countered. “Anyone could make that mistake.”

He paused. “Actually, that’s true. You aren’t the first. I’ll have them put up a second sign closer to the bank. Not a fence though. The river is home to plenty of wildlife, and I don’t want it disturbed.”

I stared at him, remembering. “Right. You own the entire island.”

His jaw tightened. “Not true. I purchased it from the investment company that originally built the resort, but this island is too beautiful to be owned by anyone, so I deeded it back to its residents. I prefer to think of myself as its caretaker. I screen tour groups before they come, and I limit new tourism projects from destroying the island’s natural beauty. I have an understanding with those who live here. At least, as long as I own Everett Events and the resort.”

Wow. So protective of the island he loved. “Do you have an understanding with the crocodiles too? I feel like you should.”

He laughed.

I stared. I’d never seen Chase Everett laugh before.

“You never say what I expect, Daphne Porter,” he said, his smile fading. “No, crocodiles play by their own rules. Still harmless compared to some of the monsters I work with in New York though.”

I thought of Blythe and immediately frowned. She’d almost tanked his company to set herself up in the world, and here I stood—trusted with righting her wrongs and yet planning to tank his company the rest of the way. At least Blythe had done it behind Chase’s back. She hadn’t looked him in the eye every day and pretended to be something she wasn’t.

Absently, I rubbed the place on my stomach where Chase had pulled me backward. “You said you were trying to reach me on the radio?”

“That’s right. The police need a report from you about Kamia.”

I groaned.

“It won’t take long. Unless there’s more you want to tell them. Perhaps a certain conversation you had with her that you’d like to keep on record, in case she decides to press charges against him later.”

He knew about my conversation with Kamia in the cabana. Because of Marcus’s accusations or because he had access to every resort worker within a five-mile radius? I couldn’t forget how much power this man had.

“Got it,” I said. “I’ll tell them everything I know.” Kamia would have wanted that.

I started for the bus, but Chase headed me off. “I brought my car. I’ll give you a ride.”

Moments later, I sat in the passenger seat of Chase Everett’s car. I’d expected a corvette or luxury vehicle at the very least, but he drove a sporty black Subaru WRX-STI instead. It fit his personality better than anything else could have. Not that I could pay any attention to the car with Chase sitting just inches away. He gripped the wheel in a way that made his arms flex, his toned body filling the seat in a style that looked completely natural. Like this car was made for him. It even smelled like him. The edges of my consciousness felt a little fuzzy at the intoxication of it all.

“Nice ride,” I told him, flinching at how shallow the words sounded.

“It’s comfortable. I have another just like it in New York.”

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