Page 48 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

She falls silent once more; she doesn’t look like she will answer that anytime soon. I sit beside her on the sand dunes before adding firmly but gently, “I want you to understand that you have no right to hide anything from me as my secretary. If there’s anything you can—”

“What the hell is that even supposed to mean?” she snaps back. “Why would you care about anything that goes on in my personal life? You never cared while we were in New York, you never cared while we were in the UK, and all of a sudden, you want to pretend like you care now? Oh, please!”

She stands up from the dune and slings the bag over her shoulder, heading straight to where we once sat. I don’t say another word because there’s nothing to say. She isn’t wrong at all, and I don’t see why that should surprise her either. She wasn’t much of my responsibility before we got here, and she will cease to be once we leave. But as long as we’re here, she remains my responsibility, and I must find out what the medications are for. Does she have a pill addiction? Or is it something that will help her live a better life while we are here?

For now, there isn’t much to do except wait.

For some reason, my thoughts drift to my mother when she said I shouldn’t pretend to care. It’s the same thing I told her when I had my first ACL injury while playing for a smaller club. She said if only I had listened to her, I wouldn’t be in that position, and I blurted that out. But one could argue that my mother had been against me playing soccer because she cared about my physical health and was concerned I might get injured,even though that did nothing to motivate me to pursue my dreams. In Rachel’s case, however, can you call itpretending?

Obviously, I wouldn’t care as much, even if she told me now, unless it affected her work performance. But is the fact that I care now to be calledpretendingbecause it is not sustainable?

Do I even care . . . now? Or am I doing it to make myself feel good about being a good person?

So, she might be right about me pretending to care, but the way I was happy when I found out she was alive didn’t feel like a pretense. Neither did when we cuddled together last night. But for now, I choose to say nothing.

We kept to ourselves for the rest of the morning and afternoon, with Rachel in the tent and me back at the shore. The sun is scorching hot, and I think of going back to the tent. I decide against it, reasoning that it is best to leave Rachel to herself.

Or am I avoiding her?

No, I just want to be left alone. I should know if it was avoidance. We’ve avoided each other before when we had sex in my study—

Wrong timing, bud. Don’t even think about that. It’s dangerous.

Thinking about Rachel in that way is dangerous, especially now that we are alone. Eventually, we’ll get out of here. Mistakes made here could reflect in our relationship when we get back to our normal lives.

I remove my shirt when I see droplets of sweat forming on my chest and find a shade underneath a tree just a few steps from the sand dunes. I lie there, thinking of how things would have turned out differently if this jet engine hadn’t malfunctioned. I’d probably have been preparing to get back to New York while yelling at Rachel not to forget a thing!

My heart sinks when I remember that the new season starts in a week. I almost shed a tear. I trained, trained, and trained for this season; it will break me if I end up not playing a match. And depending on how fast we are found, that could be a possibility.

What happened to the pilot and his assistant, by the way? If they died—although I hope to God not—wouldn’t their bodies have washed ashore like Rachel’s luggage?

A thought flashes through my head, and I hastily sit upright with my back propped against the tree trunk.

Is there a chance Rachel kept her mobile phone in her bag? Maybe not. Wouldn’t that be the first thing she thought of when she saw the bag?

There’s only one way to find out. I stand on my feet and am just about to head to the tent when I hear the rustling of leaves. Rachel emerges, a phone in her hand, scuttling toward me in quick steps.

Oh, good God! Positive news at last!

My heart almost leaps for joy until I hear her say, “I have tried all I can, but I couldn’t get a network signal.”

Fuck! Fuck this godforsaken island!

“Let me see.” The disappointment on my face must have shown, as the next thing is Rachel giving me a sympathetic look.

“I don’t think anything you try would work. This place is . . . deserted.” She throws her hands to her sides in defeat. “There’s nothing out here, Vaughn.”

I collapse onto the sand, and before I know it, I start laughing like a maniac. Rachel’s brows furrow in confusion, and a worried look jumps into her eyes. She probably thinks I have gone crazy or something. As bad as our situation is, it wouldn’t be accurate to say we’ve reached the stage of utter helplessness and dejection to the state of losing our freaking minds. I am laughing at how funny I find all this.

“Why are you laughing?” she asks, sitting beside me.

“It’s just funny, you know. It’s funny how one minute, I am drinking the most delicious wine I have tasted in a long time, and the next, I’m drinking unfiltered rock water. One minute, I am biting into a snack bar, and the next minute, my tongue is all sore from eating fruits. One minute in a cozy private jet, the next in a large expanse of godforsaken forest-cum-island. Life can be crazy.”

She’s silent for some time as if processing what I just said. “Cool philosophical insights, but I think it’s more sad than funny.”

“It can be both. Hopping on trees for all my food like a monkey isn’t exactly my idea of a happy life either.”

We share a laugh, the tense atmosphere between us dissipating slowly.

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