Page 9 of The Last Sunrise

That was stupid. I have no idea where I’m going, I know that and I know he knows that, but still I walk away with my head held high. My feet are aching. I should have worn more comfortable sandals but I didn’t realize I would be walking so damn much today.

“You’re going the wrong way!” His voice carries to me through the night wind. Shit.

“How do you know where I’m going?” I whirl around.

What is going on with me? I feel so defensive and embarrassed.

He points to my hand. “Your towel, your bag, your key in your hand? You’re a walking advertisement.”

Obvious answer.

I quickly drop my hand, turn the key over, and he smiles, proud to have embarrassed me.

“And my phone— How did you know it was dead?” I continue to interrogate him even though I know he’s likely to have a logical answer to this as well, but the words are out before I can stop them.

He rolls his eyes. “Because you kept trying to turn it on at the beach, and if it worked, you would be using it to get back to your hotel.” Another obvious answer. This freaking guy…

“Here.” He types something into his phone and extends his arm toward me, a small phone in hand.

I look at the screen and see that it’s on navigation. The screen is cracked like a spiderweb, and everything is in Spanish, including the voice coming out of the speaker, but I can see the blue line and can most definitely find my way with it.

But should I accept his help?

What does he want in return?

People don’t just go out of their way to help strangers. I know better than that.

“What? Is my phone not fancy enough for you?” he presses before I can respond. “Just take it and get back to your hotel. I won’t speak to you while we go, but just go. M’estàs tornant boig.” He shakes his hand, emphasizing the phone in it.

“I don’t know about this…” I voice my hesitation.

“My patience is running out, Miss America.”

“Then why are you offering to help me?” I roll my eyes at the ridiculous and slightly flattering but insulting nickname.

He shakes his head, crosses his arms, and runs his hands over his muscle-defined arms. “I don’t know.” He scratches his head. “But my offer is about to end.”

“What’s your name? Just in case,” I ask him.

Maybe if I know his name, the likelihood of him trying to murder me will decrease? Then again, if I’m dead, I can’t tell anyone his name anyway.

“My name doesn’t matter, Miss America. I already know your hotel, so if I was a danger to you, it would be clear by now. My offer expires in about ten seconds.” He begins to count down from ten in Spanish.

“Fine.” I snatch the phone from him just as he says “dos.”

I begin to follow the navigation and walk on the limestone street, trying not to think about him walking behind me. My sundress feels shorter, my steps wobblier, the blister on the bottom of my foot is throbbing, and I unconsciously smooth my hand over my frizzy, sea-salt-filled, air-dried hair. Following the arrow on the screen, I navigate the curve of the small streets from one to another. Thankfully, my hotel is only ten minutes away. The smell of sugar fills the air and my stomach growls.

When was the last time I ate?

I skipped breakfast this morning and picked at my room service last night.

“Hungry?” the not-stalker asks from behind.

When I turn around, he has some sort of bread in his hand. It’s wrapped in a white paper bag. How did he even mange to stop and grab it as we walked?

I shake my head, ignoring the rumble of my empty stomach.

“You sure? Ensaïmada is a local delicacy.” He tears at the spiral-shaped bread with his teeth, and I groan.

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