Page 29 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

I might snore. I might talk in my sleep—something I’ve never done before but am suddenly very concerned about. I might cuddle up to him or spoon him or something. I even read a book one time where these peoplekissedbecause they both thought they were dreaming. Crap.

“I’m sorry if I kiss you in my sleep,” I blurt out, the words rushing from my mouth.

Silence.

Pure silence, broken only by the sound of the rain on the thatched roof.

Then…

“What?” Beckett says, his head jerking to the left to look at me.

“It’s not going to happen,” I say quickly, keeping my eyes firmly on the roof of the hut and cursing my stupid mouth. “I’m sure it’s not. I shouldn’t have said that. I was just thinking of all the things that could go wrong and that seemed like a possibility because I read this book one time where that happened and I wanted to let you know that—”

“No one is kissing anyone in their sleep,” he cuts me off firmly. “On accident or on purpose. That is not happening. Do you understand?”

It’s a warning he’s giving me, unmistakable and clear.

I nod rapidly. “Of course,” I say, the words spilling out of me, tumbling over one another in an effort to do damage control. “It’s not like Iwantto kiss you. Obviously. And as far as I know I’ve never kissed anyone else in my sleep—”

“Molly,” Beckett cuts me off again, his voice strained like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. “I do not want to hear the wordkisscome out of your mouth again. I cannot handle that. Go to sleep now, please.”

“You don’t have to be rude about it,” I mutter, tugging the flap of blanket on my left up around my body as far as it will go.

“I’m not trying—I’m just—” But he breaks off with a sound of frustration, and when I look over at him, he’s in the process of rolling onto his side, his back to me. And even though he’s still right there, even though I can hear him breathing, it leaves me feeling incredibly alone.

Like I might be the only person in the world tonight.

The tears burn hot behind my lids as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to bully my brain into shutting down for the night. I can feel the tracks those tears leave as they slide down my temples and land somewhere in my hairline, and as hard as I try, I can’t seem to stop them. I guess it’s a good thing, then, that Beckett has turned away from me. He already doesn’t like me; no need to make him think I’m completely pathetic. Does a guy like Beckett even know how to cry?

Unbidden, a memory floats into my mind, hazy and worn around the edges. Beckett as a kid, maybe in second or third grade, hugging my mom fiercely and blinking tears from his eyes when she came to visit him on Parents’ Day. He would have to have been at least that young, because I remember being with my mom, which means I wasn’t in school yet. I didn’t understand then why he was crying, but I get it now. With his mom gone and his dad devoting his life to his job, he must have felt so lonely and embarrassed to have no one come for him—and so grateful when my momdid.

Slowly, I let my head fall to the side. I take in what I can see of the man next to me—damp, messy brown hair; the tanned skin of his neck; one freckle I know to be near his hairline, though it’s too dark to see that detail now.

He’s so gruff, so much a loner, but how much of that is because that’s what he’s always known?

The tears continue to slide hot over my skin, and I turn to look back at the roof of the hut. I think Beckett is asleep already, but I try to be as quiet as possible when I sniffle, just to make sure. When he doesn’t react to the sound, I breathe a little easier.

“Beckett,” I whisper softly to his sleeping form. No movement—good. I need to get this out, need to admit it to myself instead of running from it, but it will only make Beckett worry. “I don’t—” I manage before another wave of tears hits. I force myself to go on, to say the words that I’ve been hiding from. “I don’t…have my medicine.”

There. There they are, spilled from my lips and into the damp, musty silence. The one fact that I’ve been avoiding since I went through my bag a couple hours ago and realized the problem: I don’t have my anticonvulsant. I brought one extra pill when I packed my backpack this morning, and I took that dose earlier this afternoon, thinking I’d be back to the ship by now—

“Crap, Molly.”

I startle at the rough sound of Beckett’s voice in the rain-spattered silence, shying instinctively away as he rolls back toward me.

“You’re—awake,” I squeak.

Beckett sits up without any delay, and it’s clear that he hasn’t just woken up; there’s no grogginess or sluggishness to his voice or motions. He was never asleep.

I sit up too, mostly because it’s awkward to be lying down next to someone who’s sitting. I watch as Beckett rubs both hands over his face.

“What do you mean, you don’t have your medicine?” he says, finally looking over at me.

Oh, look; more tears.

“I mean I don’t have it,” I say, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands. “I had one that I took this afternoon, but that’s it.”

Night hasn’t fallen completely yet, but in here it’s dark enough that I can only barely make out Beckett’s expression—stormy and frustrated.

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