Page 17 of One Week in Paradise
‘It’s not stupid. We can’t help our fears.’
He gives me a sideways glance. ‘What’re you afraid of?’
‘Sharks. Dane made me watchJawsandDeep Blue Seaback to back when I was seven. I’ve been traumatised ever since.’ I shudder as I remember the scene inDeep Blue Seawhere Samuel L. Jackson gets eaten by a shark. It’s haunted me for years and still makes me uneasy whenever I see a large body of water.
Cash snorts. ‘I guess I’ll be on shark watch this week.’
‘Oh, I’m not getting in the sea,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll paddle around in a pool, but not the sea. It makes me too nervous. And I can’t swim.’
Before he can respond, we jerk forward as the plane hits a tiny bit of turbulence on its descent. Cash’s face goes pale, and he grips the armrest so tightly that I’m afraid he’s going to pull the leather off.
‘Just focus on me,’ I say softly as I reach out to hold his hand. As soon as our skin makes contact, Cash yanks his hand away.
The sting of his rejection hits me harder than I expect.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I was just trying to—’
Cash brings his hand back, entwines his fingers with mine and squeezes tightly.
‘Like this,’ he mutters. His eyes are shut, and his jaw is clenched tightly. ‘If you don’t mind.’
I look down at our hands, clasped together like two perfect puzzle pieces.
‘I don’t mind,’ I say. And I don’t. Not one bit.
Chapter Six
We wheel our suitcases into a wall of heat the second we leave the airport. It feels like the air is on fire. The sun beats down on us without relenting. There’s a brightly coloured installation sign that reads WELCOME TO JAMAICA right outside the airport, and we all take turns posing in front of it.
While we’re waiting for our turn in front of the sign, Cash sheds his sweatshirt. Underneath it, he’s wearing a white string vest that leaves very little to the imagination. I sneak a glance at him and take in his subtle but impressive muscles. My gaze drops down to the definedVbelow his belly button and the trail of light, wavy hair that dips into the waistband of his sweatpants.
‘Bailey, Cash, your turn!’ Penelope yells. She grabs my phone out of my hand. ‘Tell me what you want. Think of me as your personal photographer whenever you need me this week.’
She’s a welcome distraction from my sudden ogling of Cash’s admittedly attractive body.
‘How do you want me?’ Cash asks once we’re in front of the sign.
It feels like a loaded question, and I swallow. I’m also acutely aware that the others are all watching. I catch Bea’s eye briefly, and that quizzical look is still there.
We need to make this believable.
‘Put your arm around my waist and smile,’ I instruct.
He does what I say without any resistance and smoothly snakes his arm around my waist. His fingers ghost over the slightly exposed area of skin where my crop top ends, and I bite back the urge to shiver.
Penelope spends the next two minutes taking photos of us. She’s obviously a pro. Without having to be prompted, she gets as many angles as humanly possible and shouts out helpful instructions like ‘Cash, turn your head a teeeeeeny bit to the left. No, no, too much. Now, that’s too little. Perfect!’
Cash takes it all in his stride and commits to becoming mine and Penelope’s puppet for the photos.
Once Penelope assures us that she’s definitely got what she callsThe Money Shot, I move to step away from Cash.
‘Hold up,’ Cash says. He keeps his grip on my waist. To my surprise, he pulls out his own phone, opens the camera app and taps the ‘front camera’ button. Our faces quickly fill his screen. ‘Come on, smile.’
I do as he says, my lips splitting into an easy smile. Cash grins too, that beautiful sunshine smile again, and snaps the photo.
‘You don’t look half bad,’ he smirks, finally pulling his arm away from me.
‘Someone has to be the hot one in this relationship,’ I throw back to him.
