Page 11 of How to Say I Do
“You know, I got nothing to do ’cept sit on the beach. I could tag along, if you want. You don’t have to be alone.” For the first time since I’d met the man, a touch of nerves seemed to run through Wyatt.
“Wyatt, aren’t you sick of me? Didn’t I ruin enough of yesterday for you?”
“No. I’m not sick of you at all.” Wyatt stared until I looked away, until I had to refold my napkin, reach for my champagne, and send the rest of the bubbles down my throat in one huge swallow.
What was the worse idea? Cancel it all, plop my ass in the sand, and drink myself away to the sound of the waves? Or take off on my honeymoon adventures with Wyatt, a Texan who’d broken all my assumptions, and whose every next sentence kept stunning and surprising me?
Would hanging out with Wyatt be terrible?
No. It wouldn’t be terrible at all. In fact, the only horrible parts of this honeymoon had been when he wasn’t around.
“Well, this isourhoneymoon now, so…” I dragged in a breath. “How does a jungle hike to a secret waterfall and a swimming hole sound?”
“That sounds like you have a date.”
CHAPTER3
Noël
We met backat the resort’s sprawling main building, a blindingly bright, modern structure made of glass and whitewashed concrete, home to three spas, four restaurants, five bars, and the gift shop. The manager at the gift shop remembered me from hours before. Who could forget a man as hungover as I’d been, shopping for an entire suitcase’s worth of luggage in nothing but a robe?
Wyatt arrived while I was assuring the gift-shop manager I had everything I needed, and, no, I didn’t want another swimsuit that was cut to be much more revealing than the bulky board shorts I’d grabbed. I didn’t have the physique of someone like Wyatt, and I had no business flashing my pale, too-thin, New York frame around a beach filled withactuallybeautiful bodies.
I’d changed into swim shorts and grabbed a towel from my villa. The only shoes I had were my Ferragamo Oxfords and my plastic flip-flops, so, plastic flip-flops it was. Wyatt showed up wearing the same outfit he’d worn to breakfast—board shorts, tank top, and cowboy hat—but he’d put on his boots, the same broken-in cowboy boots I’d met him in yesterday. He had a towel draped around his neck and bright-green plastic sunglasses hooked on his tank top.
“You’re going to go swimming inboots?”
He hit me with that grin again. “You’re going to go hiking inflip-flops?”
“It’s a trail the resort maintains.” The hiking path meandered around the edge of the golf course before plunging into the protected jungle preserve. “How dangerous or difficult can it be?”
“Well, they’re your ankles, I suppose.”
“What else am I going to wear? All I’ve got with me are dress shoes.”
“Thatwouldbe a look.”
We checked out for the hike at the concierge, endured another round of congratulations for “our” honeymoon, and turned down an attendant bearing more celebratory champagne before we set off down the manicured walking path.
For the first half-mile, the trail was pristine, nearly concrete-smooth, and I was supremely smug about the health of my ankles and the way my flip-flops snapped like I was strutting down 5th Avenue.
And then we entered the preserve.
Suddenly, the trail constricted and the flora around us erupted. The canopy was alive with towering fan palms and trumpet trees, while elephant ears and Cuban laurel played tag with wild tamarind. Strangler figs twisted up and spiraled down the massive trunks. Sugar apples, soursop, and mamey fruit nestled among vibrant crimson hibiscus, bougainvillea of every sunset shade, and lilac orchid petals. Soft African tulips mingled with shaving brush trees, while the unmistakable scent of plumeria swept past us. Birdsong filled the air, and monkeys leaped from branch to branch, shaking leaves and dropping petals onto our heads.
Wyatt took the lead, gamely pushing back the elephant ears and holding back creeper vines and walking irises. I was instantly, insanely jealous of his boots. When he lifted a bougainvillea cluster high enough for me to duck down and slip beneath, our eyes caught, and he smiled like he knew exactly what I was thinking, but he wasn’t going to say a word.
We listened to the sounds of the jungle. Birds cawing, monkeys shrieking, branches creaking and foliage rustling.
Halfway to the swimming hole, Wyatt picked a hibiscus flower and slipped it into the leather band of his hat. It could have looked ridiculous, this bright-orange bloom with a hot-pink center tucked into the brim of a cowboy hat atop such a dashing and rugged man. But it didn't. When Wyatt smiled at me as he adjusted his hat, he just looked happy.
We hiked for an hour, then climbed a rise on the trail, sweating through the gentle incline before we dropped through a curtain of blushing bougainvillea. We made a left turn around an enormous boulder twice as tall as Wyatt and arrived, suddenly, at the lagoon.
It was an emerald oasis in the middle of the jungle. Mossy rocks studded the circumference, and thick foliage and long, ropey vines blanketed one shadowed half of the far waters. At the other side of the lagoon, a waterfall burbled over the top of a twelve-foot rock face, sending gentle ripples lapping against the shore by our feet.
Wyatt whistled. “Wow.”
Wow indeed. I'd seen hundred-thousand-dollar set pieces that looked less beautiful, crafted by designers given free rein and unlimited budgets, but nothing beat actual paradise.
