Page 13 of Wild for You
Squinting my eyes, I bring the plane below the cloud bank as I try to search for somewhere to land, but all I see is the ocean surrounding us on every side. Without fuel, it’s a ticking time bomb. We either land the plane safely, or we fall to our deaths. No pressure at all.
“Look over there! Is that Costa Rica?” Gwen asks. Apparently, she’s moved on from the wrestling match rather quickly and is back to her giant squid search from her window.
I squint my eyes and turn the plane so I can get a better view of what she sees, and through the dark gray clouds, I see the faintest outline of what looks like an island.
Hope swells in my chest, and I glance at the fuel meter, indicating we have about thirty minutes of fuel left. “Hold on tight. This is going to be a bumpy ride.”
CHAPTERSEVEN
Gwen
The bright summersun burns my retinas, and I feel like I’ve just been swallowed whole by a whale and vomited back up. Everything hurts as I sit up slowly and blink sand from my eyes, my body screaming in protest. My vision is blurred, and I do my best to wipe my eyes clean, but I only manage to rub more sand into them.
What the hell happened?
There’s no use in trying to open my eyes, so I do my best crawling around in what feels like the Sahara desert. I crawl as far as I can in the magma-hot sand until I finally bump into a tree. It’s a little cooler now, at least.
Crashing waves lull my racing heart and trigger a broken memory. A flashback of Jack’s concerned face, the plane spinning, I hit my head … Did we crash? I vaguely remember the feeling of ice-cold water rushing up my body, and I clasp my hand over my mouth.
I reach up and feel a large lump on my head, which aches like I've been run over by a truck, and my face stings from what I assume is a sand burn. Carefully, I blink my sand-encrusted eyes, but it’s no use.
Did I actually survive a plane crash?
There’s so much to process. I try to jog my memory, but it’s only coming back in bits and pieces, like snapshots of a camera out of order. The images are all mixed up and—
“Look who finally decided to wake up.” I hear Jack’s voice in the distance, and my racing heart hiccups in relief.
I’m not alone. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. There, that’s one question answered.
I sit up a little too hastily, sending a rush of blood to my aching head. “Jack?”
“Yep, that’s me,” he answers. “I hope you weren’t expecting someone else.”
I rub my eyes again, this time using the hem of my shirt, and manage to clean them enough that I can squint one eye open.
That’s when I see a shirtless Jack with a t-shirt tied around his head, squatting down and sifting through a piece of luggage. With his sun-kissed golden skin and chiseled abs, he looks like a cover model for a survival magazine.
“Where …” My throat is so swollen my words come out more like a croak. I swallow and try again. “Where are we?”
“We’re here,” Jack answers before going back to digging through the suitcase.
I look around as if that’s supposed to mean something before asking, “And where exactly ishere?”
He scratches his beard and doesn’t look up. “I’m still working on that part.” I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He just keeps digging through the suitcase.
I narrow my eyes at the bag in question when the familiar bright red zipper catches my attention. Eyes wide in panic, I lunge for the bag,e throwing my body on top of it. “What do you think you’re doing digging through my stuff?” I’m breathless now, having leaped several feet to intervene, and my stomach aches from the impact.
“You can’t just go rifling through a woman’s suitcase!” I scold.
Jack rolls his eyes, “You really packed a lot of lingerie for this work trip.” He gestures to a lacey pile of thongs and bralettes carefully laid out as if he’s investigating a crime scene.
I roll off the bag onto the piping hot sand and snatch at the loose piles of negligées, shoving as much as I can against my chest. It really is a lot of underwear.
“Were you planning to seduce me? Or do you just shit your pants a lot?” he teases, and I can feel my blood boiling underneath my skin. Not that the scalding sun is doing me any favors.
“No, I don’t shit my pants, you barbarian.” I try to snatch the lone red lace thong, dropping several bralettes in the process. I’m so out of breath and confused about why my entire underwear collection is under scrutiny.
“How’s your head?” he asks, moving on to the rest of my belongings.
