Page 50 of Anyone But You
It took a few seconds for me to place the lyrics.
She’s an idiot.
“No, his father is not gone and smoking crack. I want you to go on a date with me.”
Victoria’s brows tilted in confusion. “Like when we’re rescued?”
“No, this afternoon. I found this place the other day and want to show it to you. I know we don’t have basic amenities likerunning hot water and electricity; hell, we shit in holes and have to dive to the depths of the ocean for food, but you still deserve to be treated. We may not be dining on Wagyu steak tonight. Still, I can promise you lobsters fresh from the ocean without the sky-high market price and some leftover bourbon. What do you say? Will you go out with me?”
My heart thumped against my rib cage as I waited for her response. She chewed her lip thoughtfully as she considered my offer.
I don’t think I’ll recover if I get turned down on a deserted island.
“I have one condition,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Please ditch the caftan for our date.” I grinned and stood to my feet, ripping the comfy dress over my head. “Oh, my God. You’re such a child,” she groaned as I did a little naked celebratory dance.
“Don’t look away, Tori. Feast your eyes on perfection.”
“You better feast your eyes on some pants and a shirt if you want to go out with me,” she insisted.
“Fine. You win.”
“When do I have to be ready?”
“Be ready in two hours. We’ll skip breakfast and have an early lunch. We have a little bit of a hike to get to our destination.”
“I’ll be ready,” she confirmed.
* * *
I buttoned up the dress shirt that I wore when we crashed and rolled the sleeves up. The shirt was a few sizes too big and seemed to hang off of me unnaturally, but it would do. I tucked it into my dress pants, which were also ill-fitting, and stretched outthe waistband to measure the size difference. There were several noticeable inches between my waist and the stretch of the fabric. If I had to guess, I had lost about 40 pounds since arriving on the island, and my body fat was now in the single digits. I was what you would call “sinewy.”
Sinewy and sunburnt.
We’d been on the island three months, and were eating decently now that we’d gotten the lay of the land and the ocean. We’d rigged together lobster traps, discovered mango on the far right of the island, and I’d caught another shark, but that time, I bled it immediately, and we ate like royalty that night. Food scarcity was no longer an issue—the land, the ocean, and Victoria’s suitcase snacks provided for us abundantly.
“Knox?” Victoria shouted in the distance.
Shit. She’s ready.
I rushed through dressing, tightened my belt around my waist, and ran my fingers through my hair before leaving the tree line with the flowers I gathered for her. My heart kick-started when I found her standing in the distance. She smiled at me warmly and waved, and all I could think of was how radiant she was in her white sundress.
I finally closed the distance between us and chaotically shoved the flowers at her. As she took a moment to inhale the makeshift bouquet, I spent my time committing her luminescent vision to memory. She wore the bulk of her braids piled high with a few curled tendrils framing her face. She wore light makeup—eyeliner, mascara, and a clear lip gloss that made her lips look more plump and suckable than ever.
I felt myself falling, and by the time I hit the sand, it was too late.
“Ummmmm, Knox? What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m tying my shoes. What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
“You’re not wearing shoes,” she whispered.
Who has heat stroke now? Probably both of us, if I’m being honest, because I don’t know what compelled me to drop to one knee and propose to my volatile executive assistant.
“Victoria Diamond Caldwell.”
