Page 36 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

There’s a sizable palapa near the dock, with white sandy beaches stretching out in either direction and a dozen or so cabins dotting the tree line. They’re spaced far enough apart that there’s privacy and each of them has a hammock hanging out in front.

The island is small enough that we landed on the nearby Caye Caulker and then were shuttled by boat over to the resort. The water was relatively calm and the ride was only an hour. Most of the group enjoyed it, since we saw a pod of spinner dolphins and a couple of white-tipped reef sharks. Delany puked over the side of the boat no fewer than four times. And I did not laugh at her, because I’m a God-damn gentleman. But I wanted to.

Of course, if I’d been an actual gentleman, I probably would have given her some tips to avoid getting seasick. But I’m not Mathew, the team’s medic. I’m sure he’d have many tips for her. Probably starting with don’t drink five “virgin” mimosas before a boat ride. The best advice I have is to stop calling them virgin mimosas. A virgin mimosa is just bubbly orange juice. Calling it anything else is just bratty.

My point is, I keep my opinions about Miss Put a Ring On It to myself, but keep close to Cassie on the boat ride, because that’s what a fake boyfriend would do. Right?

Fake boyfriend.

That’s my fucking specialty, apparently.

And, yeah. I know. I hear it.

Fake boyfriend is what I signed up for.

It’s my angle. The reason I could talk my way into spending my leave with her. And if fake boyfriend is what she needs from me right now, I will suck it up and fill those shoes.

Those are the shoes I expected to be standing it. And they’re the shoes that give me a legitimate excuse to put my hands and my mouth on her. At least when we’re near her co-workers.

I didn’t talk my way onto this vacation with her, expecting any more than a chance to spend time with this amazing woman who is my friend. Do I want more from her, eventually?

Fuck, yes.

Do I expect it? Of course not. And I certainly don’t expect it this soon after Sir Reginald Douche Canoe broke her heart.

So, yeah, I knew what I was getting into when I packed my bag this morning, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with her defending that fuck hole the way she did this morning on the plane.

He’s not a bad guy, she said. And she fucking sighed when she said it.

Christ. That sigh just about gutted me. That sigh told me in no uncertain terms that she’s not over him yet.

It also shifted my strategy, because if she’s not over him yet, then she’s not ready for me.

I have zero interest in being her rebound guy.

I’m going to be herThe guy. The last guy. Theonlyguy from here on out. That’s the plan, at least.

And if that means I need to keep it in my pants and bide my time, I can do that. I’ve waited all my life to meet someone who makes me feel the way she does. She was it for me a full year before meeting her in person. I can wait.

I can be the fucking king of patience as long as it gets me what I want in the end.

Once we’re off the boat, everyone from the law firm heads off to the palapa for a welcome drink. I stay behind to help the skipper unload the bags. He tries to shoo me off to the palapa as well, but relents when he sees my frogman tattoo. So I’m a few minutes behind when I make it to the palapa.

The woman who runs the resort, a blond with an American accent named Clara, is giving an orientation, handing out maps of the island and describing the resort’s policy for water usage. Given that it’s sitting right on top of the second largest barrier reef in the world, run-off can be a real problem. Only Delany seems horrified by the idea of using the resort's eco-friendly shampoo and having timed showers.

Her drama makes it even harder for me to imagine what the hell Sir Reginald Douche Canoe was thinking. But, his mistake is a win for me, so I won’t complain.

The staff hands out our room keys while giving us information about when the family-style meals are served and the different excursions they’re offering this week. By the time we wrap up, bags have been delivered to the cabins.

It’s late afternoon by the time Cassie and I head out to find our cabin. Clutching the room key in one hand and the map in the other, she marches down the path like a kid on an Easter Egg hunt.

At every cabin, each of which is painted in a different bright color scheme, she looks at the name of the cabin. We’re in the Manta Ray, which I already know is at the far end of the path.

By the time we find it, she looks back to the palapa at the four empty cabins we passed to get here. This far out, you can barely hear the steel-drum music playing from the palapa, not to mention any of the conversations in the other cabins.

She pauses at the steps leading up to our porch. Propping her hands on her hips, she looks back down the path with a frown.

“Well, they certainly stuck us in the time-out corner, didn’t they?”

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