Page 14 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

And I’m notsocareless, really. I’m not stupid. I know my limits. Plus, I would argue that a calculated risk is different from recklessness.

“What to do, what to do,” my mother says, cutting into my thoughts with her fretting. She presses one hand to her mouth as she looks around the group of us. “I feel terrible, Beckett, sweetie. You planned this nice day on the island for us—”

“I didn’t dothatmuch planning,” Beckett interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck again. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“And we so wanted to spend more time with you,” my mom goes on, as though he hasn’t spoken at all. Her eyes narrow thoughtfully as she thinks. “I suppose…”

I don’t like the way she trails off. And Ireallydon’t like the way her eyes light up when they land on me.

“No,” I say immediately.

“Oh, stop it,” she scoffs. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say, Molly-doll.”

My cheeks heat at the nickname, but I keep my eyes firmly on my mother rather than letting them stray to Beckett. It’s not like he’s never heard me called that, anyway; it’s a pet name that my parents have been using since I was a wee lass.

“Still—” I begin, but my mom cuts me off.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” she says, nodding resolutely. “Beckett, sweetheart, I hate to think that all your planning has gone wasted. Why don’t you show Molly around a bit more? Wes and I will get Robert back to the ship, and Molly, you can meet up with us tonight for dinner on the ship. How’s that?”

“It’s bad,” I say blankly. “That’s a bad idea.”

My mother’s face as she looks at me is just atouchtoo innocent to be believable. “What’s wrong with that idea? Beckett’s okay with it, aren’t you?” She looks at him.

“Don’t you need help getting Mr. O’Malley back to the ship?” he says weakly.

“Not at all,” my mom says. “Wes and I can manage. So you’re all right with this?”

“I’m—I mean—yeah,” Beckett says finally, sighing. “That’s fine with me.”

“What about me?” Wes butts in, looking annoyed. “Why aren’t you asking if I’m okay with this plan?”

“Because you don’t have a choice,” my mom says, tutting at him. “Molly and I couldn’t very well move your father on our own. I need your muscle.”

“And how are we supposed to get back to St. Thomas?” Wes counters, still looking annoyed.

My mom’s head swings back to Beckett, who looks very much like he’s about to be fed to a vat of barracudas. “Your colleague said he was leaving around two, right?” she says.

Slowly, looking pained, Beckett nods.

“Well, then, that’s settled. Let’s go catch him before he goes.”

“Mom…” I begin, but she stops me with one raised hand.

“Molly, is there any reason you specifically don’t want to stay here with Beckett?” she asks pointedly.

As if I can answer that, much less while everyone is watching and listening. What would I say?I have a hopeless, immature crush on him, but he doesn’t seem too crazy about me. I don’t want to impose where I’m not wanted.

I look at Beckett, and his eyes meet mine. What follows is a completely wordless battle of wills in which he jerks his head at my parents while I shake my head and shrug helplessly.

“No,” I say, my voice small. “No reason. This is fine.”

My mother’s nod is sharp. “Good. Take lots of pictures, please, sweetheart. I want to see everything.”

“Yeah,” I say, picking up my backpack and hoisting it over my shoulder. Somehow it feels heavier than it did before. “I will.”

And that, in short, is how I end up watching my parents and brother sail off into the sunset while I remain on shore, accompanied by one grumpy, gorgeous man.

Except they don’t actually sail off into the sunset; it’s only early afternoon. The sky is a clear blue, fading to a less saturated color at the horizon. It’s a bit breezier than it was when we arrived, and a bit cooler, but still nice. The work colleague we met earlier is a littletoohelpful, in my opinion—would it kill him to tell my parents that their daughter should accompany them?—going on and on about how my mom doesn’t need to worry, that Beckett is a great tour guide who will make sure I don’t miss any of the tiny island’s must-see spots. This alone seems to kill what little fight was left in me; Whistling Wally, whose real name I learn is Carl, sells the experience so thoroughly to my mother that she’s practically beaming from ear to ear as she helps my dad onto the speedboat.

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