Page 22 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

I jump when I hear another roll of thunder a few seconds later, and I resume my place next to Beckett; not in his arms, but right by him, huddled in the inefficient shadow of the building.

“You gonna start talking about fish again?” he says, casting me a wary glance.

I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to distract myself from what’s left of the storm. “No,” I say defensively. “I’m not.”

“But you want to,” Beckett says, his brows raised at me.

“Only because it helps keep my mind off all this,” I admit, gesturing to the sky.

He nods slowly, looking utterly spent. “All right,” he says, his voice tired. “Tell me why ichthyology, then. The real reason.”

Huh. He’s still interested in that; I wouldn’t have expected him to care, or to have given my earlier answer anything more than a passing thought.

And maybe he doesn’t care. But it’s been a long time since anyone asked this question, and even longer since I answered truthfully. I know he’s asking as a way to help me, so…I’ll answer.

I take a deep breath, then say, “I used to be scared of the water.”

Beckett turns his head toward me. “Because of the epilepsy?”

I shrug. “Maybe? Probably. My fear never felt like it was related to the idea that I would drown if I had a seizure while in the water, but I also don’t remember being afraid before I was diagnosed. So, yeah—I think it’s probably a subconscious epilepsy thing.” I’ve thought a lot about it, and this explanation makes the most sense to me.

Beckett turns the rest of his body toward me, shifting his position against the wall so that it’s pressed up against his side instead of his back. “Okay,” he says. “So you were scared of water.”

“Yeah,” I say. Something about having his full attention is nerve-wracking, and I find myself fidgeting with the end of my braid as I speak. “I was scared, but I didn’t want to be. So I started going swimming a lot, tubing with friends, stuff like that. And then I sort of realized—well.” I break off, feeling heat creep into my cheeks.

“What?” he prods, and wow—he’s looking at me like he genuinely wants to hear what I have to say.

“Well, humans walk around every day breathing oxygen, right?” I say. “And it doesn’t even occur to us to be afraid of the air we breathe. So I sort of realized that for fish, water is the same way. And if all these different creatures swim around in the ocean, completely trusting of the water…” I shrug. “I wanted to study that and learn more. So I started reading about ocean life, and I got hooked.”

Beckett doesn’t say anything, even when I’m silent for long enough that it’s clear I’m done speaking. I both want to look at him and don’t want to look at him, but in the end, curiosity wins out. I’m not normally self-conscious, but…this is Beckett. The guy I’ve been dreaming about for years. And I’ve just told him something very personal.

What does he think about that?

It’s hard to tell at first. We’re facing each other, but he has his head ducked. The rain has turned his hair a few shades darker, and I watch as droplet after droplet after droplet rolls down his forehead all the way to the tip of his nose.

When he finally speaks, I’ve become so engrossed in the rain trailing down his face that I jump, startled.

“That’s pretty cool,” he says, tilting his head up so that he’s looking at me.

“What’s cool?” I say. “That a grown woman is afraid of the water?”

“You’re not a grown woman,” he says. “You’re a kid, Baby O’Malley.”

“I’m twenty-four,” I reply hotly. Who does he think he is, acting like he’s so much older than me?

“Are you? Crap,” he mutters. “So young. But that’s not what I meant.” He swallows—I watch, fascinated, at the bobbing of his Adam’s apple—and then says, “I meant it’s cool that you turned your fear into a strength. That’s all.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. I never really thought of it like that, but…“I guess you’re kind of right.”

“Of course I am,” he says gruffly. He stretches one hand out, palm upturned as he looks at what little of the sky is visible through the trees. He watches the rain for a moment, then turns his head back to me. “Got anything else to distract yourself in there?” he says, nodding to my backpack, which is still propped against the brick wall.

“Maybe,” I say, biting my lip as I eye the bag. It’s wetter than it’s ever been in its long lifespan, of course, and I find myself wondering if my cookies are still safely sealed in their container.

I lean over and unzip the backpack, digging for a second with no particular goal in mind. The contents are a little damp, but hopefully there’s nothing in here that’s been irreparably damaged by water. I pause when I feel my tube of body lotion, grabbing it and pulling it out. I flip the cap open and stick the tube right under my nose, inhaling deeply—vanilla peppermint swirl, my favorite holiday scent—before squirting a big blob into my palm and then dropping the lotion back into my bag.

Beckett watches me silently, until it finally seems he can’t hold his tongue any longer. “That’s not what I meant. This isn’t the time for pampering, Molly,” he bites out.

“Wanting to moisturize doesn’t make me pampered,Beckett,” I shoot back. I rub the lotion more vigorously over my hands and arms. “Good skin care is always relevant.”

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