Page 23 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly, his eyes closed like he’s praying for patience.

Well, go ahead and pray, Beckett Donovan. Go ahead and pray, and while you’re at it, have the Good Lord send us a miracle. A boat-shaped miracle, preferably.

Because I’m starting to worry that that’s the only way we’re going to get off this island in time for me to board the cruise ship with my family. Otherwise…I’m stuck. Left behind and stranded.

On a desert island.

With Beckett Donovan.

Eight

Beckett

All told,the worst of the storm lasts probably about two hours. My phone is toast, so without asking Molly I don’t have a way to tell what time it is, but I’ve spent enough time on this island now that I’ve got a vague sense of things.

I’vedefinitelygot a vague sense that we’re not getting out of here tonight, for example. There’s no way. I don’t know what Molly’s going to do about the cruise ship, and I don’t know if her family will realize she’s gone in time, but I guess we’ll just do what we can on our end.

Which basically amounts to staying alive.

The rain that’s falling now is sporadic and light, and since Molly and I can’t possibly get any wetter, we finally abandon the research facility and head toward the hut. It’s where we’re going to have to stay tonight, assuming it’s still standing. I’m eager to get moving, partly because every second I stand here next to Molly—who now smells like peppermint and something sweeter—is another second I’m remembering how it feels to have her pressed up against me.

It’s not that it was a particularly enjoyable experience, holding her close. I didn’t have the presence of mind to be very affected by how near she was. But I’d be lying if I said I feltnothing.And since I would very muchliketo feel nothing, I think it’s best if we relocate.

She was just so…soft. So soft and small, shivering in my arms, her hot breath warming my chest where her face was pressed. I really had no choice but to wrap my arms around her; we were both cold, both trying to shelter each other. And even though I didn’t want to be impressed when she told me about how she came to study ichthyology, I couldn’t help but feel admiration at the way she changed her life. Most people just learn to live with their fears, myself included, but she didn’t.

I have to respect that, even if the last thing I need is more emotions involving her.

She walks in front of me now, at my insistence, mostly because she’s dead on her feet and I don’t trust her not to trip and fall or even just faint. The path to the hut is slick with mud, and it’s not going to dry out any time soon. Out here one bout of rain can last for days.

In spite of these conditions, Molly hasn’t complained at all. In fact, I’ve even caught her turning to look at me more than once, as though she’s worriedImight not be okay. I can tell she’s having a hard time, though, and I don’t blame her. Both of us need to get warm and then sleep for a solid twelve hours.

We pass through the trees, all of which seem impossibly green and teeming with life, and the closer we get to the hut, the more apprehensive I become. What kind of shape is it going to be in? We built it when we first started so that we’d have a place to store tools and odds and ends, but once the research facility was functional, we didn’t have much reason to go there anymore.

At least we had the foresight to build it on higher ground—something that’s making this trek a bit of a pain, but ultimately a good thing—and we did what we could to reinforce the roof at the time. Molly and I half walk, half stumble our way there, both of us silent, until finally I spot the bend in the path that will open up to a tiny clearing. I pick up the pace, coming to walk next to Molly instead of behind her, then moving on ahead. And by the time the hut is in my line of sight, I’m jogging to get there, my nerves on high, my mind zooming as I play out all possible scenarios.

Because I don’t know what we’re going to do if this place is trashed. I really don’t. We need warmth and rest. And if the walls and roof have been destroyed…

“Oh,” Molly says from behind me as we approach. “Wow. So this is like…ahuthut.”

“Yes,” I say, circling the small shelter as I take everything in. I’m trying to keep a tight leash on my hope, trying not to get too excited, but the truth is, I’m justsotired. I would kill for somewhere to lie down, and I need this little shack to be that place.

To my immense relief, nothing major jumps out at me. There are a few spots on the roof that need to be patched—I’ll have to do that tonight—but it’s still standing. The walls, made of rope-bound wood, are all in decent shape. The door is hanging a little sideways, but that’s okay.

So it’s really just the palm-frond roof that needs the most attention.

“What can I help with?” Molly says, stepping up next to me. When I look over at her, she’s inspecting the shelter with a critical gaze. Then she tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she points to the roof. “Or is it supposed to look like that?” Her head swings toward me, and I force my attention elsewhere when she bites her lip. “Confession,” she says, “I can’t really tell. I’m not super knowledgeable about huts.”

The thought of Molly clambering up onto that roof sounds like a nightmare, so I quickly say, “No. I mean, nothing.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I add, “There’s nothing you can do. So if you need to—I don’t know. Check the stuff in your bag, or whatever, do that.” I’m just grasping at straws. She already dug through her backpack earlier, but it was brief, and if she’s up on that roof with me, I’ll only be able to focus on making sure she doesn’t fall.

“Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “That’s probably best.”

We’re speaking more loudly than we’d normally need to, but it’s still raining. I’m in desperate need of space, so I jerk my chin toward one of the larger trees next to the hut. It won’t provide a ton of shelter for her, but it will be better than nothing.

“Sit over there,” I say. “Or stand, whatever. But just wait there while I work, and don’t go wandering off. Okay?”

Molly nods but doesn’t say anything; she just hoists her backpack a little higher on her back and moves in the direction I’ve indicated. There are strands of hair plastered to the sides of her face, her pale lashes darkened and clumped together by the rain. Her shirt clings to every possible curve—none of which I let myself linger on—and her feet in their sandals are caked with mud.

She looks rough.

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