Page 24 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

“Yeah,” I say, frowning at the tug of worry I feel. “Just…go sit. Here.” I stride past her, clearing some of the branches and debris away from the base of the tree. “You’re going to get more muddy, but—”

“A little mud never hurt anyone,” she says tiredly.

I nod, grateful that I’m apparently not going to get any diva-like complaints from her. I watch as she makes herself as comfortable as possible, not moving until she’s completely settled, her backpack resting in her lap, her head tilted back against the trunk of the tree, her eyes closed. Only then do I get to work.

The first thing I do is brave the inside of the hut to grab some bowls, cups, containers—anything I can collect rainwater in. It’s not guaranteed to be clean, but out here it’s a pretty good bet, and we need to secure drinking water as soon as possible. I end up with a large metal mixing bowl and a storage container that I empty of its contents right on the dirt floor of the hut. I set them outside and watch with satisfaction as they immediately begin collecting water. Then I move to the roof.

There’s a peaceful kind of monotony in doing manual labor in the rain. It’s a mental reprieve; the external stimuli of the rain and the work create enough physical distractions that my mind is able to go blissfully quiet. I don’t think about being stranded, or about the cruise ship leaving in a couple hours, or about my best friend’s little sister.

Just the rain, and the roof, and that’s it.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t check on Molly every now and then, though, just to make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t move from her spot by the tree, her head tilted back, her bag on her lap. I think she’s making her very slow way through the contents, because one time when I look I spot a canteen next to her, and another time what looks like a freezer bag, but for the most part she just sits there, resting.

Until, that is, she moves.

I don’t know how long I’ve been working without glancing behind me—twenty minutes, maybe. But when it occurs to me to check on her again, she’s nowhere in sight.

I blink once, then twice, rubbing my eyes against the falling rain to make sure I’m not seeing things incorrectly. But I’m not—she’s gone. Her bag lies abandoned at the base of the tree, propped against the trunk, and that’s the only sign of her.

And it’s stupid, the way my fear spikes. She’s not a child, and she’s certainly not dumb. I don’t need to worry like this. And yet, I scramble down from that roof faster than I ever have before, calling her name well before my feet drop with asquelchonto the muddy ground.

I’ve yelled for her twice when I hear a response. It’s louder than I expected, and my head swivels this way and that to see where she is.

“Up here,” she calls, and when I finally pinpoint the direction of her voice, my heart skips several beats. Because what I see of her—allI see of her—is a pair of pale, mud-crusted legs, dangling from up in the flimsy branches of the tree she was sitting by.

I sigh with frustration, watching her flail around up there. Does she have a death wish? Where is her sense of self-preservation?

“Let’s talk about survival instincts, Baby O’Malley, and how you don’t seem to have any,” I grit out. “What are you doing?” I then ask, raising my voice so she can hear me. I move quickly to the base of the tree, trying to follow the trajectory of where she’ll fall when she inevitably tumbles down. “You’re going—” I break off, forcing myself to take a deep breath. Before I open my mouth again, I do my best to get a grip on the strange anxiety I feel watching her up there. “You’re going to fall. Do you ever use your brain? What would possess you to climb a tree when you can barely walk without tripping?”

“My phone got a bit wet,” she says. “It was off in my bag, so I climbed up here to turn it on and see if I could find cell service at all.” Her brow furrows in concentration as she shifts, but infuriatingly, she doesn’t look frightened or concerned about her situation at all. “And I think you’re overreacting,” she goes on. “I’m capable of climbing a tree just fine.”

I shake my head, disbelieving. Because while I have a strong suspicion that this woman’s mind could run circles around mine, her coordination has so far shown itself to be lacking—especially in our current physical circumstances.

I rub my chest, frowning. Why am I so agitated right now?

“Just get down,” I bite out, once again speaking so that she can hear me over the rain. “Now, please. Forget about the phone. It won’t work out here anyway.” I move closer to the base of the tree, my arms outstretched. The tips of my fingers just barely brush her muddy sandals.

“Drop here,” I say, waving my hands a few times. “Right here.”

Molly’s head peeks out further from the limb she’s on, and she frowns at me. “Are you gonna catch me?” she says.

“Yes,” I say impatiently. “Come on.”

“And are you sure you can carry me?” she says, looking more dubious still. She casts a glance over her body. “I’m not a little one-hundred-pound girl like you’re probably used to.”

For the first time in hours, I actually laugh. It’s crazy to find any humor in this situation, but I can’t help it.

“You have no idea what kinds of women I like in my arms,” I say, shaking my head. “But I’ll tell you this: they aren’t a hundred pounds. So just come down, okay? I’ll catch you.”

And crap.Crap.What’s going on in her mind that has her eyes trailing over me like that, her teeth digging into her bottom lip, her cheeks turning pinker than normal?

My breath hitches in my chest as something electric spikes in my veins. She is absolutely checking me out right now, blatant and unabashed, and the color in her cheeks tells me she likes what she sees. Shelikesthe idea that I prefer my women curvier, softer, rounder—

“Molly,” I bark out before my thoughts can stray to places they shouldn’t go. “Focus.”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice breathy. She clears her throat and repeats, “Yeah. Okay. Should I just—”

“Just let yourself drop,” I say. “I’m right here. Make sure you’re not going to get caught on anything—good—no, put your left foot a little closer to the trunk, good, now—jump.”

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