Page 49 of Playing With Matches
“I just wish more people would listen to me. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make a jackass drink.”
~Jackson Porter, Playing With Matches Confessionals
When I get backto the suite, I see Jackson’s left my tee on the bed, neatly folded. It smells like him. In fact, the whole room smells subtly like Jackson. I like it a little too much. It’s distracting.
I carry my laptop out to the patio where the only sounds are wind and waves, distant laughter, and the occasional rev of an offshore boat engine. It’s warm, but the breeze is delicious, smelling of seaspray and tropical flowers.
There’s something about working on a book without the distractions of wifi and social media. When I eventually look up, two hours have passed, and I’ve managed to bang out three chapters. These are the most words I’ve clocked in weeks.
Jackson gets back just as the sun is setting and I’m packing up my laptop. He cautiously slides open the patio door.
“I’m not interrupting you, am I?” he asks.
“No, I was just finishing up,” I say. “Did you see that your luggage arrived?” I’d practically tripped over it when I came in earlier.
“Yes!” he says. “Thank goodness. Although I will always treasure my Peaches ensemble,” he smooths his hands down his chest over the branded outfit from the gift shop.
“Did you get to talk to Rob?” I ask, folding down the screen of my writing device. I’ve texted him and Rory multiple times about the group date tomorrow, and as yet - no response.
“Not yet,” he frowns. “I chatted with Rory, but she didn’t have anything useful to say. I actually think I might have seen Rob parasailing. How about you - heard anything?”
“Nothing,” I say, checking my temporary phone again and placing it back on the table where I can see if I get an incoming message. “I don’t know if they want me to weigh in on the group date or whether they expect me to be ready to go on camera tomorrow. It’s a little rude.”
“Agreed!” Jackson lays his borrowed phone on the surface, face down next to mine, and takes a seat next to me. “I dropped everything to be here, and I thought I understood what was going to happen. Feels like we’re being messed with a bit, doesn’t it?”
Suddenly, the table vibrates. My screen lights up, and both of our devices ding loudly at the same time. Jackpot. We both grab our phones and read the message.
“It’s a group text,” Jackson says, successfully opening his phone first.
“I see,” I say, “I’m reading it….”
The message is for me, Jackson, and Marco, and the sender is R. Goodfellow.
Hi, Guys. Sorry for the confusion. Still working out the schedule for tomorrow, but it looks like we’ll be taking the group out snorkeling and parasailing at a local nature preserve. Gotta keep the resort happy - they want to highlight their day trip options. I’m giving you three the day off. We’ll resume group filming the day after tomorrow. Plan is to reveal your matches then. Stay tuned.
I didn’t realize how tense I was till I feel it lifting. I don’t have to figure out the group date. I’m off the hook. I have a whole day to write. This is great news!
Jackson, on the other hand, does not look pleased. He slips his phone into his pocket.
“See, this is what I’m talking about. They dragged me down here to cool my heels? They’re not even using the matches we made, and God knows what kind of alliances or hook ups or whatever are going to happen on that boat. Parasailing and snorkeling? It’s not only irresponsible, it’s dangerous! It’s not in their best interests. We’re talking adrenaline, dopamine, booze, and bikinis!” he shakes his head worriedly.
“Don’t forget the cortisol,” I roll my eyes.
“Huh?” Jackson looks at me confused.
“All that cortisol from worrying can’t be good foryou,” I clarify. “Look, we’ve just been given a day off in paradise. Is that really the worst thing?”
“Yes. I could be getting some work done,” Jackson grumbles grumpily. “I have things I need to take care of.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like a rebrand,” he scowls.
“Maybe you could sketch out some ideas poolside? I have a deadline, too, but my editor doesn’t care whether I get the work done while laying at the beach. It’s all about balance,” I suggest.
I feel Jackson's eyes on me as I stand and stretch, rolling the tension out of my neck and shoulders. His gaze feels wrapped around me like a weighted blanket as I walk to the metal and glass railing of the balcony. Heavy, but not unpleasant. Late afternoon rays of sun float across the balcony in orange slices, coloring everything golden.
Jackson squints at me and shades his eyes protectively. “Damn, Isla, why does looking at you always make me feel like I’m looking directly into the sun?”
