The sky’s already a deeper shade of blue than I’m used to seeing in LA, but the air feels colder, and it’s getting worse.

It’s not the discomfort—I can handle that shit, and it’s not even that fucking cold right now. It’s the disparity between the brilliant, tropical blue sky and these random gusts of chill that’s starting to fucking get to me.

Which I know is ridiculous. But I think there’s something about it that’s making me act all aloof and surly, which isn’t something I want to do right now.

Also, part of me is disappointed we couldn’t stay on that island a bit longer, as if that were the real vacation, and we just cut it short.

Which is even more fucking ridiculous, but it’s all getting to me more than it should right now.

When I’m just about to reach for my shades to mute the sky’s brilliance, I decide it’s a better idea to look over at the fucking phenomenal woman who just happens to be walking just next to me.

Looking away from the hotel down the road, I swivel my head to see Macy—to see how she is and how she’s holding up and if she’s pissed that I’m ignoring her…or if it seems like she’s thinking about last night.

I know that’s something I’ll be thinking about for a while.

After I turn my head, Macy’s focused on the road, outwardly pretending that I’m not even there. But almost instantly, she turns her head and returns my look.

Her expression’s blank. The only thing I can read about it is that she’s lost in thought about something.

Whatever it is, it probably has nothing to do with St. Maarten or any of the shit that’s going on this week. Why would it?

But I don’t want her to let any of that shit—whatever it is—bear down on her in the middle of an amazing fucking vacation that’s expressly designed for escaping all that garbage.

And, fuck, just seeing her face makes me feel a million times better.

Which is not a “vacation fling” kind of thought to have.

Fuck, I hate being fucking confused, but maybe I’m losing my touch, because that seems to be happening more and more.

And Macy’s looking right at me, and I smile.

It’s meant to be warm, reassuring, a tiny bit mischievous, devastatingly handsome, and swoon-worthy. . .

You know, the usual.

But I have a sinking feeling that none of those comes across. And I’m sure that sinking feeling isn’t helping, either.

Fuck, I’m not dressed for this fucking wind. I guess even tropical weather can’t always live up to expectations.

Although, I don’t know what the fuck’s expected of me right now. Even from myself—where’s the line of getting too carried away with this? I’m usually not even in danger of getting close to it.

The wind stops, and a descending, forbidding sound fades in from the distance.

It’s coming from the sky, and both of us keep walking as it grows louder. As horrible and fucking loud the sound is, it’s just another commercial airliner coming in for a landing.

Inside the hotel—the rooms, especially—everything seems well-insulated from the sound of giant Boeings and Airbuses approaching Princess Juliana International Airport.

But the resort’s close to Maho Beach, which is next to one of the airport’s runways. On Maho Beach, the sound is deafening when a jet passes just a few feet overhead.

And on the outskirts of the resort, it’s still fucking deafening.

It’s now impossible to ignore the approaching plane, but we try, walking toward the hotel entrance without so much as a glance upwards.

I mean, that shit’s nothing more than an annoyance to both of us. Why should we give it any attention?

I knew where the resort was and what I was getting into when I arrived in one of those planes myself.

But it’s just another little annoyance that’s making me miss that island even more.

The sound fades by the time we get to the main path leading up to the hotel. When it disappears, Macy and I finally acknowledge it with a look at each other.

“Did you hear that?” she asks, smirking.

Okay, maybe the vacation’s not over after all.

“What?” I punctuate the question by slipping on my aviator shades, looking comically oblivious.

“Oh, you’re too cool to care about sounds now?”

I smile, much more easily this time, and stop in my path. Macy stops alongside me, not matching my smile but maintaining her smirk.

Macy’s smile grows the tiniest bit as I take off my sunglasses and put them on her, but I swear I can see her roll her eyes when she’s wearing them.

“Now, you’re cool.”

“Cooler,” she corrects me, and we restart our walk to the hotel in a much better mood.

“Aaron! I’ve been looking for you! Aaron! Over here!”

So much for a much better mood.

“Are you fucking serious?” I grumble. “Just ignore him,” I tell Macy.

Todd Myers, the Variety reporter who’s been waiting for me on this empty path for fuck knows how long, is known for wearing trilbies.

“Aaron! How do you respond to the rumors about the Anna Bell project? Mr. Michaelson?”

Even dressed in a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals, Todd fucking Myers is still wearing a black trilby.

We walk past him into the entrance, and I need to stop for a second.

Macy stops with me, ready for an explanation. She’s taken off my sunglasses and holds it in her hand.

“Was that paparazzi?” she asks.

“I can’t fucking believe…” After grinding my jaw a couple times, I take a deep breath and calm down to talk to Macy. “Although he doesn’t take pictures, which is one good thing I’ll say about him, I still consider him paparazzi, or a paparazzo because it’s always just him. Fuck!”

To channel some of this stupid, frustrated energy Todd Myers inspired, I start walking to the elevator—and Macy keeps up with me.

“Who was that?”

“He’s this guy who likes to follow me around sometimes. He works for Variety, because no one else cares this much about behind-the-scenes shit. But I don’t blame the publication. He’s his own fucking animal that gets his stories from hounding people.”

There are more questions in Macy’s eyes, but I can tell she doesn’t know where to start. So, all she does is hand me back my aviator shades as we walk.

Frankly, I don’t know where to start, either.