Chapter 4
Losing shoes
I make a grab for Logan’s disappearing form and manage to snag a handful of hair — this is not how I fantasized about touching those luscious locks — and tug him back up to the surface.
“Ow,” he says, hiccupping and looking at me with a wounded expression. “Hurts. S’not a wig, y’know.”
“Sorry,” I say, placing his hand back on the side of the boat and curling his fingers around the rope handle. “But you were sinking into the sea. And you weren’t trying to swim.”
“No,” he replies, frowning. “Is the shark.”
“Where?” I scan the ocean for the dark crescent of a dorsal fin.
“Not here. On the green screen. Is the shark that does the swimming. Not me,” he says in the tones of someone making a sad confession.
“Are you trying to tell me you can’t swim?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not even a little?”
“Huh-uh.” He waggles his head from side to side as if considering a tricky question. “Maybe just a little … Not very much,” he says, then adds, “Hardly a’tall.”
“So you set off for shore when you can’t swim or handle a boat?”
“S’many things can’t I do.” He hiccups again. “Pardon me.”
“Let’s get you in the boat.”
I hold out my hand and he grasps it. Trying not to get distracted by the thought that I’m holding Logan Rush’s freezing hand, I pull hard and yank him into the dinghy. I straddle the seat nearest the outboard motor while he lies on the bottom of the boat, barefooted and bow tie askew, shivering and panting.
Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he spies his shoes and socks.
“There you are!” he says, snatching them up and placing them neatly side by side on top of the dinghy’s inflated side — all the better, apparently, to admire them.
“These shoes anner socks are mine,” he says proudly.
“They’re very nice,” I reply, and he smiles.
Whoa, that smile!
“Uh …” It takes me a long moment to pull myself together. “Look, we need to get you back to your party.”
At that moment, loud cheers and applause erupt from the yacht.
“No!” He shakes his head mutinously, then groans. “You hurt my head, pulling my hair like that.”
“I didn’t hurt your head. That was you — you bumped it on the flagpole when you were climbing down the ladder.” I point toward the yacht.
“Did I?”
“Yes you did. What were you trying to do, anyway?”
He considers this for a few seconds before answering, “’Scape!”
“Escape?”
“Not going back,” he says, nodding gingerly. “Say, why’s everything moving up and down?”
“Because we’re in a boat in the middle of the freaking ocean.”
“Right. Okay. Well, we could have a drink, though. I have a bottle right here.”
He pulls and tugs at the bottle wedged into his jacket pocket until he frees it, and lifts it to his lips, before seeming to recall his manners and offering it to me.
“No thanks.” Though it pains me to turn down the chance of putting my lips where his have been, I figure the bottle contains more salt water than bubbly by now. “I don’t think you should drink that either.”
He waves my caution away with an airy hand, and tips the bottle to his lips. A moment later he sputters and coughs.
“Tastes terrible! S’awful. Did y’all spike it?”
“No, you did! You fell in the ocean, and the seawater —” I begin, but there’s no point in trying to explain.
Logan Rush, teen heartthrob and action-hero extraordinaire, is well and truly pickled.
“Can’t drink that stuff.” Logan sets the bottle aside with a disgusted sniff, then eyes me hopefully. “Say, you don’t happen to have a bottle, do you?”
“Not me, but they’ve got lots on the yacht. Should I take you back there?”
“No.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I won’t go. An’ you can’t make me.”
“But they’ll be worried — they might alert the NSRI to search for you.”
“Who’s Enniserai?”
“Sea Rescue. Let’s go back, okay?” I put a hand on the tiller.
“No. I only jus’ got away! Told them I had a headache and needed some time in my cabin. An’ I left a note there — Taking a break, see ya in Cape Town! I’m very responissable.”
“But —”
“If you try an’ take me back to the piranhas, I’ll throw myself in the sea!”
“Well, we can’t just stay here all night.”
“Why not? S’nice being with a beautiful lady — if you don’ mind me saying that. S’nice and cosy.”
Logan Rush just called me beautiful. I’m tempted to squee but force myself to sound business-like.
“Cosy? It’s not cosy. It’s cold and wet. We can’t stay here.” Inspiration strikes. “You know where we could get more champagne, though?”
“The good stuff? Not the salty one?”
“Yep, the good stuff — the best.”
“Where?”
“There.” I point to the shore where the distant lights of Simon’s Town harbour form a bright beacon.
“S’go!”
“Alright then.”
Gently twisting the throttle, I put the motor into gear and steer the boat back to where my surfboard floats. I drag it on board and wedge it tightly under the benched seats.
“Just promise me this — if I get arrested for kidnapping, you’ll get me out of jail,” I say.
“S’not kidnap,” he says, looking offended. “I’m not taking you anywhere. S’you driving the boat.”
“Damn straight, it is.”
I turn us in the direction of the small harbour and increase the speed. Two light splashes signal that Logan’s shoes have declined to make the trip to land, but I say nothing. He seems awfully fond of those shoes, and no way am I going back to search for them.
The trip to Simon’s Town harbour will be quick — the dinghy has a powerful engine and we aren’t that far out. For most of our full-throttled, bouncing charge for shore, my passenger sits on the seat opposite me, smiling and humming what sounds like Row, row, row your boat. When we hit one particularly big swell, he falls off his seat but manages to stay in the boat.
“But where are my shoes?” he shouts over the racket of the motor, staring at his bare feet in bewilderment.
I point to the noisy engine and my ears, and shake my head, playing deaf.
The wind is cool on my face, and I’m high on the boat’s speed and the thrill of Logan’s presence. The dark water is limned silver by starlight and phosphorescence. It should be romantic — I am, after all, alone with arguably the most handsome and desirable man in Hollywood’s galaxy of stars — but Logan Rush is not behaving like a romantic lead.
He alternates between complaining about his cold feet and hunting for his shoes — rummaging around on the floor of the boat and peering under my surfboard. He bends double to search under the bench seats and emerges clutching a black package from which he extracts a white, waterproof poncho — the sort kept under the seat for passengers on the boat. When he shakes it out, the wind rips it from his hands, and it flaps backwards into the night like a giant, spooky bat.
Immediately, I throttle back and turn the boat around. Shoes will probably just sink to the bottom of the ocean where they’ll slowly disintegrate, except for the soles, but plastic is a different thing entirely.
I spot the poncho floating in pale folds on the dark water.
“Grab it, will you?” I say to Logan as we pull alongside. “And don’t fall in again.”
“Why are we saving the … this thing?” he asks, dragging the wet, dripping mass on board.
“We’re not. We’re saving fish and turtles and sea birds.”
Logan frowns, clearly puzzled.
“Sea creatures eat plastic — they mistake it for jellyfish — and then they choke, or clog up their insides and die. The ocean,” I explain, “does not need more plastic pollution.”
“No.” He nods slowly. “But you know what I need?”
“Let me guess — more champagne?”
“Yes!” The wide smile is back. “And also, shoes.”
We draw close to the shore, and by the bright lights of the small harbour, I see something that makes me think our landing won’t be simple or unobtrusive.
“I think you’d better put on a poncho — see if you can find a dry one,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“Because you’re cold. Plus, you might want to stay hidden.”
Logan glances to the shore, and his gaze fixes on the small crowd of girls and women, noisy even from this distance, who’re thronging the main pier that stretches out from the waterfront restaurants into the small harbour. Apparently, I’m not the only fan who found out about tonight’s party. They’ve probably been tweeting about it all evening, putting out the word on the #RushTo hashtag, sharing in WhatsApp groups, pulling in fellow fans from across the Cape Peninsula.
A hunted look comes over Logan’s face.
“I’m guessing you want to avoid that lot?” I check.
He nods.
“Okay, then. Find another poncho and put it on. Pull the hood up to cover your face. I’ll try to land us around the other side.”
Obediently he reaches under the seat, extracts another of the coverings, and wrangles its flapping shape over his head. I slow the boat down and steer us away from the pier and concrete slipway, and around the back of the marina’s jetties where dozens of yachts and motor boats are moored.
At the far side, a small stretch of sand forms a natural inlet between scrubby overgrown bushes and small trees. Locals know the spot and often use it to launch their canoes, but tonight it’s dark and secluded, and the gaggle of girls probably wouldn’t know of its existence. It’s also right below the place where I’ve parked my car, so it’s ideal for a quick getaway.
“Hold on tight,” I say and give the dinghy a last burst of speed.