Grayson
From eight hundred feet in the air, I had no idea that jerk was hitting on her. I should never have left Isabella alone with a stranger but I just don’t get it. What is it about her that makes men go nuts around her?
Sure, she’s beautiful and deliciously curved but so are a hundred other women on this island. I swear it’s her damn innocent blush that makes men go stupid. Maybe it’s because her eyes are bluer than the sea or the cute wrinkle of her pert nose when she smiles; the way it’s kissed with girl-next-door freckles.
I know she doesn’t mean to flirt. She’s too damn nice, that’s what it is. I need to protect her. That’s my job, for fuck’s sake and once again, I didn’t.
Dammit.
While she sleeps in the other room, like a complete bastard, I ignore her and take a swallow of Patrón. When I learned Slate gave Skye her first bottle and not me, I lost it. I’m a fucking billionaire, jealous of an Aussie who drives a boat and my own bodyguard.
What in all of God’s creation is wrong with me?
The bedroom door isn’t locked which is good because I’m supposed to check on Isabella every hour.
I should console her but what can I say? Sorry, you married an unfeeling jerk of an asshole?
I try to remember the last time I told her how beautiful she is and dammit, cannot. We’ve had so little alone-time, when we do, we jump into the sack, desperate for sex, not chit-chat.
Isabella always looks beautiful, even in her favorite yoga pants and my old sweatshirt. Why do I have to say it? She should know how I feel. She’s my wife.
My fingers fly over the keyboard and I search on Google until I find ‘Phrases Every Wife Needs to Hear Daily.’ Yet again, I’m clueless. There’s too many damn rules. Women should come with an operator’s guide. How the hell is a guy supposed to know all this shit?
Again, I wonder if my lack of skills comes from my father. He was a cold sonofabitch. Maybe this is genetic. My mother always said when he left, it was a relief; that’d she’d never been happier. The day of the divorce she threw a huge champagne party bigger than her wedding day, or so she claimed.
Does Isabella feel the same about me?
I Google why-women-flirt and sigh. The articles sound too much like my wife. She was starving for attention but in her case, too naïve. She had no idea of the consequences of running into a shark like that fucking Aussie.
Dammit. I thought once we were married she’d just know how I feel. Certainly, once we had Skye. Why are women so damn insecure?
I think about the nannies and the woman who straddled me in my office and moan. I’m sure I made it far worse by not validating her emotions, at least that’s what I read online. But where does that leave us, now? Can I be the man she wants? The father my daughter deserves?
I stop my research at the sounds of splashing water down at the dock and glance out the window.
Dammit. What now?
I check on Skye and Izzy, walk to the guest house, and meet Slate. He rushes out with his jeans unfastened, gun in hand.
Together, we approach the dock and he slides off the pistol’s safety. Nothing good comes from an uninvited guest at midnight.
Suddenly, the dock’s motion detectors click and floodlights snap on. After my eyes adjust, I spy a small wooden rowboat with a tiny outboard motor at the end of my pier. The owner, a boy of maybe twelve grins, dressed in nothing but over-sized shorts held up by a man-sized leather belt with a long tail.
“Hello? Anyone out d’ere?” He shields his eyes with one hand and with the other, waves up the hill.
From his perspective, Slate and I are no-doubt cloaked in darkness.
My bodyguard motions me to stay put and strides down the stairs, across the sand to the dock. “What can I do for you?”
“My boat, she runs out of gas and I saw dee lights.” His eyes grow wide at the gun in Slate’s hand.
“Get out of the boat, slowly son, no sudden moves.”
Slate had warned me about drug running, piracy and the like. Still, the kid is so skinny I have a hard time imagining him as anything but harmless. Shirtless, his pants hang low with no place to hide a weapon.
Slate must think the same because he motions me forward. “Hold onto the kid and I’ll check out the boat, see if what he says is true.”
Carefully, I make my way down the hill to the lighted area where the dark boy shivers, eyes wide, arms raised. “Don’t shoot me. Why would I lie? What good dere be in dat, huh?”
There’s nothing in the rowboat but a fishing pole and tackle. Slate unscrews the plastic gas container, holds it upside down, and says, “Seems the young gentleman is telling the truth.”
He hops out of the rocking boat and ruffles the kid’s dreadlocks. “You can put your hands down, now, son. Sorry. Can’t be too careful.”
“Is okay. So, you have some gas? Den I clear out.”
I don’t feel right letting him go off into the night alone. “Where are your parents. I’ll call them.”
“We got no phone. My grandma gonna give me grief for worryin’ her so. Please, just give me some gas, den I go.” He starts to jump back into the small craft but I grab him by the forearm.
“Not so fast.” I don’t like how his eyes dart around and the smell of his nervous energy.
Slate leans over, grabs the rope tied to the bow, and tugs the little craft high onto the sand.
After he tucks in the oars, he turns to the kid and says, “Tell you what. I’ll radio the mainland and have someone get in touch with your family. You’ll stay the night with me.”
Back up the hill, Isabella stands on the deck, wrapped in a blanket. “What’s going on? Who’s that?”
“I’m Thomas, missus. Sorry to wake you. I ran out of fuel.” At the boy’s charming smile, her eyes go soft but me and Slate, not so much.
Before she offers him bed and breakfast I set things straight. “We’re going back to the cabin to radio the local law.”
“Wait just a second.” She disappears through the double doors, then comes back with our leftover dinner in a plastic bucket.
I meet her halfway down the stairs where she kisses me on the lips, as if we never fought. “Make sure he eats.”
That’s my Izzy.
I kiss her back and shoot her a big smile. “How’s your head?”
“Small headache. Big bump. Other than that, okay.” Her hand rises to the back on her head, she winces, and I feel like a complete ass for being such a jerk.
“Listen, about earlier? I’m really sorry. It’s not your fault the Aussie hit on you. You’re so damn beautiful, any man couldn’t help himself.”
Nicely done, Grayson, my man. Who says you can’t teach an old dog…
With a shake of her head, and a big smile, I’m forgiven. “It’s okay. Go take care of Thomas. I’ll make coffee.”