That Guy

by Belle Brooks

  Chapter Fourteen

  Four days later

  The sun shines so brightly it burns my irises. I slide the oversized designer sunglasses Chris said were a must for a luxury holiday from the top of my head and over my eyes. The wind whips my hair as I stand on the deck of a small luxury yacht, a yacht I finally boarded an hour ago.

  An emotional goodbye at the airport with Chris, two plane trips later, and a ride in a limousine fit for a movie star finally led me to a marina where this yacht awaited my arrival.

  Destination: Heart Key

  “He’s waiting for you there.” It’s what Conrad, the old skipper who captains this craft, said before we took to the sea.

  A man scientifically matched to be my missing soul mate is growing closer and closer, and I’m not ready.

  I’m fighting my hair, which thrashes my cheeks, and my flowy dress, which is taking flight from my knees to above my head. My sanity is on the line. I huff, then complete an untimed and awkward twist. My hands race between my head and my thighs. Why can’t I keep my bits and pieces in place? I huff louder when I imagine the sight my flapping arms will be creating. Instant tears pool in my eyes. I’m not an outdoorsy girl. I’m not even a boat person or a camera-loving floozy either. What am I doing?

  I need to get off this yacht. I want to go home.

  Waves part underneath the vessel, and the farther we travel the harsher they grow. Every bump and jump has my stomach spinning on a dime. Every washing machine rotation my gut makes tells me if I can’t find solid ground, and soon, I’m going to be sick. I need to get out of the sun and wind. I need to find a place to sit, and pronto. How do I get back inside?

  I duck, slide, and manoeuvre along the side of the yacht until I see a closed door I’m sure I must’ve exited through. I struggle to push it open because I’m still attempting to rein in my dress before it transforms in a parachute, whisking me sky high. Help me!

  With a throaty groan and a rumbling growl escaping my lips, I manage to heave the door sideways. I rush through its opening into a calmer environment.

  I straighten my light pink dress. Chris had exclaimed it was so ‘summer chic’ I’d be crazy not to wear it for my first meeting at the luxury hideaway. Upon fixing the material, I notice a nipple on the run. My nipple, now poking out for all the world to see. A cameraman, dressed in all black, appears to my right. I suck back a harsh breath not expecting anyone to have seen my accidental exposure. Where did he come from? Has he been on this boat the entire time? “Umm. So, yeah, can you not film that.”

  He grins before lowering the camera and stepping away.

  Why didn’t I wear a bra? I know why: because Chris said bra straps look tacky and cheap under such a pretty garment. Garment. Who even uses such a word these days? Chris, that’s who. This choice of outfit is too revealing and too tight for me. It’s also very Marilyn Monroe, posh city girl, and high-end. I’m not a city girl, and I’m most definitely not high-end.

  Why did I let Chris talk me into doing this stupid show? Into buying this dress? And even worse, wearing it? Why didn’t I put on a tee and some capris like I wanted to? I know why: because Chris makes life sound like a rainbow-coloured dildo with eight speeds of pleasure-filled endeavours to be encountered every single day.

  Every time I think I know what I want in a situation, Chris is the one who has me rethinking it and doubting my judgment. I end up way out of my element, and this, by far, is the most colossal of them to date.

  How did Chris brainwash me this time? The shopping—oh dear lord, the shopping he made me do was overwhelming, yet I enjoyed dressing my body in a way I’d never done before. The string bikini in the one suitcase I packed is still messing with my mind as I sit on a cream leather couch in front of an oak bar. I wish we’d turn around so I could flee. I’m not a bikini-wearing chick. I’m a tankini and boardshorts girl. Coming on this adventure, has been a terrible mistake. And it’s all because of Chris.

  “Champagne, Dr Grant?” Conrad pops out from behind a wall. He’s holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a flute in the other.

  “Shouldn’t you be driving the boat?” It seems like a logical question. However, Conrad mustn’t feel the same way because he smirks at me in the way someone would to an inexperienced rookie.

  “Everything’s fine. The boat is on course. I wanted to offer you something to drink to extinguish your nerves.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  “You’re much more unsettled than the other two ladies I’ve already transported over.”

  “I bet they were six-foot Amazonians with tan skin and beauty to match.”

  Conrad doesn’t reply. Instead, he smirks at me in the same way he did when I questioned the operations of the yacht.

  I break eye contact, and Conrad pours bubbled liquid into the glass. “Here, drink some of this. We’re about to enter calming waters. It’ll settle your stomach and your nerves.”

  “Okay.”

  “Would you like a hat to hold your hair out of your face?”

  “Um.”

  “I think it’s best you go back outside and enjoy the beauty. Even suck back some fresh air.” He pauses and tips his head slightly to the side. “I’ll get you a hat.”

  “Do you have Velcro to hold my dress down, too?”

  He chuckles. “You won’t need it. We’ll be slowing now. We’ve not far to go at all.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the drink from his rough, dirty hands.

  “Give me a minute, and I’ll be back.”

  “Okay.”

  Conrad turns and exists the same way he entered. I take a large mouthful of champagne and desperately try not to cough as it tingles down my throat.

  “Here,” he says, returning to my line of sight. “This style should go nicely with your pretty dress.” His turquoise eyes match his shirt, and they sparkle against the white of the large-brimmed floppy hat he holds out in front of him. The hat instantly reminds me of the ones worn by fancy actresses on film. “Let me take your drink for you so you can put it on.”

  “Thank you.” I hold out the glass and retrieve the hat at the same time. Placing it to my head makes me believe I’ll look as sophisticated and classy as those actresses do. One can only hope. I need all the class I can get right now.

  “Excellent,” Conrad compliments me, passing me back the drink.

  “So do I go outside now?” I’m dreading it. I wonder if he can tell by my tensed limbs.

  “Let me top you up first.”

  I wave my hand in front of him. “No, no. It’s okay. I’ll only have one.”

  “A little more won’t hurt.” He bobs his head just once, in an understated yet knowing manner. He takes the bottle in hand, then slowly approaches me as if I’m a fragile ornament. Every drop is more than I should consume, but I say nothing, even when the liquid meets the rim of the glass.

  “I’ll put the bottle here on the bar. Feel free to get more. I best be taking over the controls.”

  “Oh, okay, sure. I appreciate your help. Thank you again for the hat.”

  “No worries.” Conrad steps around me and opens the sliding door halfway, gesturing for me to get back out there. His wispy grey hair is blown into a cowlick. “When you’re ready. Just give me a moment to slow Magnolias down.”

  “Magnolias?”

  “That’s her name. It’s the name of my yacht.”

  “Oh, pretty name.”

  “For a pretty yacht.”

  “Very true. It’s luxurious.”

  “I know.” Magnolias is obviously Conrad’s pride and joy. “I’ll come help you when we dock.”

  “Excellent.” I stand. Conrad leaves, and I slip off my sandals, then shift until I’m positioned right by the open door.

  Breathe in, then out.

  Drink a mouthful of champagne.

  Breath in, then out.

  Drink another ten mouthfuls of
champagne.

  I do what my mind instructs until, as promised, we slow. In an instant, we go from bumping to gliding. I retrieve the champagne bottle and pour more bubbles into my glass before hesitantly making my way to the deck. I’m sure I’m going to be blotto drunk before we make the island at the rate I’ve just knocked these drinks back.

  I tiptoe in my bare feet, and each step I take sees my mind floating, in the same way four orange buoys far out in the distance do. The champers has definitely reached my brain. There’s no doubting it.

  I duck under a metal awning and secure my floppy hat to prevent it from tumbling off, then resume drinking the sweetest champagne I’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying.

  Taking a large breath has my lungs filled with fresh sea-salted air. I’m calm, halfway to plastered drunk, out in the fresh air, on the open sea. There’s ocean to the left of me, to the right, back, and front. I’m quick to note that if we were to crash right now, I’d inevitably be swallowed by this ocean and eaten by hungry sharks. I should instantly tense at this thought. That’s generally how my body reacts to such a realisation, but I don’t. Instead, I giggle and take another mouthful of liquid courage. It seems drinking and boating go hand in hand. Conrad was onto something with this treat.

  “Mindy! Good girl. Now, do this the entire time. No more sabotaging yourself.” It’s Chris’s voice I hear as clear as if he were standing beside me. “Take another big breath in. Relax. You can do this. You need to do this.”

  Even when Chris isn’t with me, he’s still in my head trying to keep me in line. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I imagined it to be.

  I turn to my right, with every intention of heading back inside and retrieving another drink, but before I take a single step, a large splash to my left holds my attention.

  Holy crap. That was a fish. A fish leapt into the air. Is that even possible? I take one step towards the railing. Then another, and another, until I’m looking down at calm, sparkling blue waters.

  “Wow,” I mouth when I peek over the edge and down upon silky, crystal-clear ripples. I search beyond the surface, through the parted-curtain-shaped waves the boat creates. Below, there are fish, so many fish of differing colours, shapes, and sizes. They dance around each other playfully. I can’t help but move closer to get a better seat. The railing supports my entire body weight.

  An orange-and-black-striped fellow darts towards a passionate blue lady. Well, this is how I surmise their sexes when spying into their little world. They wrap around each other in a way that makes me think of comfort, kindness, and possibly humping. Can they mate? No, surely an orange fish and a blue fish don’t play sea bedroom nookie together? Do they? Do fish crossbreed? I’ve no clue, but I realise I probably should have paid more attention in biology class, and taking another mouthful of champers right now is probably a good idea, so I do.

  I turn my eyes back to the show below and continue watching sea creatures perform different productions. It’s peaceful, natural, and beautiful, and it makes me smile in the nerdiest of ways.

  “Paradise,” I breathe. I’m going to be living in paradise. I continue to watch the ocean playground for what feels like ages. Well, until the fish suddenly disperse.

  “Did you see the schools down there, Dr Grant?” Conrad asks from somewhere behind me.

  “I did. The fish are stunning,” I say, standing upright and planting both my feet back on deck.

  “They sure are. You wait until you’re snorkelling along the reefs. It’ll be like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

  Snorkelling? I don’t know how to snorkel. I wonder if the guy I’m set to meet likes to snorkel, knows how to snorkel … What if he’s super outdoorsy? Will I be able to handle such a man? I ponder this for a moment before my mind switches angles, and I imagine what he’ll look like, then worse—what if he’s somebody I already know, like the cat killer from my blind date? Please don’t let it be him, because if it is, I’ll be marching off the island as fast as a hippie can draw a hit from a bong.

  I walk in the direction of the bar and the champagne bottle perched upon it. Will my mystery man be tall or short? Does he have tattoos, or will his skin be untouched by ink? And what if he has a beard? I’m not a fan of bearded men, and I can only hope he doesn’t have a Tom-Hanks-in-Castaway appearance going on. That’d be a total turn-off for me.

  No sooner do I find my brain tying in knots with an overload of questions does the yacht suddenly come to a halt. My heart gallops. My toes curl. My head is dizzy, but I put it down to the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed.

  “Dr Grant?” The voice comes from inside.

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m coming in to grab another drink.”

  “We’ve reached our destination, and we’re going to disembark now,” Conrad says, still out of sight.

  “Sure. Give me one minute.” I rush through the cabin door. One more drink. I need at least one more glass to help aid me in being the bravest I can be.

  “You don’t have time for another drink. Are you ready?” Conrad suddenly appears to my left.

  “I feel buzzed, so the answer to your question would be ‘after one more drink I’ll be ready’.”

  He laughs. “No more alcohol.” He walks past me and opens a rectangular door I didn’t even see at the other end of the room.

  I turn my vision to my one suitcase sitting by the chair. With hesitation, I put down my glass and retrieve my luggage, gripping it by its handle. “Here goes nothing,” I mutter, taking the same exit Conrad did a few moments ago.

  I still, looking out over the white sand. White sand! It’s just like I’ve seen in magazines. I honestly didn’t believe sand like this existed. It does—I see it now with my own two eyes.

  Coconut trees, so many coconut trees stretch from the ground up into the baby blue sky. I bet I could climb one of those suckers, I think, before realising that’ll be an impossibility, and currently my booze-soaked brain thinks I’m Fletcher, and I’ve built-in claws. I don’t. I don’t even have any fingernails left because I’ve chewed those down to the wick over last week’s stress-a-thon.

  Conrad stands at the side of the boat waiting. He reaches out his hand for me to take. “Welcome to Heart Key, the most exquisite island on the Great Barrier Reef.”

  My chin drops. My legs become as heavy as stone. “Arrrr …” My mouth opens so wide it could catch flies; I know this because a fly French kisses me before taking a hike off my tongue. I snap my jaws closed and don’t make another sound.

  A man in boardshorts appears, walks towards me, holding a camera. Shoot.

  He saw that.

  And that means so did the entire world.

  “Dr Grant?” Conrad says. “It’s time to get off the boat now.”

  “More cameras,” I whisper to avoid prying ears.

  “Yes, there are going to be plenty of those.” He pauses. “It’s a television show.”

  “Hmmm,” I moan, keeping my lips together like a vise.

  Conrad snatches my hand and leads me down a small ramp onto the sand below.

  “Let me take your luggage.”

  I nod.

  The sand is fine and warm beneath my feet. Tall grass-covered dunes meet a glassy sea. This is the beach from my dreams. The breeze caresses my exposed skin as sunrays bounce against my naked back, causing a tingling and burning sensation. I take a deep breath as I stare down the biggest lens I’ve ever seen.

  One step, two steps, three steps has the cameraman travelling backwards with my forward momentum. I stop, then walk backwards; he walks towards me. I stop again, eyeing him harshly, before stepping sideways. He steps sideways.

  Well, this will get annoying fast.

  I turn my vision away from the cameraman in the hope he’ll disappear. He must, because I can no longer spot him. All I can see is a beach resembling a place I often daydreamed about, which I find strange.

  My hands are clammy. Sweat pours from my armpits and leaks from my forehead. My heart hammers in my chest, and wi
th this rapid change in heart rate, my stomach contents hustle up my throat. I’m on the verge of being sick.

  The cameraman returns. The big lens is focused right on me. I swallow with a gulp, then glimpse over my shoulder in search of the yacht, only to find Conrad with my suitcase tucked under one arm making his way up the beach behind me.

  “Melinda Grant. Hello. You made it. How wonderful to finally meet you.”

  I flick my head in the direction of a voice I’ve never heard before.

  “I’m Daniel Knight.”

  I say nothing. I stare. He’s tall, medium-built, with fair skin and jet black hair. His straight white teeth fill his broad smile. This is the guy?

  I eye him up and down and conclude he’s most definitely attractive, but in a rugged understated way, and he’s really, really, really tall. If I were to guess his height, I’d think six-foot-three, or even four. To me, he looks like a scruffy basketballer, wearing a cheesecloth shirt and long tan slacks instead of his everyday sports uniform.

  Good God, I’m judgmental. Arlie was right in his observation, and I realise this more and more each day.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he announces.

  “Hi.” It’s barely audible.

  A gust of wind sweeps between us like a mini tornado, and the force of it is enough to send the bottom of my dress fanning outwards. I’m in so much shock, my reaction time becomes diminished to the point where I don’t move my arms at all—well, not until the bottom of my dress reaches over bust height. When I realise my lacey white knickers are fully exposed, I fight the material of my dress in the only way I know how—erratically. From the corner of my eye, I spy the cameraman again, and I cringe. Well, I’ve been here for all of two seconds, and my arse is about to be televised. Fuck my life.

  Daniel wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me along the beach in a somewhat jogging fashion.

  “Don’t mind those little wind channels. They happen all the time.” He speaks loudly, so loudly you’d think he was trying to talk over the sound of moving chopper blades. “There you go. We’re out of it now,” he says, rushing away from me in pursuit of what I can see is a tumbling white hat. A hat I'd forgotten I was even wearing. I watch as he bends over and picks it up. He has a cute butt, so there’s that. He turns around and jogs back in my direction.