by Kim Linwood
Which leaves me with Liz. Sorry, Sarah.
The only one I care about, and the one I most need to watch like a hawk. Whatever she’s up to, she’s not the only one with a plan. I’ll get the story out of her one way or another.
Her touch on my arm as I walk her towards the back of the house is soft, barely holding on, but it burns like a brand even through my shirt. If the show planted her here to add more drama, wouldn’t she play it up every chance she got? I know she’s attracted to me, but every time we really get close, she starts to pull away.
Afraid of getting found out, maybe. Or guilty.
I pat her hand and smile down at her. “I figured we’d take a short trip, and see where that brings us.”
She glances up with those uncanny green eyes, and her grip tightens. If I didn’t know her, I’d probably think they were pretty, but they aren’t the ones I want to see.
“On our own?” Liz looks back over her shoulder, probably looking for the camera people. “Just the two of us?”
“I promise not to bite. Much.”
“Oooh, the big bad wolf.”
“Afraid I might eat you up, little girl?” I growl.
Her cheeks turn a sexy shade of pink. She opens her mouth to respond, then looks around. “Wait... For real, where are we going?”
The stone path we’re following curves around, and the trees part. In front of us is the new dock I use to moor my private seaplane. Frank is getting it ready, and a cameraman is waiting, filming us as we step out of the jungle. “Well, we have the whole day ahead of us. I figured a tour of the area would be a good place to start, and what better way to do it than with a bird’s eye view?”
Her hand tightens on my arm. “Boats. Boats are nice too. What about a nice boat ride?”
She might not like flying, but she managed to get here alright, so she can do it again. It’ll be worth it. “Nervous?”
“Of course not.” Liz looks like if I make a sudden move, she’ll bolt.
“A lot of people get nervous about small planes. They’re really very safe though, and I assure you, it’s very well maintained.”
She nods, a little green around the edges. “Right.”
We walk onto the pier and I stop, standing in front of her. I cup her chin in my hands, and force her to look up at me. “You trusted me before, remember? I won’t let you fall. I promise.”
Liz blanches. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve never—”
“Babe, I flew you down here.” I’d laugh if she wasn’t looking so panicked.
“Oh, right. Yeah.” She starts breathing again, and I do chuckle a little, which earns me a glare.
Frank Dobson pats me on the shoulder as he walks past, but he speaks to Liz. “Don’t worry, Miss. She’s good to go, and our boy here knows his way around the clouds.”
Liz stares at him like she’s seen a ghost. A lot of the staff has changed since she lived here, but she had to be ready to see some familiar faces. Still, must be strange.
Green or brown, her eyes still hide nothing. I can practically watch the gears turn in Liz’s brain as she locks everything down and decides to fly with me. I step up first, and hold out my hand to help her. She hesitates, but puts her slender fingers on mine. Eyeing the plane skeptically, she lets me help her over onto the pontoon next to me. She takes a moment to adjust to the gentle rocking before she grabs the handle with her other hand, and pulls herself up into the plane.
The cameraman films her climbing up, and I shoot him a nasty look. I don’t like that he’s making sure to get a close-up on her ass, or the grin I see behind the camera. That’s supposed to be my view.
Liz settles into the copilot seat while I get ready to go. Maybe it’s been a while, but she buckles up and adjusts the chair on her own. The cameraman settles in one of the back seats, and once everyone is secured, I start the plane. She grips the seat so hard her knuckles turn white, but doesn’t say a word.
The waters are smooth as glass, and there’s hardly even a breeze, so I just taxi until I’m clear of the pier, then open the throttle. The plane shakes and lurches, but nothing significant. At least for me.
Liz whimpers.
“Trust me?”
She nods.
I start a running commentary of what will probably be the most boring TV in history. Every light, every button, every switch. I tell her step by step what’s happening as the plane tears itself from the water, and the bottoms fall out of our stomachs.
She’s tense the whole way up but focuses on my words. By the time we’re at cruising altitude, her hands are relaxed, resting in her lap. Still breathing quickly, her chest rises and falls. It’s a good thing the camera is filming from behind, because I’m not fucking sharing the way her breasts swell up against the front of her dress as she pants.
I’m glad something’s squeezing them, but I wish it was me.
Liz coughs. “Um, shouldn’t you be watching where we’re going?”
Busted. There’s a mix of frost and humor in her words.
I look up to her face and grin. I’m many things, but shy about my appreciation of a pretty girl isn’t one of them. Even when she used to be my stepsister. “No worries, the autopilot is on. Look, Ma, no hands.”
I take my hands off the stick and lean back in my seat.
“What are you doing? Put your hands back, right now,” she shrieks.
I grab one of her hands and put it on the stick. She’s trembling. “I told you, autopilot.”
My hand covers hers, and I stroke the soft inside of her arm with my thumb. She doesn’t pull away.
“Just—don’t let go, okay.”
“I won’t.”
She could take her hand away at any point, but she leaves it there for a long while.
We have quite a bit of time to kill, so I take us around the islands. She pretends not to know anything about the area, so I humor her by rambling on about local landmarks. Past St. Martin, back around over The Bottom, back up to the British Virgin Islands, over Richard Branson’s private island, a quick flyover of Frederick Island, then eventually heading west.
Liz listens and asks questions, but she focuses on things that are new or have changed. I’m dying to ask her if it’s like she remembers it.
The radio crackles as the San Juan flight tower comes in. Liz glances at me when I reply in what I think is pretty passable Spanish. I’ve improved a lot the last few years. Is she impressed? She used to show off all the time when we were teenagers, using it whenever she could to exclude me from conversations.
Anyway, conditions are relaxed here and I’ve been by a bunch of times. They know me, and our dialogue is quick. I’m not landing at the airport, so it was just a check to see what my plans are. The place we’re headed to is on the water, and there’s room to set down right outside.
I bank the plane gently. She takes a quick breath, but this time instead of panic, her eyes light with wonder. Below us, the island of Puerto Rico spreads out. Rich green forest broken up by small towns, and further down, San Juan. We’re not heading for the city, but a small place just down the coast. Few know that it exists, and even fewer can afford it, but it’s been serving the wealthy all over the region for decades. Liz used to love it there.
“Getting hungry?” Breakfast was late this morning, practically lunch, but it’s been hours since then.
She nods.
“We have a reservation at a little hole in the wall here.” I glance at my watch. “We still have a little time, but I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
I touch down on the quiet bay soon after, explaining every step. To Liz’s credit, she manages the landing without looking too green. As we putter up to the pier, she unbuckles, eager to get out.
I see it the moment she realizes where we are. Shock and wonder flash across her face.
“But—this is—” She stops.
I want to shove the camera guy in the water and end this fucking charade. She isn’t fooling anyone, and
after hours of playing the fool, I want to have a conversation without the red-headed mask of a stranger between us.
“It’s what?” I prompt.
“It’s... It’s beautiful. I guess I wasn’t expecting something so fancy out here.”
“Right,” I bite out tersely. “Fancy.”
It’s not fancy. Not by a long shot.
What it is, thanks to my support and the owner’s genius, is a hell of a lot nicer than it was a decade ago. I turn away, needing to keep moving. I can’t stand here, look in her face and pretend she’s a stranger.
Liz
Hunter stalks off. Something’s got his panties in a wad, but I’m not sure what.
I look around, amazed. Of all the places they could have picked for our date, they managed to pick my favorite. Mom would bring me here for my birthdays. It’s almost too much of a coincidence, but I know Chef Dominguez is famous in the area, so sending us here might be exactly that. A coincidence.
Unless Hunter’s finally figured out that I’m, well, me.
Turning away from the worn wooden steps up the beach to the restaurant, I follow Hunter, catching up on the edge of the sand.
“I’ll race you to the point over there,” he says, not bothering to look at me.
“What? I don’t think either of us are dressed for racing.” I gesture down to my heels. I’d look like an idiot trying to even walk there through the sand.
“Not dressed for swimming. Not dressed for racing. I’m not sure you’ll make a very fun wife. Is there anything you are dressed for?” He throws his hands out with an exasperated sigh.
“I dunno... dinner? Light dancing maybe.”
“Lame. Fuck dinner.”
“I’d rather not, but if that’s your thing I suppose it’s better to find out sooner rather than later.”
With a laugh, he unties his shoes. “C’mon, you can do this. You’re scrappy.” His tone is teasing. “Unless you’re chicken.”
“What are you, twelve?” A smile comes unbidden to my lips. This is exactly what we were like at that age.
“Bok bok bok.” He imitates chicken sounds while peeling off his socks.
Two small kicks and I’m gone. His shoes are much more practical than mine, in every single way but one.
How easy they are to take off.
He’s still peeling off his other sock when I go for it, running down the sand as quickly as I can.
“Cheater!” He laughs and picks up the chase.
I know I don’t have a chance. He’s bigger than me, stronger than me, and I’m positive he’s faster than me. An early start is the only possible way I have to at least put in a good showing. It’s not exactly made for running, but I’m glad Amanda’s dress is only a little short on me, not short and tight.
I’m halfway there when he comes up behind me. The sand muffles our steps, but we’re both laughing as we run. Pulling on every little bit of power in my body, I literally pound sand in a hopeless attempt at getting to the small outcropping before him.
I don’t know why I bother. Suddenly he’s right next to me, still wearing one of his socks. That’s going to be horrible in his shoe later, so in a way, I did win. A little. He could pull past easily, but instead he matches speeds with me.
“What?” I gasp, barely getting words out between steps. “Not... enough... to... win?”
He grins, breathing fast but looking otherwise completely unaffected. Meanwhile, I think my chest is going to explode. Nope, I never had a chance.
We’re almost there, probably less than a hundred feet to go. I briefly consider tripping him, but odds are that I’d go down first if I try. Maybe if—
His hands suddenly swoop around my waist and pick me up. I yelp in surprise, but he barely slows down, carrying me like I weigh nothing, curled up in his arms. What is he—
“Hunter!” I pound my fist on his shoulder.
He ignores me until he’s at the water’s edge, where he stops. For a second, he moves as if to toss me into the water and I shriek, clinging to him.
“There. It’s a tie.”
I’m way too aware of his heartbeat under my hand, and his strong arms around me. I close my eyes and breathe him in, not even pulling away as he lowers me gently to the ground.
My toes are buried in the cool, damp sand, as we stand chest to chest. “You can let go,” I whisper.
“So can you,” he points out. “And what if I don’t want to?” He looks down at me, his face uncomfortably close to mine. He seems to have worked through whatever was bothering him earlier.
His lips come closer while his bright blue eyes dare me to stop him. A little kiss wouldn’t be so bad, right? It’s what I’d be expected to do if I was really a contestant. I’m not tricking him into anything. It’s what we both want.
My breath comes faster, and my face is warm, but it’s not from the run. My mouth opens slightly, and his lips brush against my own.
Oh God.
Panting gasps and heavy feet sound behind us. We freeze. The cameraman has caught up, and now the moment feels way too public. I’m sure it’d be great for ratings if I moved just a hair, and kissed him. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to share this moment with millions of people.
Hunter seems to agree. He pulls away with a regretful look on his face. “Later,” he mouths silently. Just a single word, but it’s so loaded with promise. My face isn’t the only thing warming up anymore.
Catching me off guard, he moves one arm to my waist, and the other to my shoulder, dipping me with what must look like great passion. My heart hammers wildly. Hunter has angled us so the camera can’t see our faces, but I’m sure it looks like an amazing kiss.
The kind of kiss I wish I was getting.
He whispers in my ear, “It’s for the viewers.” His hand drifts a little south, resting on my ass.
“The viewers?”
“Okay, mostly the viewers.” He swings me back to an upright position, both of us laughing.
We still have time to kill, so we take a walk down the shore. He asks me questions about my life, which makes me nervous, but I tell him little truths while hiding the big lie.
I’m twenty-five. I live in upstate New York. Not much family aside from a difficult mother I’m not close to. I went to college for a year, but left to start working in a dentist’s office.
A warm breeze washes in over us, keeping us comfortable. The day is peaceful and other than the occasional passing boat, it’s pretty quiet. At one point he puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. I let him, leaning my head against his shoulder.
Every single thing I say is true.
But I’m still a gigantic fraud.
Liz
I follow Hunter up the stairs to the restaurant. The sun hangs low in the sky, gold and orange stretching across the water, radiating from the horizon. Over the door, a small sign reads: Bienvenidos. Welcome. A message both modest and full of heart, just like the people who run the place.
Soft salsa music drifts out the windows, and the door swings wide almost as soon as Hunter knocks. A barrel chested man with steel grey hair and an infectious smile fills the doorway. His apron is tied tightly over his chef’s clothes, Chef is embroidered over his breast. No need for a name, there is only one in this house. Chef Dominguez.
He’s exactly as I remember him.
Throwing his hands out in a broad, welcoming gesture, he hurries us in. “Señor Campbell! So good to see you. It has been too long.” His accent is thick, but well-spoken, as always. They clasp hands and greet each other with a quick, friendly embrace. I’m included in Chef’s smile, but his eyes pass right over me without really stopping. My heart aches at being a stranger in a place I’d always felt at home. Somewhere in the last ten years, Hunter has smoothly slipped into the life that was supposed to be mine.
Maybe it’s unfair, but I hate him a little for it.
Chef Dominguez. Mr. Dobson. My island. My life. Is there anything I get to keep? I’m afraid to start poking aroun
d the house and find him sleeping in my old room.
“So, are you going to introduce me to your lovely lady friend?”
Hunter laughs. “Of course. Where are my manners? Chef, let me introduce you to the beauty that is gracing us with her presence this evening, the ravishing Miss Sarah Dreyer.” Hunter takes my left hand in his, and with his right at the small of my back, he propels me a step forward.
My name sounds fake and plastic coming out of his mouth. I hadn’t thought much beyond Hunter when I started this whole mess. Being introduced to a man I used to know feels somehow even more dishonest.
“Hello. It’s nice to meet you, Mr—” I catch myself before I blurt out his name. No one’s told me yet. My hand trembles slightly as he takes it in his calloused palm.
He smiles. “Just call me Chef.” When he gets a better look at me, he pauses, his bushy eyebrows narrowing and his forehead furrowing for a moment.
Crap, he’s recognized me.
He glances quickly between us a couple of times, then seems to decide and takes my hand in his. Raising it to his lips, he kisses it briefly, then beams at me. “Welcome to my humble restaurant, Señorita Dreyer. Please, call me Chef.” He’s always been like that. I’m not sure anyone knows his real first name. He might even have forgotten it.
Just then, his wife emerges from the kitchen, with a smile every bit as welcoming as his. At least until she turns to him and says sharply, “Chef, let our poor customers in. I’m sure they’re not interested in standing in the doorway all day.”
Does she call him Chef in the bedroom too? I giggle at the thought.
“Yes, Maria.” He laughs and steps aside, guiding us with a slight bow and a sweep of his arm. “Please, enter.” He glances over his shoulder and then pretend-whispers to me, “And don’t be alarmed at my wife’s tone. She is really quite sweet.”
Maria rolls her eyes dramatically and disappears back into the kitchen. “Tonto,” slips out before the door slides shut. It’s the most loving way I’ve ever heard anyone call someone an idiot.
