“I’m not feeling so well.”
“Girl, you look flushed.” She places the back of her hand against my forehead, her eyes filling with concern. “You’re sweating.” She would be too if she saw what I did and then got caught. “You need to go to Dr. Blaise. Maybe you caught the same sickness as the others.” The person’s shift I’m covering is out sick.
I shake my head. That won’t be necessary. “It’s not that serious.” Dr. Blaise creeps me out. He’s an old man that stares at me like I’m a buffet, waiting to be devoured. I’d like to tell him I’m rotten meat so he’ll stop. That is the last place I want to go. “Actually, I must have needed a break. I’m already better.”
She eyes me, crossing her arms over her chest. This was a stupid idea. One thing about Mama Doe, she can smell a lie. That’s one of the prime reasons she’s referred to as Mama Doe. She sees all and hears all.
“What has you rattled, girl?”
A man, built like a god.
“Your face is turning red.” Her howling laugh ripples out. “Did you walk in on something?”
It happens. I’ve learned while working at a hotel, there are some guests who like being caught in the act. Some things you can’t ever unsee. Except, we’re supposed to exit with a hushed sorry and act like nothing ever happened.
Not take a second peek.
Mama Doe goes back to her cart, grabs the window cleaner, all while chuckling and shaking her head. “Girl, you’ve been here long enough to see everything. Go back to work.”
I drop my chin and nod. Forget what happened and treat this like any other incident. All I need to do is make a note on the room order that the guest was busy and tonight’s staff will return to his room later. Crisis averted. Except, hopefully, he won’t remember waking to the peeping cleaning lady.
Chapter Two
Aspen
“Manu, please help.” Dante gets down on one knee on the beach, his smile reaching his brown eyes. I push his tattooed shoulder, and he falls back into a roll, hopping up to a standing position, arms out wide. A few hotel guests clap in the distance as if we’re putting on a show. It doesn’t help that he takes a bow.
“Would you stop? And stop calling me that. We’re not kids anymore. I have a name.”
“If I call you by your actual name, will you help? Ari’s sick and I can’t take out ten people by myself.” Is everyone sick on this island? He follows me as I make my morning delivery to one of the many hotels on my list.
I let out an exasperated sigh, knowing he won’t give up. “What time?” If I didn’t need money, it’d be easier to say no.
The boat glides to the dock at the upscale resort. Dante hops out to grab the list of passengers from the excursion desk and round them up. Rather than help him, I use the time to mentally prepare for the foreigners by pulling out masks and snorkel gear, throwing them in a pile to hand out. Most people are nice, but there’s those that ask too many questions, or end up getting seasick, or worse, hit on me.
Why did I agree to help Dante? Money. Just remember it’s about the money.
As I bend over, the breeze whips my wild hair, right into my mouth. “Merde,” I sputter as I fish out a lone strand of hair on my tongue.
“Is that Tahitian?” A deep voice comes from behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, my heart stops beating as I stare into the eyes of the naked man from yesterday. Except he’s not naked now. He’s wearing turquoise board shorts and a white t-shirt that fits him like a glove, especially around his biceps.
I jerk around, redistributing the gear from one spot to another to make it seem like I still had a job to do. Without turning, I reply, “French.”
As he talks to Dante, I grip the edge of the boat and take a few calming breaths.
This is not good. Not good at all.
The boat drifts from the dock. I push up on my feet and spin in place, swallowing the panic lodged in my throat before speaking. “Where is everyone else?” Our only guest stretches out on the rear bench of the empty boat, his long muscular legs out in front of him and arms across the back. Dante steps to the boat controls, starts the engine, ignoring the fact I’m about to implode.
“I didn’t want to be with a bunch of people,” the guy answers as a matter-of-fact, completely uninterested in us as he stares out to the water. Can he do that? Dante is a charter boat for excursions, not a private rental.
I glance at Dante and he shrugs. “Simple day for us.”
No. No, it’s not.
I slink down the seat in front of the captain's chair, wrapping my hair up in a bun, saltwater misting me as we glide over waves. My mind replays yesterday morning and I try to erase the thoughts from my brain. Who am I kidding? It’s been on repeat since I ran out of there, and that was before he was a mere three feet from me. Now, I’m stuck with him on a boat for five hours.
“Manu.”
I shift and glare at Dante as the boat slows. At what age will he stop calling me by my childhood nickname?
He tilts his head to the guy. “Offer him some water.”
“Why don’t you?” The words fall out of my mouth and Dante’s eyes widen in surprise. I even surprised myself. This goes against everything they taught us. Mama Doe would be disappointed.
I blow out an irritated breath and grab water from the ice chest. “Would you like some water?” I hold it out and he angles his face to me. I can’t see his eyes from behind his sunglasses, but I can sense them dragging up my body, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake.
I’m used to men staring at my body. A long time ago, I learned that foreigners see the body as a sexual tool, one that got me a lot of things. Except the one thing I wanted most; a way to escape the island. Tools are meant to be used when needed. Men didn’t need me once they left. I was part of the experience. But not anymore. That’s the old me.
“Thanks,” he says, taking the bottle from me. I ignore the spark inside my belly when his warm fingers touch mine.
Don’t go down that path again, Aspen. He’s off-limits.
I swore men like him off years ago.
Dante gives me a quizzical look when I wrap a pareo around me. The colorful cloth hides my bikini-clad body, which is strange since we’ll be in the water shortly. And I’m not shy. I shrug a shoulder. “The wind is chilly today.”
“Eaha te tumu?” he asks, lowering his sunglasses on his nose, dipping his head. Dante has been my best friend since we were little. And we’ve lived together in the past. Sometimes I hate that he can read me like a book. Like right now. Covering my body usually means I feel guilty for something.
“Nothing is wrong,” I answer quietly. Even though I grew up here and speak fluent Tahitian, my father forbids it. He allows only French or English. But the French only comes out when I’m excited or mad. Dante’s eyes narrow, not believing it for a second. “Fine. I used salt instead of sugar in one batch of cookies last night,” I fib. “You know I hate when they come out bad.”
His laugh carries above the wind, causing the man to turn his attention to us. “Manu, please tell me you gave them out.” I gasp that he finds my lie amusing. The guys would love for me to give foreigners messed-up cookies. That’d give them a story to tell for decades.