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“So it’ll probably work best if you just paddle, however you can, and I’ll make sure I counter your strokes to keep us moving in a straight line.” Sawyer’s already alternating as he paddles, left, right, left, and when I twist and glare at him he’s watching where my paddle dips into the water, focusing so intently that it’s like keeping us going in a straight line is a mathematical formula that requires Einstein-level genius and concentration.
“Tell me, do you feel everyone’s skills are inferior to yours, or do you reserve this level of condescension just for me?”
His jaw drops, and I read panic in his eyes. “You just—I didn’t take you for—”
I skim my hand over the water and flick droplets off my fingertips at his face. “Relax. I get that you don’t think the writer can do outdoorsy things. But it’s just kayaking. It’s a pretty chill activity—lots of people do it.”
“Noted. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. But don’t think you’re going to sit there and judge my skills the whole time. I’m an excellent stroker.”
Fuck. Me. I feel my cheeks burn red, and his mouth gapes and closes, then gapes and closes again, like he’s trying to figure out the wittiest possible response without crossing a line. I whip back around so I don’t have to see the smile on his lips or the mischievous glint in his eyes.
We’ve traveled literally four feet, probably all of which are due to the water’s gentle movement, because we’ve spent the whole time bickering instead of actually practicing. The guides, John and Denny, call us back together, and we form a haphazard convoy with one guide leading us and one in the rear. This is leisurely, they remind us. We’re not going for Olympic gold.
Sawyer doesn’t seem to get the memo, because he paddles deftly, advancing us past three of the seven other boats. I sabotage his efforts by dragging my paddle in the water, and I nearly lose it twice. It also causes us to turn sideways.
“I thought you were excellent at stroking,” he huffs behind me. There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, but it’s definitely not reflected on the face of the woman in the kayak next to ours, with her pre-teen son sitting in front of her.
“I’m so sorry about him,” I say, jerking my head toward Sawyer. The mom rolls her eyes and steers away from us, and I feel our boat shaking with Sawyer’s laughter. I flick him with water again, and he retaliates in grand fashion by scooping water into the slight curve of his paddle and pouring it onto my leg.
“Jerk,” I mumble, editing myself, avoiding the name I want to call him because I don’t want this woman to be even angrier with me for cussing in front of her child.
I wonder: If I chanced a look back, would he wink at me? Would that playfulness from our first meeting be spread across his face? I’d love to know, but I can’t look back, because I don’t want him to see what’s written on my own face. Best to stare straight ahead, paddle left-right-left, and pretend that I’m not at all enjoying his ridiculous antics.
The next hour is mild—touring the harbor, learning about sea turtles and the island—and then we round a bend into a cove larger than the one where we started. The land around us here is different. Earthier, with more mud than sand, more trees than houses on the banks. The water is brown and deeper-looking, full of sediment and mystery, unlike the clear shallows where we started. We stay close to the shoreline.
“Do you think there are snakes out here?” When the question escapes Sawyer’s lips, it’s barely a whisper. I turn, as much as I can, to look at him, and his face is Casper-white. I think he’s just revealed his biggest fear, the way he stares at the land.
“No,” I answer. “I’m pretty sure there are not.”
He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “But you can’t be sure.”
“We’re on an island, barely twenty square miles, hundreds of miles from any other land mass. How would snakes have gotten here?”
His eyes move to mine, and they’re so full of worry I want to put my arms around him and tell him it’ll be alright, like Gram did for me when I was seven and had night terrors during a sleepover at her house. Instead I just smile, and I watch his tension dissolve.
“That’s a good point,” he offers.
“I know.”
“You’re smart.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“For a romance writer,” he says. But his lips curl upward, and this teasing, playful version of him is back.
I want to splash him, want to dip my paddle into the harbor and pull it back hard, letting water rush off the blade and onto his leg. If I pull back far enough, draw my shoulder blades close together, let the paddle drip closer to his waist than his knee, I could make him look like he peed himself, and wouldn’t that be hilarious?
Just as I’m about to do it—my grip is tight and I’m biting my lip so premature laughter doesn’t betray my intentions—movement in the water startles me. I bobble the paddle but recover, though now the whole kayak has shifted, and I brace my feet against the foot pegs to steady myself.
“You okay up there, Madam Expert?” Sawyer asks. There’s so much mockery in his voice that I really regret not having been able to carry out my plan.
“I’m fine. I just… I thought I saw something.” I peer over the edge, looking for whatever it was that caught my attention just a moment ago.
“It’s not a sea snake, is it? Because those could be here, right?”
“No, I don’t think so. It was… whoa.” I tuck the paddle next to my leg. The plastic side of the boat is warm under my hands, and I crane my neck, still steadied by my feet, to look at what’s just below the water’s surface a few feet ahead.
