Page 51 of Where You Are
“Mistake number one: letting your guard down. And besides, old habits die hard.”
“Noted. But look, no offense, I really want to be alone right now and I don’t want to be carried.”
“So do I,” he shrugs and sighs with volumes of exasperation. “And you can be alone as soon as you’re home. And I’m not carrying you. I’m going to drive you in one of the staff carts,” he informs me, walking slowly beside me as I limp my way to shore. I’m not going to win this one, and it will be nice to get back to my room quicker without having to struggle.
“Okay,” I agree quietly as we approach the end of the dock.
“Wait here,” he orders, a little more gently than before, I notice. He heads over to a small nearby lot where several golf carts are parked and pulls a ring of keys out of the pocket of his shorts. It only takes him a minute to start one up, maneuver it out of its space and drive back over to me. I climb in and point him in the direction of the staff quarters.
We ride in silence for a minute, and I watch the ocean through the bushes and trees, lush with fragrant floral blooms that we breeze by. I look up to catch glimpses of the stars through the palms. They’re brilliant tonight and give me an unexpected flashback to being at the lake house, making love with Matt underneath them. My heart aches at the memory and I feel a sudden, desperate need to shake out of it.
“So…” I chance a little small talk with my chauffeur in the hopes it will distract me. “You’re an asshole?”
I can tell I took him by surprise by the way his head tilts back slightly and his eyebrows pull together, yet I see a small hint of an incredulous smirk.
“Yes,” he affirms with a sharp nod. No elaboration.
“Why?” I push, just a little. He lifts a shoulder, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“It’s good repellent.”
“For what? People?” No answer. “Maybe I should try that,” I voice out loud, as I turn away from him and face forward again, indicating I’m letting the idea of conversation fall by the wayside. I catch him cast me a brief, pensive glance in my peripheral before returning his focus to the path we’re riding along.
“It’s here,” I point to the building Tash and I are living in after a few more moments of silence, and he veers onto its path. I direct him to our door just a little ways down from the end. He puts it in park as I climb out and turn to regard him.
“Well, thank you… for everything…?” I awkwardly trail off when I realize I never got his name.
“Ben,” he supplies.
“Melanie,” I gesture a hand at myself. “Thank you, Ben.” He responds with a nod and I make my way gingerly around the front of the cart. I’m almost to the door when I hear him speak.
“Jamie Marie.”
“What?” I turn to look at him.
“The name of my boat,” he answers simply, his eyes on mine for only the third time of the night.
I nod thoughtfully. “It’s pretty.”
He drops his gaze and lets out a breath. “So was she.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Melanie
My moodonly sours over the next couple of days as the cut on my foot has thrown a wrench in the morning run portion of my daily routine. That was one of the few and biggest things that kept my spirits from taking a dive and kept all the troubling thoughts at bay. And after what I saw on the magazine cover the other day, I sure could use it right now.
Don’t get me wrong, I want Matt to be happy, but it still hurts something fierce seeing him with another woman.
Having a beachside breakfast picnic on a blanket with Sasha doesn’t make matters any worse however. I know she can tell my disposition has slipped a little over the past couple of days even if she hasn’t mentioned it, which I’m glad for. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m trying to just look at it as a setback and let her do what she feels the need to, which is heap attention on me.
I’m picking at a croissant when she jerks her chin toward a tall figure approaching us, backlit by the sun.
“Here come Dr. Personality,” she quietly announces, amending his name in accordance with how he fixed up my cut the other night.
He stops in front of our blanket and towers wordlessly for a moment before speaking. I truly believe the ‘asshole’ act is just that, and that he’s not trying to give off an ominous impression, but his social skills are definitely rusty.
“Found the culprit,” he finally offers up in the same bored tone from the other night as he tosses a broken piece of brown glass on the blanket beside me.