Love Me Love Me Knot Page 11

  She straightened back up and faced Ryan who was leaning his back against the railing. “What do you want to do?”

  Sophie bit her lip. That tour sign led to something promising. Very likely ample, untouched unique valuables would be everywhere. Maybe she’d find a priceless artifact washed ashore on the beach. But how could she slip down to the shoreline unnoticed? She huffed as the kayak sign grew more promising than just a stroll on the beach. A plan formed in her mind, but first she needed to ditch Ryan. She didn’t want him tagging along to try and talk her out of it.

  She scanned the vendors, searching for a diversion.

  A long line snaked from a standalone, refrigerated cart with an umbrella shading it. A six-foot-tall pineapple cardboard cutout stood next to it advertising some sort of pineapple smoothie goodness.

  “Actually, I’m parched.” She gestured toward the cart. “Those drinks look really refreshing. Mind getting me one?” She batted her lashes for good measure.

  “Yeah, sure. Anything to eat? Looks like your only choice is fish tacos, wrapped in a fried tortilla.

  “Gross.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m starving.” He graced her with a heart-stopping grin then disappeared into the crowd.

  A twinge of guilt swirled through her. He was being so nice, and she was ditching him. But for good reason. He had been very clear last night that the scavenger hunt was off limits, not that he was her boss. But if he knew what she was up to, it would put him in an uncomfortable position. He’d have to pick loyalty to her or loyalty to his job. And she knew from past experience, Ryan was a career first kind of man.

  But her girls came before anything. She shoved the guilt aside and ducked behind a tall man with an oversized straw hat, shadowing him until she reached the stone stairs that led down to the beach.

  “Would you mind taking our picture, miss?” a nerdy tourist-to-the-T asked, shoving a gargantuan camera in her hands, breaching her bubble.

  Sophie took a huge step back and apprehensively accepted the Nikon. She’d seen enough Dateline episodes where con artists use the non-threatening ploy of asking favors of an unsuspecting stranger before they put a pillowcase over the tourist’s head and ship them to a foreign country.

  However, between this guy’s enthusiastic nodding that bordered Tourette’s, and his overly white legs blinding her, he lacked way too much stealth to be an efficient kidnapper.

  “Of course.” Sophie grinned, using this as an excuse to make sure Ryan was in line. And he was. Sophie held the camera up and brought the family into focus. All four members looked disturbingly alike. Four redheaded, freckled-faced lookalikes with glasses and cherry lips stared back at her. They were like a little pack of nerdlings.

  “Say cheese.” As the family came into focus so did the details of what she would use to find her winning scavenger hunt item. Down the steps that led to the far end of La Bufadora’s shoreline, her opportunity waded in the water. Four snapshots later, she handed the camera to the littlest redhead who had more freckles on his face than sand on the beach. Cute little nerdling.

  A group of tourists in kayaks floated by with a tour guide directing them when to paddle and how to maneuver. She followed the tour sign to a booth made from driftwood and two-by-fours. Its wood was cracked and faded from the sun, which convinced Sophie the business had been around long enough to offer safe boats.

  She approached the guy manning the kayaks, ignoring the momentous warning sign flashing in the forefront of her mind.

  So what if she had never operated a kayak in her life, how hard could it be? Kayaks peppered the ocean, their occupants looked like they were having the time of their lives. If these tourists could do it, so could she. She’d just do what she always did . . . sink until she swam.

  ~ ~ ~

  “You ever operate one of these?” a tour guide asked. He handed her the release and liability paperwork on a clipboard.

  “Absolutely,” Sophie lied. If she had a nickel for every fib she’d uttered on this trip, the café’s debt would likely be paid in full.

  “I’m Jaime.” His fresh face and thick eyebrows pegged him about twenty years old. His lack of a Spanish accent told Sophie he’d worked in tourism his whole life. Probably the family business.

  Jaime cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled to an older man with salt and pepper hair helping a couple into a two-seater kayak, probably his father. “Papa, which kayak?”

  Yep, father and son duo. Sophie subconsciously patted herself on her back.

  “Only have number nine right now,” the dad hollered back. His accent was thick. “Unless she waits an hour.”

  Jaime narrowed his eyes. “Just how good of a kayaker are you?”

  What an odd question. “How good do you want me to be?”

  His crooked smile may as well have been a forewarning. “I’m asking because we only have one kayak available right now. It has a bit of split personality, if you get my drift.”

  Sophie shook her head. “Not exactly.”

  “Well, it occasionally pulls left when you direct it right, hence the ‘split personality.’ But if you’re experienced, it won’t be problem.” He took the clipboard back from Sophie and scribbled some notes. “If you wait an hour, another group will be back and you can have a perfectly well-mannered kayak.”

  Part of Sophie’s job included snap decisions. She’d never heard of kayaks with split personalities. She had learned tennis and bocce ball in one afternoon. In fact, she was bocce ball junior champion her senior year of college. She’d pick up kayaking just as fast.

  “Of course,” she lied again. “I kayak all the time. Like all the time. In rivers, oceans, streams, swimming pools.” Pools? “Ah-hem, I mean, you know, all sorts of water. I’m a great kayaker,” she finished lamely.

  Jaime narrowed his gaze and handed her back the clipboard.

  Her heart sank. Rejected.

  “You didn’t put down an emergency contact.” He pointed to the empty space on the form.

  “Oh.” She feigned a smile. “Right. How could I forget that? Safety first, right?” Taking the clipboard she couldn’t think of whom to put down. Amy’s number was in her cell phone, which was probably mocking her from her room. With Grandmoo’s health, she couldn’t help even if she wanted to. Red was in the States and likely still unavailable. Ficus.

  She gritted her teeth and scribbled Ryan’s name and cell number before good sense had a chance to set in. His contact info was on the itinerary when they boarded the ship. Sure, her photographic memory kicked in now.

  Jaime handed her an XXL-sized life jacket. She eyed the beast and wondered if he noticed the problem.

  “Um, Jaime?” Sophie dangled the life jacket over the kiosk desk. “Do you happen to have a smaller size?”

  He slid his sunglasses down his nose. “Sure, sweets. If you wait an hour.”

  Sophie sighed. “Never mind, this is perfect. Thanks.”

  She pulled the straps as tight as they would go, but she still swam in the orange tent. Oh well, details and all.

  The older man pushed kayak number nine into the water, and then smiled, gesturing for Sophie to get in. He held out his hands mimicking holding the paddle and swayed his arms from side to side.

  Sophie mirrored him. “Like this?”

  “Si.” He placed one foot on the kayak and kicked it into the slow current. Figuring out how to paddle was the easy part. Learning the oversized plantain would only go in circles was a bit more of a challenge. When the kayak banked left, she stabbed the water, forcing it to the right. But it still drifted left. “Split personality my butt,” she bit out. “This thing is full-blown bi-polar.”

  Sophie’s face grew hot as she continually dipped the bright red paddle on the right side of the kayak. She bit out a curse when it formed a figure eight. �
�What is the matter with you?” she asked, as if she expected an explanation for its behavior.

  Sophie’s arms grew heavy and tired. This was worse than hard labor. She’d once shoveled wet cement when helping Grandmoo pour a driveway, and that required less effort than this. She dropped her chin, glaring at her problem. The life jacket. It refused to give her the maneuverability to fight the bi-polar banana. She squirmed out of the vest and tossed it in the empty space behind her. Finally she could move.

  While a few perfectly seasoned kayakers pointed and laughed, she finally got the beast to straighten out. With a little cooperation, the oversized yellow banana glided smoothly toward the blowhole. It had mustered manners under her watch, thank you very much.

  Now that she had control, Sophie searched the likely untouched shore for something unique. A yellow warning flag flapped in the light breeze. Under it was a sign cautioning: ALTO/STOP. Yellow signified proceed with caution. Red was a command. Sophie lifted a shoulder. No red flags here.

  Ignoring the additional two lines of miniscule printed words about changing currents, she paddled toward the shore. Maybe she would find ancient pirate’s treasure or a Victorian ruby or an eighteenth-century fishing lure. Did they have lures back then? Who cared? As long as she didn’t stumble upon any human remains, she’d be happy with whatever.

  Just yards from shore, the kayak veered toward the blowhole. She stuck the paddle in the water to turn. At first, it pivoted back toward her waiting booty, championing Team Sophie. Until the beast jerked hard.

  Adrenaline pelted warning shots straight through Sophie’s skin. “No you don’t.” She clenched the paddle, assessing the water’s new route.

  The current apparently also suffered from bi-polar disorder. It abruptly changed directions like a train jumping tracks. She stabbed the water with the paddle blade and fought. “No you don’t, I said!”

  Sophie squirmed in her seat, leaning against the side closest to land. The harder she pushed against the current, the easier the paddle leveraged her body, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Her muscles screamed while the vessel pulled in the wrong direction.

  With her back now facing the blowhole, it didn’t take a nautical genius to explain how very dangerous this was. “Stop it!” she yelled at the kayak. Her palms burned against the hot, plastic shaft as she tried to adjust course one more time.

  “No, señorita,” a voice called in the distance. It was Jaime. “You’ve gone too far.”

  Thank you, Captain Obvious. The boat swirled around, and the blowhole opened its mouth to spit in her face.

  “You okay?” Jaime hollered, sounding more like a laugh than a concern. “Just sit straight and paddle backwards,” he said, all calm and stupid and stuff.

  “I can’t,” she called back. “How do you turn it?”

  “Put your vest back on.”

  Good idea. It didn’t matter the floatation device was big enough to fit the Loch Ness monster. Better she wear it than end up meeting Nessie in the depths below the blowhole.

  Jaime’s voice neared but Sophie didn’t dare turn around to see how close. She reached for the oversized life vest, but her paddle slipped off her lap and into the water. “Dang it!”

  She swung back around to grab it, but the current moved too quickly. The paddle was just an inch away. Sophie leaned further. Further. Just as her fingertips nicked it, the kayak tipped, dumping her into the water.

  “Ficus!” Cold water snatched her breath away like a punch to the gut. The current pushed Sophie in the direction of the blowhole. Then something slimy and squirmy touched her foot. “Ew!” A shark . . . or an eel . . . or a corpse!

  A million tiny needles stabbed every inch of her body. The current tugged her under and she nearly choked on a mouthful of salt water. What was it with her and water?

  Sophie gritted her teeth against the cold and kicked her legs. “Gawd, that’s cold!”

  The kayak drifted in the opposite direction, mocking her on its way to the blowhole, taking the life preserver and any hope she had of finding an item with it. Had the water been as Caribbean blue as Ryan’s eyes and the temperature a balmy eighty-six point five degrees, she might have tried to save it, but not now. Only the truly insane would swim toward the blowhole without a life vest or boat or tequila shots.

  The blowhole would eventually suck in and then spit out the kayak. That was the good news. The bad news . . . well, there went her deposit. Flushed down the deep, dark, proverbial toilet. With no unique item to show for it.

  Resolved to not freeze to death like in her all-time favorite movie Titanic, she bit down on the cold and put her butt in gear, cutting through the frigid water toward shore.

  The girls’ faces flashed through her mind, one after the other. Hot frustration set in. How could she give up so easily? She couldn’t let them down. She needed a stupid trinket. Something she certainly wouldn’t get now.

  Not unless . . . What if she got something mundane—like a rock or piece of coral—and a story? Sophie grinned as the idea took hold. She stopped swimming, took another deep breath, and like a stupid tourist, dove underwater.

  An abrupt tug on her tank top thwarted her forward efforts.

  “Let’s go, Nemo,” Jaime said. He’d come out of nowhere in a scanty, motorized raft.

  Sophie jerked against his hold. “But I need— just give me a second.”

  Jaime’s lobster grip wouldn’t relent, but he laughed. “So, you’re an expert kayaker who can’t navigate a piece of plastic that turns on a dime?”

  She did not appreciate his condescending tone. “That thing did not turn on a dime.”

  Jaime, an infuriating grin on his face, shook his head. “Hold on, I’ll help you in,” he said, angling the boat toward the wrong shore.

  Sophie’s teeth chattered as she looked over her shoulder at the abandoned beach that stole all her hopes and dreams.

  Hot tears welled up against her icy skin. She had come so far. She’d sacrificed so much—near drowning in the ship’s pool, Asher’s smug confidence, Ryan searching for her with a melting pineapple smoothie, and all the lies. She groaned. So many lies.

  Something shinny floated near her leg. Was it unique? Creative? She had to have it.

  Sophie lurched forward. Wrapping her fingers around a slick, hard object, just as a rip had her sucking in another lungful of salt water.

  Jaime stared at her bobbing half naked in the ocean, then at her tank top still in his vise grip. A slow grin spread across his face. “Don’t move.”

  She glared at him. How could she when she was too busy covering her chest?

  He whipped out his cell phone and snapped a picture. The grin turned devilish as his thumbs raced across the phone’s screen. He flipped the phone around so she could see his Instagram account. Finding Nemo captioned her picture. “Some things that happen in La Bufadora don’t stay in La Bufadora.”

  Ficus.

  Chapter 14

  Webster’s Dictionary could most definitely portray Sophie’s face beneath the definition of “humiliated.” Not only did she fail to find anything for the scavenger hunt, but thanks to Captain Jaime with his vise grip of death, it also robbed her of a trinket opportunity and left her shirtless. This could not get any worse.

  “Sophie?” She locked eyes with Ryan. His perfectly square jaw tensed as he waited next to the kayak kiosk. Seriously?

  A knot wound in Sophie’s chest. Now things couldn’t get any worse.

  He held a pineapple drink in either hand. His brows pulled together as if to ask a million questions, none of which would be helpful at this moment. He landed on the safest question. “Are you okay?”

  She wrapped her arms around her chest, the stinging vulnerability of her situation in plain view. “You bet.”

  His sunglasses were set on top
of his head, the look of concern etched in his Caribbean eyes. His fitted shirt accentuated his broad chest and his denim jeans wrapped firmly around his thighs. He looked like a rugged, exotic model posing for an island getaway brochure.

  Someone who looked like that should not be waiting for a wet, matted dog like her. She set her jaw. She was not that twenty-year-old anymore. She was a grown adult with self-respect. Well, as soon as she found a shirt, she’d find some self-respect and she would rock it.

  Sophie stepped out of the motorized raft. Her soaked shoes squeaked with each step. A rush of cool air, or maybe a cold sweat, reminded her that her tank top was lost at sea, God rest its soul. A twinge of vulnerability stabbed her in the gut. Not the purge twinge, but the crawling under a rock twinge.

  “Here,” Jaime’s dad, who had a caterpillar under his nose posing as a mustache, growled. A stress vein bulged from his red forehead. He tossed her a towel and a fuchsia-colored shirt, then helped Jaime drag the raft onto dry land.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled and stepped behind the kiosk. Wishing she could summon the patron saint of humiliation to douse her with brimstone and firewater, Sophie all but accepted the shirt’s graphic as her penance: a gloriously illuminate yellow arrow pointing directly at her face. It read: ‘I Kayaked With Stupid.’ Appalling . . . and yet, weirdly appropriate.

  She rolled her eyes and yanked the shirt over her head. It hung to her mid thighs. Two of her could have fit in it and still be roomy.

  Sophie bunched the fabric together and tied the side of shirt into a knot so at least her shorts were visible.

  Now to face Ryan. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the path. He stood there looking too handsome and too touchable. She forced her feet forward, aware of each step like she was on a walk of shame.