He belongs in neither of the two groups. An entity unto himself. He’s too young to really fit in with the directors, and also he lives in staff housing like the rest of us. It’s tricky, though, because he also doesn’t quite fit in my world either. The very idea of him shooting the shit with Blaze or Théo or Oscar . . . it’s inconceivable.

  Still . . .

  “I guess . . . if you wanted . . .” I’m forcing the words. They’re thick and heavy on my tongue. It’s like someone’s holding a gun to my head.

  He frowns like he’s disappointed with me, and then he shakes his head. It’s nothing new.

  Before I can say anything else, he turns and walks away.

  Chapter Two

  PAIGE

  It’s no coincidence that I’ve found myself working at a place like Siesta Playa. My parents are both marine biologists actively working in the field, i.e., two absolute kooks who’d rather be swimming alongside sea turtles than having to deal with real live people. I’m surprised they even wanted a kid. Though lovely and supportive, they were ill prepared to offer me a structured childhood of any sort. My adolescent years were spent globe-trotting, hopping from school to school, friend group to friend group. They didn’t see why a child should slow them down. Need two researchers to explore the Indian Ocean? Great! Paige knows how to swim; it should be fine.

  Their adventure-loving ways clearly rubbed off on me because even in college, I never settled down for long. I studied abroad in Portugal and New Zealand and spent a year at sea after graduation before deciding that there was just something . . . missing.

  A part of me worried I was only living that way of life because it’s all I knew, not because it necessarily made me happy. In practice, it’s harder than it sounds to be that casual and carefree. Logistically, it’s a nightmare trying to figure out where exactly you’ll be from one week to the next. Also, there’s a real loneliness that accompanies that way of life. You end up feeling like a perpetual tourist, as if you don’t really belong anywhere. Living only for the thrill of new adventures eventually starts to get old, and more than anything, I felt myself longing for lasting connections and a place I could get used to. Becoming a regular at a coffee shop—having someone call out to me, “Vanilla latte, extra shot?”—started to sound way more exotic than stuffing clothes into a backpack and taking off to parts unknown.

  I wanted roots. I wanted routine. I wanted a home.

  I decided if I was going to be in one place for a long time, I’d better pick somewhere amazing. So that’s how I decided the island life was for me.

  I’ve been in Turks and Caicos for a year, and I love it. There’s still plenty of adventure. Every day, it’s something different—between sunbathing on Long Bay Beach, exploring the caverns of the Conch Bar Caves, and snorkeling the Grand Turk Wall—I can see myself being here for a long, long time.

  It helps that I like my job and coworkers. Unfortunately, my position pays absolute crap. Like some days it feels like I’m paying them to let me work here, but our food and housing are covered, and I otherwise make do. There’s a real camaraderie among us, a One for all and all for one vibe, as evidenced by tonight’s bonfire.

  I’ve scrounged around my dorm to find an unopened bottle of wine and two cans of beer. Someone else will surely bring more alcohol and hopefully some good snacks. I’m crossing my fingers for marshmallows, because what’s the point of sitting around a fire without them?

  Théo and Oscar already have a nice setup going when I get down to the beach. As the unofficial party planners, they dug a firepit and brought a few chairs. Nothing else is required, really. The island does the rest of the heavy lifting. The sun’s putting on a show as it drops down toward the horizon, gifting us a cotton candy sky, pink and orange and so beautiful I stop for a second to stare at it. I’ll never get enough. The turquoise water is calm as the waves roll in, and the sand is soft. I slip off my sandals to traipse barefoot toward the guys.

  Unlike me, Théo’s from here, born and raised on the island. Oscar’s a transplant from Australia. They both work on the golf course, which never fails to make me smile because of what a contradiction it is. All day at work they’re stuck wearing pressed polos and khakis. Oscar hides his buzzed neon-blue hair beneath a Siesta Playa baseball cap so the guests are none the wiser. Théo’s totally tatted from wrist to collarbone, but you’d never know it when he’s wearing his long-sleeved uniform shirts. Tonight, though, we can just be ourselves. Oscar’s wearing board shorts and a tank top. Théo’s in cargo shorts and a vintage-looking band T-shirt.

  I stop in front of them and dip down in a dramatic curtsy like they’re two kings and I’m a mere peasant.

  “I bestow upon you two lukewarm beers,” I tease, handing each of them one as a thank-you for setting up the bonfire for the rest of us.

  “Damn, I’ll take it,” Oscar says, cracking it open right away.

  “How can I help?” I ask, surveying the cluster of chairs and pile of miscellaneous snacks and drinks.

  “You can regale us with a story about your day,” Théo replies with a smile. His teeth aren’t perfectly straight, but his crooked smile only adds to his charm. “Heard you got an earful at the excursion desk.”

  “You could say that.” I groan. “Have you dealt with the Daughertys much this week?”

  “Just the husband. He’s been at the golf course every day hiding out from his wife.”

  “Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Someone said Cole came to your rescue, though . . . ,” Oscar chimes in with a knowing smile.

  “Hardly.”

  Théo laughs and points me toward the stack of chairs. “Want to set those up for us?”

  “On it!”

  I’m one of the first people here by design. I have a strategy for tonight that includes giving Blaze easy access to me. Spatially, that is. I don’t want to be stuck squashed between two occupied beach chairs, so I purposefully lay out my towel on a nice patch of sand near the water with plenty of space on either side of me, and I wait.

  The sun has fully set before more people arrive. I’m immensely relieved to see Camila and Lara stroll up. They’re two sisters from Florida who started working here about the same time I did a year ago. They’re slightly older than me, and a packaged duo, but they’re always nice about letting me tag along with them when they go out to clubs and bars.

  They’re stunning, like stun-ning. They have long dark hair and sultry eyes. We could not be more polar opposite. My big blue eyes don’t scream sex; they eagerly shout, Hi there! Lookin’ for a friend?

  They always modify their work uniforms to somehow make them less cheesy, and their after-work clothes are always edgy and cool, the types of outfits I wouldn’t even begin to know how to put together. Like, is that a shirt or a dress? Shorts or Spanx? Also, ARE WE STILL WEARING HIGH-RISE JEANS OR NOT? Someone help!

  I’m shocked they have anything to do with me, what with my hiking gear, workout clothes, and sports bras. What few dresses I own are hand-me-downs from them. When I first arrived here, they took one look at my closet and gasped in horror.

  “Where are the clothes for when you go out?” Lara asked with thinly veiled disdain as she frantically leafed through my sensible moisture-wicking workout shirts.

  I pointed to some jean shorts and then belatedly remembered that I also had a simple black tank top buried in my bag somewhere, yet to be unpacked. I held it up, proud. Lara signed the cross over her chest and shot up a silent prayer on my behalf.

  Since then, Camila and Lara have decided that it’s their sole mission in life to dress me up like I’m their own personal Barbie. It’s, in their words, “a travesty” to let my body go to waste.

  “Your legs! That waist! These breasts!”

  I mostly let them play dress-up with me because it’s fun and secretly I love that they’re willing to help me out. They’re sexy, and they make me feel like I can be sexy too. So I’m extra glad when they decide to lay their beach blanket out near me.

  Tonight, to appease them and, okay . . . to step a little out of my comfort zone, I wore one of their old dresses to the bonfire. It’s this tight lavender minidress with a thin tie that knots behind my neck. I felt a little silly when I first put it on—what with so much skin showing—so before I left my dorm, I threw on a denim jacket over it.

  “Off,” Lara says as soon as she sees me wearing the jacket over the dress. The order is accompanied by an impatient snap.

  I laugh. “What? Why? I’ll get chilly!”

  Her eyebrows drop like she’s not buying it. Her patience with me dwindles by the day. “We’re in the tropics. It’s never cold here, especially not in August.”

  Camila chimes in, taking up the cause on her sister’s behalf. “You have a great rack, Paige, and it pains me, truly. It hurts my heart that you insist on hiding it away from everyone.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “I—”

  “Nuh-uh,” Lara says, slicing her hand through the air like she’s done negotiating.

  They succeed in convincing me to slide off my jacket, and, as I expected, there’s a moment of awkwardness where it seems like every person sitting around the bonfire is looking at me, blinking slowly, thinking the same thought. Damn, hold up. Paige was a girl this whole time?! Théo and Oscar aren’t shy about whistling and teasing me, but I forgive them for it because I know they’re just trying to make me laugh. Everyone else thankfully keeps their comments to themselves.

  I know that I’m not homely. I look just like my mom, and I think my mom is drop-dead gorgeous. So why isn’t Blaze proposing to me this very minute?

  He’s here now. I watched him walk up with his friends a second ago, just as I finished sliding off my jacket, but he hasn’t looked this way.

  Lara understands my predicament, and she wants to help. “Arch your back more. Yeah, like that.”

  Lara takes my shoulders in her hands and forcibly thrusts my chest forward. It looks like I have an extreme case of scoliosis, but it gets the job done. Blaze glances over, and his eyes widen in obvious appreciation at the sight of me (thank you, genetics), and then he gives me a little wave and a smile.

  “Good, now look away. Look away!” Camila hisses frantically.

  I look down at the sand, up at the night sky, to Camila, to Lara, then back to Blaze because I just can’t help it. I’m flailing.

  Lara laughs and shakes her head. “Girl, you’re hopeless.”

  I sigh and shift so I’m facing away from him. Totally unbothered by his presence.

  “Is he still looking over here?” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth, as if he could possibly hear me from way over here.

  “No. He’s talking to Cole now.”

  What?!

  My heart lurches in my chest. I spasm, sputter, stall like I’m a manual car with a novice driver behind the wheel. Then I look up, desperately searching for Cole among the small crowd. My shoulders slump when I don’t see him, and I feel silly. Of course he’s not here. I didn’t end up inviting him. Blaze is still talking to his friend, another bartender from the grotto poolside lounge. Not Cole. Never Cole.

  I shoot Camila an angry glare, but it only makes her and Lara laugh more.

  “Sorry, I just can’t help it. God, it’s so easy with you.”

  Lara agrees, flipping her long dark hair over her shoulder. “I know. You don’t even have to say his full name to freak her out. Just Co—See? She already has goose bumps.”

  “I do not!” I swipe my hands over my arms to make all the little hairs lie flat again. “It’s not just me. Everyone has this reaction to him.” And because I’m worried they’ll misconstrue what reaction I’m talking about exactly, I add, “Everyone hates him.”

  Lara shrugs. “Eh, not everyone. I heard Tamara talking in the break room the other day. Going on and on about how hot he is.”

  “Yeah, I was there too.” Camila rolls her eyes. “She sounded obsessed. I didn’t think I was going to be able to finish my lunch, listening to her droning on like that.”

  Tamara likes Cole? This is news to me. Why am I only finding out about this now? Surely, this is breaking news for everyone, not just me.

  I lean toward them, suddenly needing answers. “Tamara? Is she that waitress from the Bistro? The one with the high-pitched voice?”

  They nod in confirmation.

  “Blonde? But more platinum than me?” I ask, just to triple-check I’m thinking of the right person.

  “Yup.” Lara nods.

  Damn. From the few interactions I’ve had with Tamara, I know she’s pretty and sweet. She’s the kind of perky that guys usually lap up. Giggly and fun loving. I didn’t think there was much going on behind the wide-eyed gaze, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Cole sees something I don’t.

  I need to be more like Tamara.

  I try a giggle on for size, and Camila eyes me like I’ve lost my mind. “What are you doing? What was that?”

  “A cough.” I shake my head, dismissing her narrow-eyed suspicion. “Now. I need your help. How can I get Blaze’s attention?”

  “Are you sure you want Blaze?” Lara asks me with a healthy dose of skepticism.

  “Who else would I want?”

  They exchange a knowing look.

  “Who. Else. Would. I. Want?” I demand.

  Camila smirks.

  Oh no. Absolutely not. We’re not playing this game again, where they throw out subtle hints that maybe I detest Cole a little more than normal, that I talk about him, complain about him, to an unhealthy degree. So what if hating him is my third-favorite hobby, right behind disliking him and loathing him? It’s important to have interests!

  “So, just to be clear, you wouldn’t care if Tamara dated Cole?” Lara wonders.

  “He will never date her.”

  I say it like it’s a fact. No, a prophecy I’ve read off some ancient scroll. See here? It says Cole is going to die sad and alone.

  Lara shrugs and raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know about that . . . Tamara seemed to think he was pretty into her.”

  “What proof did she give?!”

  At this point I’m leaning so close to Lara I’m like a detective who’s lost my cool in an interrogation. My fists are pounding on the metal table, and I’m snarling at the mouth. Give me answers, damn it!

  She smiles as I clear my throat and sit back on my beach towel. Clearly, I got carried away.

  I remind myself I don’t care about Cole’s dating life. I have more important things to focus on, like Blaze. Hunky Blaze with his bulging biceps and his perfectly imperfect smile. His brown hair is just long enough that he can tuck it slightly behind his ears. It’s not my normal jam, but I’m kind of digging it.

  Apparently, Lara and Camila aren’t interested in helping me bag Blaze, so I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. I’m hardly going to attract his attention by sitting over here on a beach towel, so I think I’ll roast a marshmallow. Yes. A big fluffy white marshmallow that I have to seductively slide onto the end of a long stick, and if it looks slightly erotic (like I’m . . . oh, I don’t know, giving a hand job), well, oopsies! I had no idea. I think I’ll add another, slower this time. I really have to pump it into place.

  Oh good!

  He’s looking now!

  No one else is as close to the fire as I am because it’s balmy and hot out tonight—the bonfire is more aesthetics than survival—but I prefer it that way. I’ve got center stage. I imagine the flames dancing across my face in an alluring way, but clearly, it’s still not enough. Blaze still isn’t coming over here. So—and I’m not proud about this; sorry, Mom—I lean over to get my marshmallows closer to the flames while exhibiting way too much cleavage. I’m nearly toppling out of this lavender dress.

  Then I smell something.

  Oh right, burning hair.

  “Ahhh!” I leap away from the fire, swatting at my head. It didn’t really burn much, just a few strands, but it sufficiently put the kibosh on my little performance.

  “You good, Paige?” Oscar adds with a barely restrained smile.

  “Yes,” I chirp, trying to brush off my embarrassment.

  Now I’ve got nothing to show for all that effort aside from two blackened marshmallows and slightly less hair than I came here with. Blaze isn’t even looking at me anymore. What a waste. I should have really gone for it. Maybe accidentally stuck a finger or two into the flames so Blaze could have played the hero and nursed me back to health.

  I could have really played it up, had him carry me all the way back to the resort complex so we could wake up Dr. Missick. I would have been such a good little damsel, crushing my chest against his, nestling my head in the crook of his neck, whimpering on cue.

  Yes, risk bodily harm to get the attention of a man. Feminism has got nothing on me!

  Lara and Camila don’t say a word as I reclaim my seat beside them on the beach towel. Lara passes me a beer, and I sit and drink, alone and hating myself for thinking of Cole and what he could possibly be up to at a time like this.

  Chapter Three

  COLE

  I was raised by two robots. To this day, I’m not certain of the inner workings of my parents, whether they have real feelings or whether they’re merely mimicking the facial expressions of the humans they live among. Whether they bleed blood or motor oil. Certain questions haunt me: Do my parents go for real yearly checkups at the doctor, or do they just sit in the parking lot for a designated amount of time before driving home for a tune-up in our garage? Do they need to eat to sustain life, or are they just doing it for my benefit? Mmm . . . chicken.