Surviving Us (6 page)

“Thank you.” I smile warmly at him before he turns to leave, then take a long, refreshing drink from the rather stiff fruity cocktail.

I try to listen to Lena as she continues on about the dress code at night and a special wine-tasting service, but when we step out on the veranda, I forget everything except the panoramic landscape laid out in front of me. The calm blue water washing onto the sandy beach alcove down below is only a piece of the scenic puzzle. High up on the side of a cliff, a blanket of bright, blossoming flowers mixed perfectly in a blanket of green spreads out as far as I can see on both sides of me. My first time out of the state of Oklahoma, and I’m utterly speechless about the beauty I’ve missed out on for nineteen years.

“In addition to this restaurant and pool area, there’s also a restaurant and bar down at the beach open from eleven to six, and there are plenty of chairs and umbrellas, snorkeling equipment, and scuba gear down there as well,” Lena’s voice reenters my consciousness. “I’m going to walk you down the road to your cottages now to give you a chance to shower and relax before dinner. Come this way.”

We begin to follow her up a gravel road away from the main house. D has yet to say a word since the beginning of the tour, and since the last thing he said to me in the car, I’m keeping my distance. She continues to talk as we stride up the moderate incline, perhaps not noticing the tension between us.

“There are nineteen separate cottages where your entire group is staying, except for Isaac, the group coordinator, and the couple of people he brought with him, who are housed in the ocean-view duplexes closer to the pool area. Including you two, there are fourteen of you here now, and the remaining five should be coming in later this evening.” She pauses to check her watch. “It’s nearly six now, so you’ve got a couple of hours before you’re to report to the dining room for dinner. Tonight, Isaac has asked everyone to meet at eight sharp so he can do an introduction and go over the schedules included in your packets. If you find you’re lacking anything in your room, please don’t hesitate to ring the front desk, and we’ll take care of it for you immediately.”

Lena stops walking at the dead-end of the road and smiles at us, D straggling behind me. “Well, here we are. Miss Criswell, you’re in the
N
right over there,” she motions with her hand to the left, “and Mr. McKay, you’re directly next door in the
M
cottage.”

Of course he is.

After we both thank her, I hurry into my quaint red-roofed, white-walled bungalow, eager to see my home for the next couple of weeks, and more than ready to be away from D for a while.

As I walk up onto the sprawling porch outside, I’m blown away with the simple opulence of it all. A double hammock, two wicker rocking chairs with a matching table, and my own private plunge pool overlooking the expansive waters all await me, inciting musings of many early mornings and late evenings enjoying the serene seascape.

Amazingly, the luxurious inside rivals that of the outside. A wood-carved, four-poster, king-sized bed
dressed in white linens sprinkled with colorful flower petals and draped in a white canopy sits dead-center in the room. It may very well be the most beautiful bed I’ve ever seen. There’s a small chest of drawers off to one side, as well as a well-stocked, small refrigerator and a platter of fresh fruits and crackers. A bathroom is nestled off the opposite side of the room, supplied with all of the toiletry essentials . . . and an outdoor rock shower?
Oh my.

A loud rapping on my door startles me and I rush across the room to see who’s there, thinking maybe Lena forgot to tell me something. Swinging open the door, I’m surprised to see D standing there with my two suitcases.

“You have my stuff,” he declares with obvious annoyance.

I crinkle my forehead with confusion. “Excuse me?”

“They mixed up the bags, put yours in my room,” he sets my two bags directly inside the doorway, “so I’m assuming mine are here. I kinda need them to take a shower.”

My face lights up at the mention of my newfound discovery, forgetting about his moodiness. “Did you see the shower?” I ask excitedly. “It’s the most heavenly thing ever.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “No, I haven’t. It’s a shower—a place to get clean.”

“I know you told me you usually act like one, but does D really stand for
Dick?
” I spout off, unable to understand how anyone could be in a bad mood in this tropical paradise. “’Cause it sure the hell would fit perfectly.”

Spinning around waiting for him to answer, I eye his bags in the corner and stomp over to retrieve them. When I whirl around to throw the smaller one at him, he’s resting against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, his t-shirt stretched tightly over his muscular biceps, hat still low on his face, and a playful grin plastered on his face. Yet another mood change.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you, Trouble?” he drawls huskily.

“Make what easy? And why am
I
trouble?” My voice rises along with my annoyance. “I haven’t done anything to you!”

Slowly, he stands up straight, twists his cap around backwards, and begins stalking over to me, causing me to back up slowly.
Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.
“You’re trouble, because you show up on my plane, all naïve and innocent, completely unaware of the effect your sexy-ass legs and beautiful brown eyes have on me and every other fucking guy around.” My back hits the wall as he closes in. I hold his bag up to my chest as a shield.

“Then, you announce you’re going to be
here
, at this damn retreat I didn’t want to come to in the first place, forcing me to be around you for twelve straight days,” he grabs the duffel from my hands and tosses it to the ground, his eyes never leaving mine, “knowing I don’t need to get anywhere near you, because if you’re half as messed up as I am in the head, the only thing we can cause each other,” he lowers his face to mine, so close I can almost taste his warm, minty breath, and whispers, “ is
trouble
.”

Right now, in this moment, I want him to kiss me more than I’ve ever wanted to be kissed in my life. Despite the fact he’s a temperamental ass
and
I know what he just said is true, my brain has forgotten about the underlying reason we’re both here, the reason we’re both permanently emotionally damaged, and all I can think about is how those sexy full lips will feel pressed against mine.

I close my eyes instinctively, either waiting for the contact or for him to walk away, but he does neither. He hovers in front of my face for seconds, minutes, hours—I have no idea how long—before he rests his forehead against mine and sighs.

“It’s been an overwhelming, whirlwind of a day for you, Bristol,” he says softly, drawing my eyes open. “Think about what you want long and hard before you make any decisions, ‘cause once I take this pretty little mouth, I’m taking the rest of you too. But remember, no matter what happens while we’re here, when it’s time to leave, we return to two different cities and two separate lives.”

He pushes off the wall, turning on his heel and scooping his suitcases up on his way to the door. “My real name is Davis, and the ball’s now in your court, Trouble.”

DAVIS MCKAY.

Shit.

Holy shit.

Holy motherfucking shit.

Of all the warnings he could’ve given me
—promises of taking my entire body, assurance that we’ll never see each other again when we leave, whatever—nothing could’ve scared me more than his name alone.

Suddenly, everything from earlier in the day begins to make sense—his outburst on the plane, why he looked familiar, the southern accent, the conversation with Dr. Secret in the car about sports—all of it now crystal clear.

He is
the
Davis McKay, the highest-rated high school quarterback in the nation only two years ago. He was the talk not just of the Oklahoma campus when he signed his letter of intent to attend the school, but of the entire state. Rarely do Texas-born boys snub their nose at the burnt orange longhorns of UT and opt to travel north to their long-time rival, but
he
did.

As an intern for
The Norman Transcript
my junior year in high school, I even wrote an editorial piece about the implications of that National Signing Day and what it meant for the Red River Rivalry in the future. I wrote it as a letter to my dad, knowing he was probably throwing a party with the angels in heaven when the news broke. To date, it’s probably the best thing I’ve ever written; that piece alone got more comments than any other article in the paper’s history, and pretty much sealed up my journalism scholarship to OU.

He is
the
Davis McKay, sole survivor of the private plane that crashed traveling from Daytona Beach to Dallas a month after he signed that letter. He and three of his friends had spent spring break at the world-renowned party locale, and on their trip home, a mechanical failure caused the small aircraft to plummet to the ground just outside of New Orleans. Everyone else, including the pilot, died in the fiery wreckage that day, but somehow he managed to walk away from it nearly unscathed. Every news outlet from coast to coast covered the miraculous story, but he refused to speak about what had happened.

In the weeks following the accident, there were rumors he was hanging up his helmet, no longer having the drive to play football any longer. Coach Elsik and several others tried to visit him—hell, half of the state camped out on his front lawn, as well as ESPN reporters—but to no avail. He was done—done talking, done playing. Since then, his name has made the news several times, mostly him getting in trouble at clubs or trying to break the sound barrier in his sports car, but never with talk of him returning to the field.