Just as I’m starting to doze off with Presley in my arms, I hear her say, “Hey, Briggs, don’t sleepwalk into the ocean, okay?”
I chuckle and pull her even closer to me, and then we fall asleep under a starry sky.
Presley
I wake up to seagulls squawking, Briggs’s arms around me, and a familiar, yet annoying, clicking sound.
Blinking my eyes at the morning sun, I wonder what time it is. The clicking sound continues. Is it some sort of crab? The sound an alligator makes before an attack? The mating call of some sort of seabird?
“Briggs,” I say, shaking him, worried that we are possibly under attack by some kind of wild animal.
“Hmm?” he says, squinting his eyes against the rising sun.
My gosh, he’s adorable. I kind of felt dumb for asking him if I could keep him last night—it was on a whim, really. I hadn’t planned to do it. But I meant it. I want to see if we can make this work between us. I don’t know what it will be, but I want to try.
“Do you hear that?” I ask him.
“Hear what?” He wipes his eyes.
The clicking noise stops, and I rack my brain trying to figure out what it could be. It sounds so . . . familiar.
Then it hits me.
“A camera,” I say, panic quickly moving through my body.
“A what?”
“I heard a camera clicking. A shutter going off,” I say. I’ve gotten very used to the sound. I roll over onto my stomach, and peeking my head around, I try to find whoever it is that’s taking pictures. The clicking starts back up.
I spot a photographer, someone hiding behind a palm tree, or trying to, not even ten feet from us, a telescopic zoom lens pointed in our direction.
I swear under my breath. “Briggs, someone’s taking pictures of us,” I say, before finding the black sweatshirt I brought with me and quickly putting it on, tightening the hood around my face. I didn’t bring my sunglasses, because why would I bring them to sleep on the beach? But that was a rookie mistake. In LA, I have sunglasses with me no matter what time of day it is.
Briggs is shuffling around now, trying to find his shoes.
“What should we do?” he asks, the imprint of a pillow on his face.
“Let’s go back to my room at the resort,” I say.
He nods. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just an idiot from this island.”
“Do you know anyone who happens to own a paparazzi-looking camera?”
“Not that I know of, but there are tons of bird watchers around here—maybe it’s one of them?”
“Regardless, they were taking pictures of us, whoever they are. I promise you, I know when I’m being photographed.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll just leave all this and I can come back later.”
I nod my head and he takes me by the hand, and we run in the opposite direction of the cameraman. We run until we get to the resort and then take the stairs up to the second floor where my suite is located.
With shaking hands, I dig the key card out of the pocket of my yoga pants and open the door, Briggs following me into the room. I shut the door behind me and double lock it for no reason, since this is a private resort and they’re not about to let someone with a camera on the premises without permission.
“I’ve never seen a suite at this resort,” Briggs says, looking around the entryway. It occurs to me that I’ve never had him up here. I did invite him up that one night, but other than that, there really hasn’t been an opportunity.
I look at the space through his eyes, setting my key card on a whitewashed entry table and flicking on the lights before we walk through a small alcove and into the sitting area, the bedroom just beyond that. There are two sofas and a coffee table in the center of the modest-size room. And a kitchenette in the corner with a small bar and a dining table. The space is decorated in a beachy-modern motif with light-colored wood and different shades of blues with some splashes of orange. Someone has been here—I can tell by the fluffed-up throw pillows, and the blanket I’ve been using while reading is now folded and placed thoughtfully on the couch.
I feel anxious, wondering if this little world I’ve been living in for nearly a month is about to collapse. I wrap my arms around myself.
“You okay?” Briggs asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Should we . . . look online for any news?”
I nod, little rapid movements of my head. “Yes, let’s do that.”
He pulls his phone out of his front pocket and takes a seat on one of the couches, and I sit next to him. My body feels achy from sleeping outside, and I could use a shower from all the sea air and humidity, but first things first. I say a little prayer that there’s nothing and it’s just someone here on the island looking at birds but also snapping pictures of two people sleeping on the beach. Which is still weird and violating, but I’ve been dealing with it for a long time now.
Briggs pulls up the internet on his phone and types my name into the search bar, and I look away, thinking maybe if I can’t see it, whatever pops up won’t be a reality.
But Briggs curses. The word sounds foreign coming from his mouth, and I realize I haven’t heard him swear before.
“What?” I ask him.
He twists his lips to the side before handing me the phone.
