33. Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Three

L aura

It’s close to dawn, but I didn’t get much sleep last night. In addition to the interruptions from Varro’s whimpering nightmares, I tossed and turned, my mind whirling, trying to think my way out of this predicament. Those were the best kisses of my life. The softest touch of his fingers left sparks in its wake. I was throbbing for him. How do you put that behind you?

It’s not like we’re high schoolers who broke up and have to see each other the next day—though that would be bad enough. We’re the only people on this island! And we’re going to be here alone together forever!

Forever. Dear God. Every time I think I’ve accepted my fate, that I can live through this, that I’m strong and can handle eating nothing but fish and rabbits for the rest of my life, I hit a new awareness, which brings about a new emotional low.

Dragging my thoughts from my terrible future, I return to replaying last night’s events. I’m such a bitch. Even though my little tent is barely big enough for two beds, after dinner I made a show of separating them. As though the five inches between our mattresses was a declaration of war .

Nothing could be farther from the truth. It’s almost pitch black in here, but I’m on my side, looking over at the mound of gladiator under his sleeping bag. And even though we had our first fight only a few hours ago—well, if you don’t count him trying to choke me the moment we met—my thoughts aren’t angry at all. Just the contrary. I think if he were to turn toward me and beckon me into his bed, I wouldn’t hesitate to join him.

I’m smitten. In the past, I’ve had two types of boyfriends: men who appealed to my mind and left my hormones on idle, or men who set my synapses on fire but didn’t interest me on any other level. Marcus Fabius Varro leaves them all in the dust because he turns on my brain and my body. Too bad he has so much baggage that he can’t stay present with me for more than a few incendiary kisses.

As soon as the sun comes up, I’ll go into the common room and pack. We’ll move everything we need and sleep in the cottage tonight. Until yesterday afternoon, I’d pictured just how I wanted to arrange things in the little one-room space.

We’d put the waterproof food bins near the hearth where we’ll cook, set the camp chairs facing the hearth, since watching the fire like cavemen will be our only evening entertainment, and the beds would be along the far wall. They’d be tucked together, giving us space for our bodies to entwine.

Now, my plan takes a giant U-turn. We’ll be on opposite sides of the room, like warring teams on the Family Feud .

We’re so connected I know the moment he awakens, even though he doesn’t make a sound.

“Moving day.” My voice is chipper, as though my life hasn’t been thrown off its axis for the second time in a month. “I thought we could take some loads, sweep the place out, and set it up.”

He turns to look at me, his elbow on the bed, head in his hand, making no secret that he’s assessing me like I’m some type of math problem.

“I could stay here in the compound if you want.” For a moment, he reminds me of Rob, an old boyfriend who liked to play the poor, poor pitiful me card at every opportunity. But no, his offer is sincere.

“If you want, Varro, but you’re my friend and I’d like us to live in the cottage. Together.”

That seemed to be all he needed to hear. A few moments later, we’re packing, discussing what we might need in our new home and what should stay here. We really do make a good team. We agree on everything. Well, almost.

I look at my phone and think about putting on some fun music, but decide not to. These things have planned obsolescence. Either the phone itself or the solar battery will play out one day, and our music will disappear, as will our food and our clothes. The air mattresses will spring leaks, the computer will cease to function, the solar-powered lantern will fail, and the generator will run out of fuel.

The energy I was filled with only moments ago leaks out of me like a deflating balloon until I stop my thoughts from spiraling.

“Hell. What am I saving it for?” I say loud enough for Varro to wonder why I’m talking to myself. After turning on dance tunes, our work speeds up as our energy rises, and Varro asks me to put one particular song on repeat until he can sing along in English with every word—“Don’t Worry Be Happy.”

Was it only an hour ago that I wondered how Varro and I could put our spat—and our DEFCON-level-one-attraction—behind us? Because we’re managing to amiably haggle over what goes and what stays in between songs as we bump hips whenever we pass each other.

Perhaps this will work, after all.