Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Good morning, boss,” she says, stopping at the edge of my desk. When her eyes meet mine, I note how her mouth is slightly turned down at the corners. “I heard from Mario’s family. They’re going to be doing a memorial for him on Sunday.”
Instantly, my chest tightens with a poignant combination of sadness, grief, and guilt. It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that Avery and I survived but Mario didn’t. “Do you think I can attend? Pay my respects?”
“I know for a fact they would like that.” She nods. “One of his sisters already sent me the information. Address is only about thirty minutes from downtown Miami. Just on the outskirts of Fort Lauderdale.”
I didn’t know Mario well, but from what Cara has been able to find out for me since Avery and I got rescued, he was a single guy in his early sixties with two sisters who loved him dearly and several nieces and nephews who adored him. I know the Coast Guard is still technically trying to find our plane and Mario’s remains, but the odds of their being able to achieve that are slim at best.
Which, I can’t imagine, is an easy thing for his family to face.
“Find out if there’s anything I can do to help his family,” I tell Cara and she’s already making a note on her iPad.
“On it.” And while she’s still tapping her fingers across the screen of her tablet, she drops the stack of folders in her other hand onto my desk. I swear, she must have an extra arm somewhere. Either that or she’s a goddamn wonder of the world how she can multitask a million things at once. “By the way, you have three meetings this afternoon. One with the production team about the new commercial, one with the finance department about quarterly projections, and one with—” she glances at her tablet “—some new investors. Oh, and by the way, several journalists are still requesting interviews about ‘the island survivors.’”
“Defer all the interviews,” I say, already done with these fucking journalists. I’m not telling them jack shit about what happened on that island with Avery. “Tell them I’m busy.”
Cara’s eyes narrow, and she plants a hand on her hip. “You’re always busy.”
“Yes. I am. So, maybe just keep that in mind for future meeting and interview requests,” I reply with a grin.
She huffs. “And here I thought you’d be a changed man after surviving off coconuts for thirteen days.”
“Technically, it was breadfruit.” I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “And sorry to disappoint, Cara, but I’m still me. Though, I’ll be at all my meetings today. Promise.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes but heads for the door. “But I’ve got my eyes on you. If you try to go MIA for any of those meetings, I’ll come in here and drag you out myself.”
“Noted,” I call after her.
Most people might be annoyed with how bossy Cara is, but I know better. She’s been with me for over three years, and I’d be lost without her. As the door clicks shut behind her, I make a mental note to talk to HR about giving her another raise and scribble down a few notes I want to make sure to bring up to the team about expanding our potential to include more than a regular adrenaline fix.
I turn to my computer, but instead of diving into the flagged emails Cara left for me, I open my phone and pull up a popular celebrity gossip site. Sure enough, my face is plastered all over the fucking home page. A photo of me walking into the office this morning, looking pissed off and ignoring the cameras.
But what catches my eye the most is another photo farther down the page—of Avery.
She’s heading into Banks & McKenzie, her dad’s marketing firm. She’s smiling and waving at the cameras, her attire looking nothing less than effortless, tanned, and completely, fashionably put together once again. I don’t miss the fact that it’s noted within the short article that she declined any questions or comments, though, and for as insignificant as that may seem, it brings a smile to my lips.
Maybe we’re both feeling covetous over what happened on the island.
Immediately, I find myself switching over to my messages, and I type out a quick one to the one woman I can’t get off my mind.
Me: I see my fellow “Island Survivor” is also declining to answer questions from these fucking journalist hounds.
Avery: My lips are sealed, Henry. They can fuck right off because I’m not telling them anything. It’s none of their business.
Her words settle something deep inside my chest. There’s just something that puts me at complete peace knowing she feels the same as I do. That she wants to keep everything that happened on the island just between us.