Honeymoon Hideout Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Cover Girl Design

  Summary

  Jax

  I don’t need a reason to go on vacation with my best friend, Sierra, but I’ve got several. One of them being my impending wedding, and my desire to be far, far away from the groom. This vacation is all about girl time and “me time,” so the last thing I need is to meet and fall for a soft-spoken resort employee. But, the refreshingly shy, polite and slightly nerdy Brooks is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. The more I see him, the faster his shyness burns off like fog in the South Pacific sunshine, and soon the life I left behind is a distant memory.

  Brooks

  I meet a lot of celebrities on this rock, and none of them have ever left me starstruck. Until the day Jax Pierce walks into my life. As a man with no game when it comes to women, I’m not prepared for this day. More importantly, all I can think about is my lifelong crush on this woman. I feel as awkward as I felt at 13, and it shows in the way I keep tripping over my words and missing her jokes. However, the more time I spend with Jax, the more I realize what she needs. Me. I might not have moves, but I do have enthusiasm, loyalty, and complete devotion. There’s no choice in the matter; she’s going to be on an island vacation with me for the rest of our lives.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  More by Abby Knox

  Chapter One

  Brooks

  Only one human in this world would feel unlucky about accidentally grabbing the perfect ass of Jax Pierce. That’s me, Dr. Brooks Barrow. I’m that human. That very awkward human who has no business being anywhere in the vicinity of this woman and her notably coveted backside.

  Oh sure, it’s plump and round and utterly squeezable, like a nice cool pillow on a hot summer night.

  Her famously beautiful rump is just as I’d imagined it would be.

  The problem is that Jax didn’t consent to the grabbing. She doesn’t even know my name.

  Some men would kill to be in my shoes right now. Me? This is not how I had planned to introduce myself if ever given a chance to meet my lifelong celebrity crush.

  Celebrity might be a strong word. To most people, she’s just a model, a social media influencer, an actor in commercials.

  To me, Jax is a legend, featuring heavily in my first ever wet dream at the age of 13 and at least weekly ever since then. She’s also a client at Cerulean Resort, and I’m supposed to be her kayak guide to Temple Island for a morning donkey yoga class.

  So how did I end up groping her peach?

  That would be a direct result of me not paying attention to the local wildlife. What happened was, Jax became very excited at the sight of a fin breaching the water less than twenty feet away as we paddled toward Temple Island.

  “Dolphin!”

  I’m such a know-it-all. I couldn’t help myself. I’m the naturalist around here; it’s my job to know these things.

  “That’s a basking shark.”

  Gasping and freaking out a bit, Jax began paddling away like mad. As we were still in shallow water, her oar hit the bottom with extra force, and the vessel capsized. Me, I kayak every day, and I know how to extract myself underwater safely. Jax had informed me this was her first time in such a watercraft. So, thinking quickly, I dove for her.

  In the heat of a newfound irrational rush of protective instinct, I hadn’t realized the kayak had already dumped her out entirely, and her life vest was fully functional, and so were her legs. And we were in waist-deep, utterly clear water. Jax was in no danger other than the danger of being molested by me. What I thought was her middle turned out to be her rump.

  And that’s where I currently find myself. Inappropriately touching, but, as a consummate naturalist, needing to be sure we don’t startle the shark or, most likely, step on a stingray. “Don’t move,” I say. “Basking sharks won’t bother you, but let’s try to be still, and maybe it’ll come closer, and we can get a good look at that huge mouth.”

  She squeaks, a sound of an anxious little kitten. I desperately want her to be calm and know that nothing will happen to her. I’m the guy everyone turns to for animal facts on this island; I know what I’m doing.

  “It’s gone now. Off to look for plankton elsewhere.”

  “Hopefully, they can’t smell white-hot fear,” she mutters.

  “Unless you’re made of plankton, you’re safe. And if you are made of plankton, you’re much too big of a conquest for a juvenile of that size,” I say.

  I say this without thinking. Bugs and animals and trees? I know all the things. Women? I know nothing.

  “Excuse me?” Jax swivels around to face me, then gives me a strange look, and I realize my hands are still on her. Granted, no longer gripping her bottom but firmly on her waist.

  And then I realize what I just said. “I just meant ounce for ounce, you’d be a daunting meal.”

  She arches an eyebrow at me. “Really?”

  Even though this early morning water is so cold my nuts are retreating into my body cavity, my pits are sweating like July on the equator.

  “You see,” I say, instinctively pushing up my prescription sunglasses on the bridge of my nose. “Humans in general are….”

  “Relax, Dr. Jones. I’m fucking with you.”

  “Oh,” I say, confused.

  It’s then I notice she’s smiling. “Well, not about being freaked out about the shark. That was genuine terror. But thank you for…saving my ass.”

  Her eyes drop down and back up to meet my gaze. Yes, I’m still holding on to her even though she’s fine. Completely fine.

  I let go. “I’m not Dr. Jones. I’m Dr. Barrow. But you don’t have to call me doctor; you can call me Brooks.”

  She has the most lovely laugh. “Once again, I’m fucking with you.”

  My mind races, and finally, I see what she did.

  “Oh, Indiana Jones. Now I get it. You’re funny,” I say sincerely.

  Her already bright, cheerful face somehow becomes even more brilliant. She could outshine a full moon on a cloudless night. I knew from her internet channel that she was gorgeous and hilarious. In person, she’s breathtaking.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  Awkwardly, I find myself staring at her until I remember that I’m soaked to the skin in my rash guard shirt and Bermuda shorts. I look like a drowned rat. She, with her long, wet hair held together on top of her head, looks ready for yoga. Wet yoga.

  That’s not supposed to be sexy, Brooks. Just observing she’s wet is not supposed to turn you on
. You work on an island in the South Pacific. If you’re going to think horny thoughts every time someone falls into the water, you’re going to get yourself into trouble.

  Already way ahead of us, her friend in the other kayak calls out to us. I inwardly cringe, realizing her companion has witnessed this awkward moment in living color. “You guys coming?”

  “Well, we’d better be on our way to yoga,” Jax says.

  “Do you need to go back to the dock and grab some dry yoga pants?”

  She shakes her head and smirks at me. “I’m good. I’m going to get sweaty anyway, might as well get a head start.”

  I should be used to her double entendres; I’ve been watching her channel for years. She could talk about health insurance and make a joke about her pussy. I know more about her genitalia than anyone should know.

  But my cock is still thinking like a thirteen-year-old boy, waking up with wet Star Wars sheets after staying up too late watching a teenage Jax romp around in her workout videos. I feel equally ashamed of myself too. She’s always been a woman to me, deserving of respect. Yet, animal attraction is animal attraction.

  Her gaze dips down to my chest and back up to my eyes. I let go of her and feel myself turn beet red. God, I hope she doesn’t register a complaint with my boss for grabbing her.

  We arrive at Temple Island without further incident, and I enjoy a hike around the grounds perimeter while the instructor guides her and her friend and a handful of others through a sun salutation. I’ve never done yoga; I’ve never felt coordinated enough for that. My legs are stumpy, and my arms are too bulky to pretzel on a mat.

  The truth is, I shouldn’t even be here. It was by pure luck that I met Jax today. The usual guide in charge of water sports is ill this morning (more likely nursing a hangover—we all saw him stumbling off with one of the other female guests for whom he was buying drinks at the Mumbling Ahab last night).

  If Baker had been here? I would have missed my chance to meet Jax because there’s no way this guest would be booking the kind of outings I conduct for the resort. Got a question about bugs, birds, and poisonous mushrooms? I’m your guy. Want to learn how to dive off a cliff? Better call Baker.

  As I make my way down the empty beach, I look out from the white sand and across the turquoise waters. Off in the distance, I notice what we islanders call a “white boat,” a yacht anchored in the water, about half a mile offshore. Odd place to drop anchor, as the open sea can get 12-foot swells. Most yacht captains prefer to stick to the water within the crescent of islands that make up this country. But who knows why these one-percenters do what they do.

  One thing about working on a private island is we see a lot of celebrities make bad decisions.

  Up until today, meeting a famous person never rattled me. Jax is the only famous person I give a shit about. And I’m still shook.

  “Get your head in the game, Brooks,” I tell myself. I then recall there’s a whole colony of sea turtle eggs on the west side of the island, so I head that way, checking my watch to make sure I have time. I spend the rest of the ninety-minute class shoring up the barricades around the nests on the beach and checking the area to make sure guests are obeying the signage. It’s usually not a problem since Temple Island is only used for day outings. There are no bars or hotels here, just pristine beaches, a donkey sanctuary, some dense forest, and a flat stone surface that marks the ruins of an ancient temple, where now people pay hundreds of extra dollars to do yoga next to some sweet, curious donkeys.

  When the yoga class ends, Jax turns and sees me waiting by her kayak.

  She runs up to me, and I ask how the class went.

  “I feel amazing, Dr. Jones,” she says with a deep, contented sigh and a stretch, a blissed-out look on her face.

  That’s because you are, generally speaking, amazing, Jax Pierce.

  And that’s the moment when I know I’m going to break the number one rule of Cerulean Resort: Don’t fraternize with the guests, especially not the celebrities.

  Chapter Two

  Jax

  I wish I would have paid attention to Shark Week on television. If I had, I would have been able to identify that fin poking out of the water, and I would not have caused a scene in full view of everyone at the boathouse.

  I point and squeal, “Look! A dolphin!”

  My guide, the cute but nerdy guy from the resort, tells me right away the thing I don’t want to hear. “No, that’s a basking shark.”

  I twist around a little too abruptly and shriek, “What?!”

  As I turn, the kayak goes off balance and flips, dumping both me and the kayak guide into the water, with the shark.

  Not only is this my first time being in the water near a shark in the open sea, but it’s also my first time in a kayak. Let me just say there’s nothing that makes me feel quite like trapped shark bait as a long plastic vessel in which I can’t move my legs. I might as well be stuffed inside a human-sized Kong toy, but for marine predators. Well, I got myself into this mess, and I’m going to get us out of this water, or else I’m going to be lunch.

  “It’s okay, don’t panic,” says the supposed shark expert.

  Excellent advice. Wonder if he’s got any practical advice in his repertoire for someone already panicking.

  I don’t necessarily need a man to save me, but my kayak guide doesn’t see things that way.

  Specifically, he seems to think holding on to my butt is the way to keep me calm. I mean, he’s not wrong. He does have big, strong hands.

  It seems to me he grabbed me there by accident and now doesn’t seem able to let go. Is this sexual harassment or something else? Feels like something else. Is this flustered, shy fellow fun to watch as he fumbles over his words? Absolutely.

  Am I also finding him adorable? Yes.

  Have I been sheltered from dating men so long that I’m secretly curious if this bashful nerd is a freak in the bedroom? Also yes.

  God, Jax. If this person knew what you were thinking about right now, he would probably run and hide and never speak to you again.

  Eventually, I make it to donkey yoga class, which turns out to be the best activity I could have chosen to kick off the first full day of vacation — or my would-be honeymoon, depending on whom you ask.

  When I return to the kayak to find Brooks there waiting for me, I feel another round of butterflies. And, I feel bad for giving shit to this man, who has introduced himself as a doctor. He’s due a little more respect than being labeled a nerd.

  “Thanks for rescuing my butt,” I say.

  “You would have been fine,” he replies, helping me don my life preserver. “Humans are in less danger around sharks than they are at, say, a random bar on vacation on a remote island.”

  I’m taken aback by this comment. “I get nature lessons and self-defense advice. Was that part of the package?”

  Brooks seems to take everything I say at face value and does not recognize the sarcasm.

  “Well, this isn’t my job. The water sports director pulled me in to escort you because he was tied up elsewhere. But if you are interested in nature, I am doing a volcano tour later.”

  We begin to paddle our way back to the main resort, and I make a mental note of how easily we fall into sync with our oars. Especially now that I’m less nervous, knowing I have a wildlife expert as my escort.

  “Am I going to fall into hot lava? Because if there’s lava, I will be the first to fall into it. As you can see, I’m not as graceful as people assume,” I say as I consider his proposal.

  Brooks answers in a deep, authoritative voice. “The volcano is dormant; you’re perfectly safe with me.”

  Why does this reply produce an odd sensation of flames licking my thighs and butterflies fluttering in my stomach?

  He presses on, “And if you enjoy the volcano tour, then you should sign up for my jungle foraging tour.”

  I snort. “I hate bugs even more than I hate lava. Especially the dragonflies that are so big they could eat m
e.”

  And this is where I put my foot in my mouth because he replies, “Bugs are my life. They’re the reason I became a biologist.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “No worries. But dragonflies are the best. They don’t bite, and they eat mosquitoes.”

  Warming up to the idea, I tell him, “Sign me up for the volcano, and we’ll see where that goes, Doctor.”

  “Okay, I will,” Brooks says, sounding very pleased with himself. “It might not be as exciting as cliff diving, but you’ll be glad you did it. Very ’Gram-worthy.”

  Surprised he has any thoughts about Instagram, I awkwardly, carefully, pivot in my seat to get a look at him. Is he a follower of mine? In his wide-brimmed outdoor hat, polarized goggles, Teva sandals, and khaki uniform, Brooks is not like anyone in my world.

  I doubt he’s a follower. If I had to guess when I met this man a little bit ago, I’d say he doesn’t have time for social media. He looks exactly like the kind of guy who spends all day plucking trash out of the ocean and helping beached whales find their pods again. A bigger, quieter, and less intense Steve Irwin. Now, that’s a nature show I would watch.

  Chapter Three

  Brooks

  “This is Beth. Do you copy?”

  The radio clipped to my hip chirps with the sound of the hotel concierge. I ignore it at first.

  I’m in the middle of explaining to some guests on the beach that the islands have banned the ingredients in their sunscreen due to its bleaching effect on the local coral reefs. “But I burn so easily,” complains this woman, who is about thirty seconds away from a fine if she doesn’t stop slathering her children with parabens.