What made her change her mind?
Where had she been going before throwing her plans to fate and deciding to hook up with a bunch of strangers to fly to an island in the middle of nowhere?
Who did that?
Who lived so freely?
My lips drifted to her mouth.
What would she taste like if I kissed her? Would she let me or would she kick me in the balls instead?
I don’t want to bloody kiss her, goddammit.
I groaned, rubbing my temples, trying to get myself under control.
I wanted to open the door and shove her outside mid-drive. I wanted her far, far away from me before I could give into the itch inside. Because if I gave into the itch, I was screwed. She would be, too.
I don’t have time for this.
Duncan and his family remained quiet as fat raindrops intermittently splashed the van’s roof. Palm trees swayed in the dark, lit with an occasional streetlight, turning them into eerie skeletons the deeper into the bush we drove.
The journey didn’t take long. After all, Viti Levu wasn't a big island. However, the rain had drenched the trees and banana plantations. The storm might have passed, but precipitation and humidity meant the tropics were never truly dry.
My teeth jarred as we turned right over a pothole and down a long driveway, arriving beside an airstrip where the carcasses of propeller aircraft and a few sad looking helicopters rested in the night.
Estelle glanced out the window as we pulled to a stop outside a thatched bungalow. The driver climbed out and opened our door.
We all tumbled out in a mix of curses.
Suitcases and carry-ons were hauled from the van’s trailer and carted as quickly as possible into the decrepit office with dull lights swinging from the ceiling. The humidity did its best to drench us, turning weary passengers into a sodden pile of jetlagged clothing.
Dropping our bags in the foyer beside a counter with an ancient printer and fax machine, our sad little group surveyed the not-too-inviting office.
The driver pointed at the floor in the universal sign of ‘stay here’ and disappeared down a corridor to where I assumed was the main traffic control.
Estelle looked at me fleetingly as she investigated sepia photographs on the wall depicting planes and helicopters flying over pretty islands.
The tiny glance harpooned my attention, reeling me in despite my wishes. Opening lines and snippy arguments filled my head. If I had to put up with the weird connection between us, she ought to be as uncomfortable as I was.
Before I could think up a callous, witty remark, Estelle turned her back on me and traced a large map of Fiji with its widespread islands pasted crookedly on the wall. The Evermore family drifted off, murmuring and soothing the kids that soon they’d be in paradise and able to sleep.
I stood there like a bloody idiot.
Needing to do something, I ran a hand over my hair to dispel raindrops and prowled after the driver. At the end of the corridor, I entered the office where he’d disappeared.
Two men conversed in Hindi, letting me know they were Indian-Fijian descent. Their hands punctured their sentences as I skirted the perimeter, scanning the rudimentary graphs and diagrams of flight paths and other aeronautical paraphernalia.
Our driver pointed outside to the wet night, nodding as if it was a perfect evening to fly. The other man shook his head, waggling his wristwatch in his friend’s face, scrunching his nose with disagreement.
Goddammit, he had to take us.
If it weren’t important, I’d happily stay the night in some shitty backpackers. But it was important. I had to be there. I wouldn’t fail again.
Shoving my hands into my jean pockets, I approached them. “Look, we’re happy to pay. How long is the flight? An hour or so? That means you make some good coin and get home all within a couple of hours.” Forcing a smile, I pulled the wad of cash from my back pocket (it was all I had left). “Need to know we’re good for it? We’ll pay you up-front. How about that?”
The remaining US currency was convenient. I’d pay for all of us, and they could pay me back on the flight.
The driver cleared his throat, gesturing to his friend and the money in my hand.
I smiled. “See, a good gig.”
Frowning, the other man—who I assumed would be our pilot—came closer. Ignoring the money, he held out his hand waiting for me to shake. Transferring the bills to my left, I clasped his right, completing social niceties.
Letting our handheld introduction break, the man said, “I’m Akin. You are?”
“Galloway.”
“Mr. Galloway, you do realise a storm is threatening Fiji. It’s not safe—”
“The pilot on the flight here said the weather pattern was leaving.”