As such, I need to let this go and let it go for good. Cruce and I have more important, pressing matters to worry about. I need to concentrate on my work, and I can’t make things awkward for Cruce.
I vow to myself I won’t think about Cruce in an untoward fashion again, hoping to God I have the willpower to honor that promise.
?
Our first full day here, I’d decided to claim the dining room table as my office. It’s huge—seats sixteen—and runs perpendicular to one of the glassed walls that look out over the front of the island. I can see the dock with the boat we rented, the white beach to the left of it, and in between those points and the main house, the canopy of trees and bushes that hug the small island hills.
I’m having a tough time concentrating, and I pin that on a few things. First and foremost, this isn’t my office and lab. There’s no familiarity here. Granted, anything my eyes land on is stunningly beautiful—from the interior of the house out to the blue Caribbean waters—but none of that means anything when I’m trying to concentrate on my groundbreaking work.
I’m also distracted by the fact that, at any moment, some military strike force could come barreling up to the beach in an armored boat, shoot Cruce dead, and kidnap me. No one has said it yet, but I suspect my refusal to discuss my research is going to cause me pain at some point.
I’m guessing torture is what is in store for me, and that alone has my stomach constantly knotting up.
And then, there’s the man walking the length of the beach while checking the trip wires. He does that about ten times a day. Prior to checking the equipment, he navigates the entire perimeter of the island, making sure all alarms are operational. This has become his routine, and I expect he is bored out of his mind.
I move my gaze away from Cruce back to my laptop. I’m reading an old article written during the eighties by a Russian physicist. Many of my peers won’t go that far back in their research, thinking anything more than twenty years is too outdated. But I find compelling kernels of information that will cause a new idea to fire in my head enough to make the effort worth it.
I make a few notes on a yellow pad beside me, tapping my pencil against my chin. I never write in ink because, more often than not, the minute I jot an idea down, I’ll erase it and write something more expansive and infinitely more intelligent. It’s the way I process.
When I’m done for the evening, Cruce will have me lock my laptop and notes away into a secure, steel vault located in, of all places, a guest bathroom in the east wing of the house. I guess if someone wanted to steal valuables, it would be one of the last places someone would think to look.
I concentrate on the article, getting lost in the words and jotting notes. When the front door opens, I lift my head, sliding my attention that way. Cruce walks in, looking like he’s totally settled into island life. He’s wearing swim trunks, a light blue t-shirt that does amazing things to his eyes, and tennis shoes.
Wait… the tennis shoes won’t work.
“You need flip-flops,” I point out as he starts my way.
“Yeah… not really all that mobile in flip-flops,” he counters, snagging an apple out of a bowl on the kitchen island. He takes a bite, his white teeth flashing a moment before he chews.
“Island all secure?” I ask, pushing my chair away from the table and stretching my back.
“As secure as I can make it,” he says, coming to a stop right beside me. He bends, peers at my notes, and reads my last line aloud, “It sucks not having Wi-Fi.”
Lifting his head, he grins. “Those are some groundbreaking thoughts, Dr. Alexander.”
I shrug. “What can I say… I’m a modern girl. I don’t like being cut off from the world.”
“Well, modern girl,” he drawls, pointing a finger around the apple he’s holding. “You’ve been working at this table for seven straight hours today. The last three days, you didn’t take a break. You even ate your lunch here. So, I think you should take a break to keep your body healthy and alleviate my boredom.”
My back is sore, since the comfort factor of these chairs suck. Sure, they’re gorgeous, designer, and feel great on the ass for the length of a meal, but they weren’t made to be sat in all day. Rolling my shoulders, I groan at how tight they are.
Without thought, Cruce sets the apple down and moves behind me. He places his large hands on my shoulders, then starts to massage them.