God, I’m going to get myself into trouble here.
I keep a quick pace as I head down the long hallway towards the gate exit, and I can’t help but notice how many eyes are turning my way from the locals. I get it, it’s not that common that a traveler passes through this place, but something about the exposure keeps the heat in me burning, and I curse my body as I walk.
But this is the only island the university would pay for me to visit for research, so here I am, thousands of miles away from America and feeling more vulnerable than I have since I was a little child.
I make my way down to baggage claim, and within a few minutes, I’m clumsily dragging what feels like fifty pounds of suitcases out the airport sliding doors. Naturally, just as I’m leaving the building and turn to head to the strip of road where my ride to the research station is supposed to be waiting for me, one of my suitcases starts to tip over, and as I frantically reach to stop it, I feel a crack under me as one of my heels breaks, and I topple to the ground with a yelp, along with the rest of my luggage.
“Ow...” I groan as I get to my knees, rubbing my ass as my cheeks burn bright red, praying nobody saw that. As if on cue, I notice a shadow over me, and my heart sinks as I realize my prayers have been answered, though not the way I was hoping for.
“You look like you need a hand, miss,” comes a deep, husky voice, and I blink in surprise at the faint British accent I hear in it, and I look up.
And I never want to look anywhere else again.
Towering over me is a man with gorgeous, short brown hair, brown eyes hiding a glint of the tropical sun in them like freshly brewed coffee just at the right time in the morning, and his smile, while reassuring and comforting in a way I can’t even process, holds a hint of that smugness in it of someone who knows he’s come across a woman who does not have her shit together.
“Oh, um, hello!” is the first thing to spill out of my lip, and internally, I hear myself groaning Harper, you complete ditz.
“Hello to you too,” he says, his husky tone deep yet almost condescending, yet in a strangely fatherly way. Without waiting for permission, he reaches down, taking my hand in one of his and placing the other on the small of my back as he helps me to my feet, and before I can even get my bearings, he brushes one of those annoying tendrils of hair out of my eyes, and I feel my traitorous body blushing.
Why couldn’t this have been the guy who patted me down? my instincts ask, but my better sense fights them back.
Standing up, I can tell just how much taller he is than me—the guy’s got a head on me, easily, maybe more. He’s wearing a button-up that’s breezy and thin enough to be suitable for the climate. Now, I have a good eye for nice clothing. Maybe it’s a result of my being a starving student most of my life and pining over nice clothes in Pinterest. But I can tell that his white Egyptian cotton shirt does not come cheap. It’s rolled up enough to show off forearms that look thick enough to carry me in one of them.
After a moment, I realize I’m staring, and my face blushes even harder as his smile just grows. “Quite a lot of help, I’ll bet.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say with a laugh, covering half my face with a hand and averting my eyes, “I just got here, and it’s been a hell of a trip, and-” I only just now notice that there’s a car parked on the side of the road, one of the doors open. It’s a sleek red sedan, definitely a newer model, not the kind I was expecting to see out here, but I’m not going to question it, mostly because it’s the only car I see parked near the airport sidewalk, and my brain puts two and two together. “Are...you my ride? To the research station? I’m from the university.”
He peers at me a moment, putting a hand into a pocket of his pants and looking me up and down. There’s something about him that reminds me of some of my friends’ dads I had a crush on in high school, yet he’s so much more imposing, his body so striking and out of place yet comforting on this unfamiliar island.
“Why, yes,” he says, raising his perfectly manicured eyebrows and smiling, glancing back to his car. “The research station is a short drive from here, I hope you know—but don’t worry, there’s hardly any travel, so you won’t have to get used to the sounds of planes flying overhead.” Without warning, he reaches down and picks up my luggage as if it were full of feathers, and he starts to load them into the car neatly, leaving me blinking at him in surprise.
Is this some kind of joke? There is no way a guy that hot just lives out here in the middle of nowhere. And the more I look at him, the more I suspect he isn’t actually my ride. I mean, what kind of driver has a car like that? But he did know right where the research station is when I mentioned it...who else would know that?
After he loads my stuff into the car, he steps around to the passenger’s side and holds his hand out to me to help me in. “Please, after you,” he says, and I’m so taken aback I just reflexively reach out my hand and let him set me into the front seat.
“Don’t passengers usually ride in the back?” I say uncertainly, looking around for some kind of meter, assuming him to be a taxi driver or Uber or something. But there’s nothing like that on the dashboard.
“Call it island hospitality,” he says with a good-natured laugh as he gets in and starts the car. The engine roars to life, sending vibrations through the whole car and my seat, and I feel myself a little excited by the sheer energy he must have under the hood.
Damn it, Harper, keep it together! I rally myself, but I realize that I simply can’t tear my eyes from this guy. I’m still not entirely convinced he’s real. I mean, what kind of island has hot British men pull up in powerful cars to pick you up from the airport?
“My name is William, by the way,” he says as we pull out and onto the main roads of the island, if they can be called that. They’re still dirt roads, not a shred of asphalt in sight, and the greenery is threatening to invade every inch of space. “But please, call me Will.”
“Oh,” I said, unused to drivers introducing themselves so casually. “I’m Harper. Harper Emerson. But I suppose you already know that—not that it would be hard to mistake me for someone else, out here,” I joke, forcing a laugh, but the chuckle he gives is sincere, and he flashes a smile at me.
“I think it would be hard to mistake you for someone else anywhere, Harper,” he says, and it takes me a moment to catch his meaning. Is he...hitting on me? Okay, this guy has to be an actor.
“I was about to say the same about you!” I giggle, trying to sound like I’m totally not in over my head talking to this guy. My driver. Is he even my driver? Harper, you idiot, he might as well be a kidnapper, and here you just got into the car with him. Yet somehow, the idea of him kidnapping me didn’t seem all that bad. “But I’ve got to say, I wasn’t expecting to be pi
cked up by someone so...British.”
He laughs again at that, a deep, warm, mirthful laugh that warms me on the inside, wanting to keep him talking. There’s a sort of cool confidence in the way he carries himself that makes me want to listen to him ramble on about...well, anything.
“And I wasn’t expecting to pick up someone so gorgeous, but here you are,” he quips, and I feel my heart beat faster as a smile plays on my lips, my hand reaching up to nervously twirl a lock of hair around my finger. It figures that I’d run into a guy like this looking like, well, about how you’d expect to look like after over thirty hours on planes. Good thing I had time to gussy up a little on the last flight.
“Is that more island hospitality?” I joke as he turns a corner, his car handling smoother than anything I’ve ever ridden in.
“No, that’s just me,” he says, and I know exactly what that undertone in his voice means. Oh god, Harper, what are you getting yourself into? “Now,” he goes on, “I was told I’d be picking up a university student, but they didn’t mention were from.”