Shipped(44)

Behind us, another Zodiac full of passengers pulls up to the beach. Xiavera flashes the naturalist on board a thumbs-up. “We need to get moving; we don’t want to be the slow group. Don’t worry, we won’t draw and quarter you for the apple. Not this time,” she says to Nikolai. He chuckles along with the other guests. “Just remember the rule: no food on the islands, yes? Everyone ready to chase that golden light? Vamonos.”

She starts up the sandy path and the guests follow in a line. Fishing my phone out of my bag, I open the notepad in my task app and start typing furiously.

A vague idea begins to take shape. I’m just not sure what it looks like exactly. As I’m typing out the questions I want to ask Xiavera later, my toe connects with a rock.

I stumble, but a strong hand catches me by my forearm and I’m yanked backward into a hard body—Graeme’s. The motion flings my daypack off my shoulder and it dangles from the crook of my elbow. My body is flush against his, ass nestled against his hips, back pressed to his chest.

His breath catches. Blood pounds in my ears. After several heartbeats too long, I step away. His fingers are the last to disconnect, slipping slowly from my arm.

I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I mumble, scurrying to catch up with the rest of the group. Stealing a glance over my shoulder, I spot Graeme watching me intently, eyes hooded. I force myself to face forward.

The lagoons turn out to be a bust.

“The flamingoes were here earlier, but they must have moved on to a different part of the island,” Xiavera explains. “Bad luck.” She leads us farther down the path, away from the pungent, briny lakes, and pauses every few dozen yards to point out an interesting plant species or birdsong. I alternate taking pictures with taking notes, my fingers rarely at rest on my phone.

Walsh is next to Graeme again. She’s saying something, a bright smile pasted on her face. His camera is raised, blocking his expression. My shoulders bunch automatically, but I force the muscles to relax.

Soon we climb over a ridge, and a pristine, empty beach spreads before the rising sun. I pause at the top of the dune, and my breath leaves me in a whoosh. The beach is bordered on three sides by green shrubs leading to brown hills dotted with white, skeletal trees. The blue of the ocean mirrors the sky above, while light dances off the glittering water like a pathway to heaven. In front of me, guests oooh and cameras click and whir like insects.

Farther down the beach, Xiavera waves. “Sea turtle tracks,” she calls.

Most of the guests tag behind her, but a few spread out to absorb the beauty of the moment.

In front of me, Walsh drops her small pack in the sand, and, grasping the hem of her magenta wrap shirt, pulls it over her head and completely off. I cough in disbelief. Underneath, she’s wearing a sports bra that looks more like a crop top—it’s cut long and high-necked with intricate straps crisscrossing her back. But it’s still tight and stretchy and shows off a lot of skin.

“What are you doing?” I demand, kicking up sand as I hustle down the ridge and over to her.

“Yoga.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s been days and I really need to stretch.” Toeing off her sandals, she jogs over to the packed wet sand at the water’s edge. Orienting herself so she’s parallel with the shore, she begins a vinyasa sequence. Standing with her feet together, she stretches her arms toward the sky, folds over at the waist in a swan dive, rises halfway up then full down. Fingers anchored in the sand, she hops into a plank and then pushes her chest up into cobra and back into downward dog. She holds the pose for several long seconds, ass in the air.

The other guests are watching now. A middle-aged man raises his camera. His wife lowers it with one finger. Nikolai’s mouth hangs open like a trout as he stares. Graeme is striding toward Xiavera when he stops abruptly… and pulls a double take at Walsh. His eyes widen—I can see it even at this distance.

Dread siphons down my throat and pools in my gut.

After a breath, Walsh rocks onto her toes and kicks off the ground, slowly raising her legs into a controlled handstand. It’s so beautiful—and powerful—my jaw goes slack. It’s like I’m watching a viral Instagram post unfold in real time: perfect backdrop, perfectly beautiful woman doing a perfect handstand on the perfect beach washed in perfect light.

A blur of movement catches my eye.

Graeme is beelining to her like a fish on a hook. He drops to his knee on the sand in front of Walsh at the same time he lifts his DSLR camera. When she scissors her legs, knees bent at ninety-degree angles, her back toes point to the rising sun. Behind her, the ocean glimmers like stardust. Graeme’s camera clicks are as constant as a drumroll.

Everyone’s watching now—even Xiavera. Heat explodes in my cheeks and my muscles tense to the point of cramping.

There’s a splash behind Walsh and the crowd gasps. A sea lion’s head bursts through the waves as it lumbers onto the beach not five feet away from her.

This seems to break the spell. Still upside down, Walsh glances at the sea lion then at Graeme with his camera pointed at her. With far less grace than before, she tumbles out of her handstand and backs several steps away. She searches the crowd. When she finds me, her eyebrows flicker into a momentary frown.

Several guests applaud. Graeme approaches her. He’s smiling. Jealousy burns inside me like a fireball.

Two middle-aged ladies join them, and soon Walsh is leading the women in an impromptu set of sun salutations. Settling onto the sand, Graeme watches. His camera never stops clicking.