The Trouble With Paradise

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Book: The Trouble With Paradise Read Online Free PDF
Author: Jill Shalvis
then, just a little bit overwhelmed, went to sit down on her bed.
    Bad idea.
    Sitting down reminded her that she had a splinter in a very vulnerable place. Leaping up in response reminded her of her other problem, her ankle, which had gone from some discomfort to unmistakable throbbing, accompanied by a lovely mottled blue bruise—not her color if she said so herself. She needed ice. Grabbing her purse, she hobbled to her stateroom door, thinking to find Ethan again.
    In the hallway, she ran into a different crew member, as extremely good-looking as the rest of them. He was the same guy she’d seen waving to Andy while on the dock. In his early twenties, he wore the same navy cargo pants and white shirt as Denny and Ethan, and oddly enough, a grumpy frown that rivaled Mr. Stryowski’s. Along with that frown, he wore an Astros baseball cap backward on his head and carried a tray of what looked to be iced tea, along with a small stack of glasses, and was sending off enough waves of irritation to make her wonder what could possibly be so bad about working on a boat in the South Pacific. Try Shop-Mart, buddy. “Houston,” she said. “We have a problem.”
    “Oh, I’m not Houston,” he said. “I’m Bobby.”
    “Well, yes. I was just making a joke—You know what? Never mind,” she said at his blank expression. “Look, I’m sort of injured.” She felt so stupid for adding her problems to his clearly already bad day. “I twisted my ankle, and then got a—” No. She was not going to tell him about the splinter. Her bottom could just fester and fall off before she’d tell a single soul. “I just need—”
    “The ship’s doctor?”
    She blinked. “Do you have one?”
    “Christian’s part of the sailing crew, but also an MD.” He eyed her ankle over his tray. “Can you walk?”
    “Yes.” To prove it, she took a step, but her ankle gave out entirely and she fell right into him.
    And his tray.
    The iced tea fell over, and dumped down her front, soaking into her pristine white sundress. Oh, yes, right on track to having fun.
    Bobby, his Astros cap askew now, eyed the front of her dress, which was drenched through. “Shit on a stick!”
    “I’m so sorry.” She pulled her dress away from her skin, because wow, the tea was iced .
    “Shit,” he said again, and handed her the small linen napkin draped over his forearm.
    She dabbed at the damage, but it was like plugging Niagra Falls with a tampon. Worse, she realized she had a sort of wet T-shirt effect going. “Next time I’ll wait until you’ve got something warm,” she tried to joke.
    “This is bad.” Bobby was trying to look away, but his eyes were drawn to her breasts like magnets. “Oh, God.” He covered his eyes. “I’m going to get fired. Again. ”
    “No, it’s my fault, not yours—”
    “It’s never the guest’s fault,” he said miserably, as if he’d had this phrase repeated to him more than a few times. “Fuck!” Then he put a hand over his mouth.
    “What?”
    “And I’m not supposed to swear in front of you either. Oh, God, I’m toast. Burnt toast.”
    “No, you’re not. Look, we’ll just forget about the tea, okay?”
    His expression went to sheer disbelief. “You’re not going to tell on me?”
    “Of course not. It wasn’t your fault.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    He let out a long breath, then nodded, as if trying to reassure himself. “That’s good. That’s great.” Bending, he began to clean up the glasses on the ground.
    “Um . . . Bobby?”
    He glanced back.
    “Maybe I could get some ice? For my ankle?”
    “The doctor.” He slapped his forehead. “You need the doctor.” He reached for her, but eyeing her wet dress, he pulled his hands back, shoving them in his pockets. “Uh . . .”
    “I can walk—” Trying to prove it, she took a step and stumbled. Looking like he might prefer facing the guillotine, he bent to scoop her up in his arms, but he was thin, lanky, and she was . . . not. He
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