The Secret Path by Karen Swan (summer beach reads TXT) 📕

‘Huh.’ Wasn’t he just the Boy Scout! The simple ingenuity annoyed her. His constant mastery over somewhere so wild as this . . . At every turn he proved how he could thrive anywhere. Without her. Without anyone.

She felt the twine run through her palm as she walked carefully along, leaves and twigs rustling and snapping in the dark. She checked behind her several times to make sure the way really was clear before she unzipped her trousers, peeing faster than she ever had in her life. The jungle still teemed with activity, tiny rustles making her jumpy, the constant sound of flickering static in the air as insects chattered and scratched.

She hurried back again within minutes, stopping only as the glow of the campfire lit up the scene before her. She switched off her head torch as she approached, although she was quite tempted to ‘accidentally’ dazzle him again with it, but something in his movements made her stop walking. She stood hidden in the trees, watching as he shook out her hammock, sending multitudes of catkins and seeds that had fallen from the branches to the ground. He pulled hard on the ties of her hammock, checking they were secure. He pulled the mosquito net back across and tugged the tarp to make sure she was covered—

A twig snapped somewhere close by and the sound made him freeze and look up. She realized he couldn’t see her in the shadows – the firelight was too bright – but he strode back to his own hammock and began rifling in his rucksack instead. She stepped out of the trees a few moments later and he glanced at her casually. ‘All okay?’

‘Of course.’

He disappeared the way she’d come. She knew without being told that they were going to have to sleep in their clothes despite the humidity; bare skin was to the jungle insects what roadkill was to buzzards back home. She pulled off her boots and climbed into her freshly swept hammock, refusing to be grateful for his secret kindness. A groan escaped her as her exhausted body finally stretched and became heavy. Her eyes closed almost immediately.

In spite of her earlier fears that she wouldn’t be able to sleep near him, she knew now she would drop off quickly. The day had depleted her and her breathing was already heavy and slow . . .

Only distantly did she hear him come back a few minutes later, his footsteps pausing as he saw her already in bed, motionless. Feeling far away, she heard him move about for a bit, busily rearranging things, checking his own bed, kicking the fire apart and smothering the embers with damp leaves and soil so that it smouldered. There was another pause, a long one, then she heard his footsteps come over, closer. Right by her.

Her eyes were still shut – the lids leaden – but her heart was pounding as she felt him stare down at her, watching her sleep through the twilight hum. There was a slight rustle as her mosquito net was pulled back and something light traced over her hair, pushing back a tendril on her cheek. The touch felt shocking, almost electric, but she didn’t stir.

There was a sigh, then his footsteps retreated again and she listened to the sounds of him pulling off his boots and getting into his own hammock a few metres away. She heard him settle into position and listened to the sound of his sighs begin to slow. She opened her eyes and stared into the remains of the fire, watching embers still flickering, refusing to burn out.

Chapter Twenty

She was woken by, of all things, a tapir snuffling about under her hammock. It took her a moment to understand what she was hearing before she opened her eyes, and then another moment to recognize what she was seeing. It was walking, nose down, through their small camp, having seemingly investigated and abandoned the promise of the starch-water pan and two cups within it. The pan was now tipped on its side, the water seeping into the earth.

She watched from behind the gauze of her mosquito net for several minutes, entranced, but also wanting to delay what was dawning on her again – the reality of her ex-fiancé, sleeping just three metres away.

She looked up to find Alex already awake, his eyes trained upon her like he’d been guarding her all night. She supposed she was precious cargo of a sort – an heiress; the daughter of his billionaire boss. His meal ticket.

‘Morning.’ His voice was thick with sleep, his accent seeming stronger first thing; she remembered that about him, pushed the memory away again. ‘Sleep okay?’

‘Yup.’ She rolled onto her back, silencing any further encouragement for conversation and stared up, her overhead view of the trees blocked by the silver-backed tarp. It wasn’t an Instagram moment, but it appeared to have kept the dew off her; it was literally dripping off the leaves all around them.

Blessedly, it wasn’t raining – at least not yet – but the prospect of another long, hard day like yesterday, stretching before her, felt overwhelming. She was sweating already, her clothes clinging to her limbs, and one pat of her hair told her it was like a tangled birds nest. She gave a small groan and let her arm fall across her face like a strap. She wasn’t sure she had the energy for this. She felt completely drained, besieged all over again by doubts over what she was doing out here. This wasn’t her life; it wasn’t her story. Somehow she had just . . . strayed into someone else’s drama. Her story, right now, was supposed to be ten-hour sleeps and lie-ins and dancing on the beach and lots of sex with her handsome boyfriend. That was the point of holidays – normal life and all its unwelcome tribulations went on hold. It wasn’t supposed to get worse. She should be having cocktails for breakfast and surfing under a full moon; not sleeping