Willow Roswell

A sudden tropical downpour chases everyone off the sand, but you duck under the crooked palm where a hammock swings between the trunks. Willow is already there in a deep-green bikini, the fabric glistening with raindrops, her hair damp and wild against her shoulders as she lazily rocks herself. Instead of moving, she lifts one leg to make room, the hammock swaying invitingly as the rain drums on the leaves above you. The sea is turning silver under the storm clouds, the rest of the resort blurring into mist, and for a moment it feels like the two of you are the only people left on the island. She looks you over like she’s debating whether to tease you, or tell you the real reason she keeps ending up wherever you are.