Private 02 - Private Paradise

he said as he dropped his robe and pulled on his damp shorts. “I remember what you're like when you don't eat.” He moved to the door.
    “ What are you doing?” Her voice raised in alarm as he reached for the doorknob. “You can't go out in that.”
    Sam looked at his watch. “Based on how fast the storm is moving, the eye should be over us right about now.” He opened the door, and sure enough, the rain had eased to a soft sprinkle. “I should be able to raid the kitchen and get back here before the other side hits us.”
    “ Are you insane?” Carla asked as he stepped out the door. “That's how people get hurt―they go out in the eye thinking the storm is over and then get caught.”
    Sam bent and gave her a quick hard kiss. “It's sweet of you to worry about me, but I'll be back in ten minutes, tops. You sit tight.” He flashed her a cocky grin, reminiscent of the wild teenager he'd once been, flouting the rules at every turn. Despite what he claimed, he hadn't changed, except now he was facing down natural disasters instead of school principals and the local cops.
    He took off at a fast jog before she could say another word. Though the air was hot and oppressive with humidity, she kept her robe clutched tightly around her as she waited anxiously on the villa's front steps for Sam to return. From her position, she got her first glimpse of the havoc the hurricane had wreaked. Everywhere, palm fronds that lined the resort's perfectly landscaped grounds littered the pathways connecting the guest rooms. Clay shards lay scattered across the grounds, remnants of roof tiles that had been ripped off by the wind and hurled to the ground.
    She could only imagine how much worse it would be on the side of the island that was more exposed to the storm.
    Where was Sam? He’d said ten minutes, tops, but it felt like a lot longer.
    Her stomach knotted as the wind started to kick up again, a signal that the other side of the eye was fast approaching, bringing with it the most violent winds they'd have to endure.
    What if he didn't make it back in time? What if she had to wait out the storm alone?
    Worse, what if he got hurt? Or killed? The thought of him surviving being burned and shot at, only to die because he'd gone off in a storm to get her a snack made the knot of fear in her belly double in size.
    A crunch of footsteps sent a wave of relieve through her. Sam appeared around the bend, each arm laden with a white plastic trash bag heavy enough to make the muscles in his bulge under his skin.
    Carla motioned him inside and he dropped the bags on the floor. Without thinking, Carla flung herself against him and buried her face in the bare, damp skin of his chest.
    He gave a startled laugh and hugged her back, and bent to plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Now that's a greeting I could get used to.”
    Embarrassed at how happy she was to see him, Carla pushed free of his arms and stepped farther into the villa's great room. “That was completely stupid of you to go out there.”
    Sam picked up the plastic bags and brought them into the kitchenette. He opened one and started placing the contents on the counters. “Based on how fast the storm was traveling, I knew I had at least a twenty-five minute window before the other side of the storm hit.” He looked down at the large complicated-looking watch strapped to his wrist. “I could have taken another ten minutes and been in the clear.”
    Carla started to unpack the other bag. “The last data we got was hours old,” she said as she thumped a jar onto the table. “The storm could have easily picked up speed as the eye passed over.” She grabbed blindly at a smaller bag tucked inside and would have tossed it onto the table had Sam not stopped her with his hand on her wrist.
    “ Careful. You don't want to squash the raspberries.” He set the bag carefully down.
    Carla snatched her arm from his grasp. “You had no way of knowing for sure how much time you had.” She continued emptying the bags, unearthing what looked like a week's supply of food.
    Sam finished unpacking the other bag. “I kind of like having you worry about me,” he said, and there was no mistaking the smug undertone in his voice.
    If only he'd known how many years, how many sleepless nights she'd spent worrying about him, wondering every time she heard about a soldier being killed somewhere if she would get a call from Chris that Sam O'Connell had been killed in battle or a training