A/N- Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its amazing characters. I own a cute beach towel with a fish on it. So, out of the two of us, which person is better equipped for life in the tropics?

Warning: The Whitwatcher Islands featured in this story are fictional... as in Not Real. Please do not hop on a boat and expect to find them - you'll end up more lost than Bella and the gang will be. Also, do not depend on the survival techniques mentioned in later chapters to help you live through any dire situation, including but not limited to: shipwrecks, zombie apocalypses, and/or mole people invasions. Most likely you would experience a slow, extremely painful death if you were to do so. Please take everything you read henceforth with a grain of salt and just enjoy the story.

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Chapter One

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I saw the Cloud, though I did not foresee the Storm.

Daniel Defoe

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"You look great, Bella."

I give Mike a small smile while taking a sip from my wine glass. It's nice he noticed the extra effort I put into how I look tonight. I'm wearing a little black dress and those strappy high heels my sister encouraged me to buy a few weeks ago. They make my legs look longer (according to her). My hair hangs loose in gentle waves going past my shoulders. I even put on more makeup to bring out my eyes and lips. It isn't often that I dress up like this. My usual wardrobe consists of slacks and comfy sweaters. There's often a pencil or two shoved into my hair, too. Humble fact-checkers who work at travel magazines are rarely expected to look glamorous.

But this night is special. Mike and I are on a dream vacation almost five thousand miles away from Washington state. We reserved a table at the exotic island's nicest restaurant to celebrate an anniversary of sorts. Exactly five months ago he bumped into me in my office building's lobby, causing me to spill papers all across the marble floor. After helping me gather my things, he asked me out on a date. I politely declined since I didn't know him at the time. Eventually, he tracked me down and made it a point to stop by my office cubicle at least once a day just to talk. I came to learn that Mike is a photographer who works at the same media conglomerate that I do. His job consists of taking photos for the outdoor magazine located two floors above mine.

A month of friendly visits later, he asked me out again.

I hesitated at first. There was no spark between Mike and me. I didn't pine for him; nor did I fantasize about having his hands anywhere on my body. But, I had been single for well over a year - and my mother made it a point to remind me of that each and every time we spoke on the phone.

"You're not getting any younger, Bella," she would say. "Find someone nice and settle down."

Admittedly, Mike was a nice guy. He was always joking, always smiling. So, I figured, what did I have to lose? I caved and agreed to go on that date with him.

It ended up being the first of many.

Months later, kissing him still doesn't make my heart pound or cause my knees to go weak. It's just...nice. And nice isn't a bad thing in my opinion. Dating him is more fun than sitting on my sofa by myself every Friday night. Plus, Mom can't complain about me not having a boyfriend anymore now that Mike is in the picture.

It's a win-win.

I glance across the restaurant's table and openly admire him. His blond hair is gelled tonight, making him appear a bit like a Ken doll. Glacier blue eyes stare into my boring brown. His meticulously maintained fingernails make mine look like broken stubs. He even has a face that you wouldn't feel ashamed to bring home for your folks to see. Overall, Mike is an attractive man.

"Thanks," I say in response to his earlier compliment. "You look great, too."

He smirks. "I know." He leans across the table with his arm held out. "Feel that material. Italian wool. That's the best suit you can buy." When I don't move, he shakes his arm encouragingly. "Come on. Don't be shy. Touch it."

To placate him, I run one finger along the cuff. It feels like an ordinary dinner jacket to me, but I don't repeat that observation aloud. Mike is used to pampering himself with fine things. Me... not so much. You're more likely to see me shopping at Target than some pricy department store. I wouldn't know the difference between regular wool and Italian wool if you slapped them both across my face.

"O-oh." I try to sound impressed. "Very nice."

"It is, isn't it? The sales guy where I bought this from said that I have impeccable taste in clothes."

"Really?"

Mike nods. "And he said I was the first customer in months who could distinguish a silk tie from polyester with just one look."

I take a large sip of wine as he goes into detail about his shopping expertise. It isn't that I'm an alcoholic or anything. Sometimes I just need a little mental boost when Mike gets to talking. He always has a lot to say.

Several minutes later, he switches topics. "So, Bella... are you excited about tomorrow?"

I flash a genuine smile. "Of course I am. I've never been on a yacht before. Never been scuba diving either. Eric assured me that you and I are going to love it."

Eric is a fellow staff member at Voyage magazine. If one of his articles claims that Chile is where the oldest artificially mummified human can be found, it's my job to ensure his statement is true. In fact, every single article - no matter who wrote it - has to go through me first before it can be printed. While I work behind the scenes, Eric has become something of a legend around the office. He travels all over the globe, writing about safaris he's been on and which huge mountain peaks he has climbed. Every article of his is outstanding. However, the one which fascinated me the most was his three week long cruise around the tropics of the Pacific. The beautiful yacht hopped from island to island, allowing its handful of guests to explore white sand beaches and tiny villages far off the beaten path. The photos showed plenty of sunlight and an overabundance of wildlife. That's how I envision paradise to look. I knew immediately that I had to go on that cruise for myself one day. Three years later, I had a long-term boyfriend willing to go with me and enough cash saved up to make my dream a reality.

I chance a peek at Mike. I've been waiting hours to deliver potentially life changing news to him. I suppose it's now or never...

"Umm. Speaking of Eric," I begin nervously. "He told me something incredible right before I left on vacation."

Mike wipes his mouth with a napkin. "I bet I can guess what it is. He and his partner want you to be the flower girl at their wedding."

I grin at his teasing. "No! Tyler's niece will be given that honor. I am merely a bridesmaid. But that isn't the news I wanted to tell you about."

"Ok. What is it, then?"

"The magazine wants to freshen things up by hiring a few new writers soon. Eric said I ought to put in my résumé, and... I've decided that I'm going to do it!"

Mike drops his fork with a clank against his dinner plate. He stares for several silent beats. "What?" he drags out.

"I said I am going to apply for one of those positions. It would be a great opportunity if they were to choose me."

Mike furrows his brow. "Why would you want to give up what you're doing now? You're one of the best fact-checkers in the business."

"I may be good at it but it isn't what I want to do for the rest of my life. I got that position right out of college, thinking it would only be temporary. It's been ten years. I'd say it's time for me to move on. It would be nice to put my journalism degree towards something that doesn't involve nagging people about their articles not being one hundred percent accurate."

"What would this new writing position consist of? Is it travel related?"

"Yes. They want to feature stories that haven't been done a thousand times. That means going to new, out-of-the-way places few Westerners have ever seen. I could be sent anywhere!"

Mike isn't smiling like I am. He shakes his head. "I don't think that job is a good fit for you, Bella."

My positive mood takes a nosedive. "Why not?"

"For one, you don't know how to write."

"Yes I do. I was a reporter for both my high school and university campus newspapers. I even won a couple of awards. It's been a while, but I'm sure I can get the hang of it again."

"What about your lack of travel experience? Besides a couple of trips across the border to Canada, isn't this the first foreign country you've ever visited?" I nod. He chuckles to himself. "That's what I thought. There's no way Voyage magazine would hire someone to do articles on travel when that person can't even say they've been to New York City yet."

I frown. "You really think so?"

"I do." His hand falls on top of mine and pats it. "You should concentrate on what you are good at and forget about Eric's idea. I don't want you to have your heart broken when they give the writing job to someone else."

I release a small sigh. "Yeah. I guess you're right. It would be silly of me to pursue something I'm probably not qualified for."

"I don't think it's silly. It's cute. Your dreams sometimes blind you from the big picture. But that's what I'm here for...to keep you on the right path to success."

Mike snaps his fingers in the air. Our waiter reappears. He is a tall, dark-haired man that looks like he could be Dwayne Johnson's younger brother. He wears a white button-up and black vest. Contrasting with the formal look is a jagged shark tooth hanging from a leather cord necklace. I love how flawlessly he combines his Pacific island heritage with his uniform.

"May I help you?" inquires the waiter with a slight accent.

"Oui. Nous sommes prêts pour le dessert."

The waiter blinks at Mike. It takes a while for him to form a response. "Excuse me, sir, but I do not speak French."

Mike's head cocks to the side. "That's weird. I could have sworn the website for this place bragged about being bilingual."

"That is true, sir. All the staff here speaks both English and Kiribati."

"Kee-ruh-bas? Never heard of it."

"It's the island's native language," I butt in. "They usually speak it at home. English is for business transactions and communicating with tourists." The waiter nods politely at me for explaining things to Mike. It's no big deal, really. For curiosity's sake, I did a little research about the island before the trip.

"Yeah? How many speak it?" Mike wonders aloud.

"Approximately one hundred thousand people, sir," answers the waiter.

Mike snorts. "Is that all? You can find that many speakers of Klingon during a Star Trek convention! Am I right or what, Bella?"

The waiter's posture goes straight as a board.

"Oh... I don't know about that," I say, fidgeting in my chair. "You can't really compare a language that's been around for hundreds of years to one that was made up for a television show." I clear my throat to get the waiter's attention. His eyes settle back on me. "Would you mind bringing us the dessert menu?"

"I would be happy to," he says, his demeanor softening.

As soon as our waiter walks away, I send Mike a sharp look. "I don't think our waiter liked that comment you made."

Mike waves me off. "Nah. You don't understand how guys work. He knew I was only kidding. I could tell he got a kick out of it, too."

"I didn't see him laughing."

"That's because he can't right now. Look around you, Bella. This place is too classy for one of its waiters to be seen goofing off with a customer. He had to watch himself, or else he'd be fired."

"Oh. I didn't realize..."

"It's all right." He winks at me. "You're just not used to the high life yet, but you will be soon enough. I'll make sure of it."

I nod my head a little. "I guess there's still a lot left for me to learn." Suddenly, I feel my bladder demanding attention. I grab my handbag. "Mike? I'm gonna go to the restroom while he's getting our menus."

Mike's face lights up. "Ok, babe. You take your time. I'll save a seat for you."

I smile weakly at his joke and rise from my chair. As I walk, I notice that the restaurant is packed. Each table seems to have a starry-eyed couple gazing lovingly at one another through the candlelight. Beautiful potted palm trees give life to the room. The only problem is that this place is huge. Where in the hell are they hiding the restrooms? During my search, I open an unmarked door and walk right in. A dozen members of the kitchen staff stop what they're doing to stare. I give them an awkward wave, feeling like an American idiot for getting lost. A nice man chopping vegetables decides to save the day and acts as a guide for me. I'm led past the dining area and through the bar. A few customers nurse drinks as the bartender rushes to fill orders. The nice man from the kitchen points down a long hallway towards the ladies room sign. I thank him for his kindness and finish the remainder of the journey on my own.

The restroom is fancier than what I am accustomed to. The sinks are marble. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling. There's even a little loveseat in the corner. Do women really sit in here and shoot the breeze while people are peeing in stalls five feet away? It makes me wonder if the men's room is furnished, too. If it is, they probably have a recliner and TV set up in there. My dad would consider that luxurious.

I take care of business quickly and wash my hands. I'm passing through the bar again when I notice one of my shoes feels like it's on the verge of slipping off. Glancing down, I see that the strap of one of my high heels has loosened. I'm not about to bend over and potentially flash my panties to a roomful of strangers, so I find an empty bar stool and place my foot on the bottom rung. Carefully keeping the skirt of my dress in place, I tighten the strap and continue on my way.

It's easy to spot my table since it is located in the center of the dining area. I arrive at my chair and am met with a surprise. There is a plate with a slice of some sort of pie waiting for me instead of the dessert menu I asked for.

"What's this doing here?" I ask Mike as I sit down. "I haven't ordered anything yet."

"It's cherry clafoutis. I looked over the menu while you were gone and decided to get a slice for the both of us."

I wrinkle my nose. "But I don't like cherries."

"You don't?"

"I told you this back when you bought me chocolate-covered cherries for my birthday last month. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah..." He smiles and shrugs. "Sorry. Guess I forgot." He points his fork at the dessert. "At least try a bite. Maybe you'll grow to like it."

I glance down at my plate again. I've never been the type to waste food. And bugging the waiter to bring me something else is out of the question, too. I hate being a bother. I cut off a small piece and give the dessert a try. It has a creamy, custard-like texture. If this wasn't cherry flavored, I would probably love it.

Having forced myself to eat around a quarter of the offensive treat, I suddenly bite down on something hard. It almost breaks my back tooth. I snatch up my napkin and spit out a metallic object.

I hear someone snickering. "Something wrong, Bella?" Mike asks.

"Yes. I almost choked on this thing. I wonder what-"

He takes it from my hand before I can finish my sentence and dips the object into his glass of water. Crumbs and gooey pieces of cherry wash off, leaving behind a platinum band. Three gemstones sit at the top. The main one is a huge diamond. Two heart-shaped aquamarine gemstones flank its sides. The color matches Mike's eyes.

Once I can finally stop gaping at the ring, I realize Mike has left his seat. He's on the floor in front of me, down on one knee, and smiling.

"Bella, meeting you was the best thing that's ever happened to me," he proclaims for all the world to hear. "You are the light of my life, the apple of my eye, the cream in my coffee. Will you marry me?"

My heart starts racing. Sweat tickles my forehead. I've never liked being in the spotlight - yet here I am smack dab in the middle of it. Every single person in this place is waiting for my answer, as though it's the most thrilling event since Harry married Meghan Markle. A few are even filming the proposal with their smartphones.

A hundred thoughts run through my head, yet all I can really focus on is the fact that if Mom was here, she would be shaking me by my shoulders and demanding that I give Mike a resounding yes. Dad would probably hold up his hands and tell me to just do what feels right. But how is that supposed to help me? I have no clue what I'm feeling besides shock and an overwhelming fear of making the wrong decision.

I draw in a breath and hold it in to calm my nerves. It's time for me to do some serious thinking.

After extensive research reading romance novels, I haven't seen any evidence that I'm in love with Mike. I don't feel any magnetic pull to him which would indicate our souls have been bound together for all of eternity. But then again, maybe those novels were exaggerating. Maybe being in love isn't any different from just caring deeply about someone. And I most definitely have grown to care for Mike. I like seeing him happy. I enjoy spending time with him. I worry myself sick when he's running late and I don't know where he might be.

That has to mean something, right?

And even if there is such a thing as "falling in love", it wouldn't happen magically in the blink of an eye like you see in the movies. In reality, you would fall gradually. It must be true. Case in point, just look at how our relationship has progressed in only four months of dating. Mike went from admirer, to acquaintance, to boyfriend. In a couple more months, I bet I'll be completely smitten by him.

As I look down at his hope-filled face, I come to realize that he is offering me everything I could want. Not only would I have a successful career, I could soon have a husband and a family. I would never, ever be lonely again. I know for a fact that he wants kids - just like I do. He has even talked about buying a house in the suburbs, one with a big back yard and a swing set. I can picture it inside my head already. The only thing missing is a child or two running around.

Our children.

That's all the incentive I need.

I grab my wine glass and tip it back, draining it dry. Filled with liquid courage, I hold my head high and give Mike my answer.

"Sure. Why not?"

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A/N-

Reviews inspire me to write instead of being lazy and watching reruns of Gilligan's Island. And laziness is especially bad in this instance. If I stop writing now, Bella will forever be set on marrying Mike freakin' Newton. But you, dear reader, can keep that from happening. Save Bella and this story by telling me what you think. Your insight will be greatly appreciated.

Thanks for reading! :-)