Paradise island

8. Colby

He kept glancing at Sam. Just to make sure he wouldn't fall over. Sam didn't get sick very often, so when he did, it was weird to see him off-kilter. But a rosy color had returned to his cheeks, and he even managed a smile during Georgia's toast, so he was probably okay.

Now that their stomachs were full of food and it was near 1 PM, they should probably get snorkeling, not to eat and run or anything, but they had to get moving. Colby was a little irritated that Nate's chattiness was at an all-time high. His questions had veered back to the screenplays again.

"Do you plan on getting any of those scripts made into movies?" Nate asked Georgia and Trey, as Colby went for their bags, handing Sam, Alex, and Nate their own as a way of strongly hinting they should go.

"Well, that's the goal, sure," Georgia replied, leading them into the dining room where the stacks of screenplays were now stacked on the china cabinet hutch. "My husband loved films. I always wanted at least one of them to get produced by a major studio, but you know Hollywood-so fickle!"

"Yeah," Colby groaned. "Hollywood be a bitch."

He hadn't meant it in a bad way, only as an end to the conversation so they could go snorkeling. But it came out sounding rude, and both Georgia and Trey turned their odd stares on him. Well, it was true. Living in Hollywood the last few years had taught Colby a lot about people, mostly how disingenuous they could be.

"It's not all bad, though," Colby backtracked. "Surrounding yourself with good friends is important." He raised his eyebrows at the guys, wishing they could all make a mad dash for the van in the driveway. He was taking his cues from Sam, and Sam was looking like he needed fresh air.

"True, Colby," Georgia nodded. "Hollywood can also teach us not to give up on our dreams. Trey and I won't be giving up on ours when it comes to getting these scripts just right. Ain't that so, baby?"

Trey rapped a stack of papers together on the table's surface. "Exactly, my love. Your big dream is now my big dream," he said, scooping her into his arms and giving her a deep kiss that made all them look away to prevent from staring.

Colby clucked his tongue in disbelief. Come on, getting these screenplays produced had been neither of their dreams. The only person it'd meant anything to was Clint, the man who'd written them. And Clint was no longer here. Who were these two living for a ghost?

He almost felt sorry for Trey, for not having a big dream of his own, but it had been the reason Colby had brushed him off two years ago. Now it was definitely none of his business. Still, he wished he could shake sense into Trey. The boy needed a slap or two.

"Well, boys, let's get going," Trey finally said, grabbing the keys off a hook on the wall. He pointed to a painting next to the key hook. "Oh, and this? Hand-painted piece by Sean Connery, the guy who played James Bond 007 in the old films. Pretty groovy, huh?"

"Super groovy." Colby rolled his eyes. "Maybe you can get him to star in one of your—I mean, Clint's-movies."

"Well, he's past eighty now," Trey tittered with- out even realizing Colby was being sarcastic.

So is your girlfriend. Colby's words nearly fell out of his mouth. They tumbled back into his throat where he swallowed them with lock and key, embarrassed that he'd even thought of them. "True, true."

All five men headed to the front door, past the row of scented candles, Mardi Gras-masked Buddha, and weird art that looked like it'd been made with elephant tusks and bent animal skeletons.

"I'll have your rooms ready by the time you come back," Georgia said.

Colby looked over his shoulder. "Thanks, but we're not staying the night. We have to be back to the snorkeling shop by six-thirty."