"Adequate?Bah!A woman should never be adequate, Roarke.She should be magnificent.Is she magnificent?"
She’s more than magnificent, I’m tempted to admit.
She’s bubbly.And unpretentious.Genuine.
And, frankly…beautiful.
But now’s not the time or place.
I’ve done the relationship thing a few times in my twenties—once or twice in my thirties—and nothing was ever enough of a fit to hold onto for very long.
In my forty-five years on Earth, I’ve discovered not many women are crazy about being with a man already married to his career.
Not that I’m thinking of marriage…
I sigh, thinking of a way to answer my nosy grandmother when the tap-dancing on the deck above intensifies.It’s accompanied by Captain Feathers' enthusiastic squawking of a cawed version of "Singin' in the Rain."
"She's...thorough," I manage.
"Ah!She makes you think, this one.Good.You need someone to shake up your careful little world.When do I meet her?"
"You don't.We're sailing to Cannes for the soft launch tomorrow afternoon, and?—"
"Perfect!I am at my Cannes villa for the weekend.We have lunch."
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone.As usual.
But the second I try to get back to work, the universe throws another curve ball at me.
Because two hours later, I'm trailing behind Mia and Isla through Monaco's crowded market, as we search for another pair of tapping shoes because apparently Captain Feathers took a painted poo inside of the pair we already have.
I’d congratulate the bird, if it didn’t mean I was wrangled into this shopping excursion, too.
"Uncle Roarke, look!"Isla holds up a stuffed octopus wearing a beret."Captain Feathers needs a friend!"
"Captain Feathers has enough friends," I answer, scanning the crowd automatically.
So many people.So many variables.
So many things that could go wrong.
“Izzy, honey,” I rub her wispy soft, blonde hair, “let’s focus.We’re looking for tapping shoes.Not new friends.”
"But this one speaks French!"Isla demonstrates by making the octopus wave a tentacle."Bonjour!Je suis un poulpe!"
Mia laughs, and the sound does something unfortunate to my concentration."That's very impressive, sweetheart.But maybe we should?—"
"Ice cream!"Isla spots a gelato cart and bolts toward it like a tiny missile.
"Isla, wait!"Mia calls, but she's already disappeared into the crowd.
A second passes, then several, before I realize I can’t see her golden curls anymore.
My blood turns to ice."Where is she?"
"She just went to the gelato cart, she's probably—" Mia spins in a circle, her face going pale."Isla?ISLA!"
The market suddenly feels like a maze of threats.
