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Emma Monroe, aka a normal ray of sunshine with so many, many regrets
Trippingover a body on the porch of my Fiji beach villa wasn’t the way I planned to start my day, but then, whathasgone right in the past few days?
I go down with a surprisedoof, landing on top of the person. Pain radiates through my elbow after it smacks the wood of the porch. If there are any gods listening,pleasedon’t let this be a reporter.
One more thing to be filed underthings I never thought I’d worry about in my life.
But here we are.
Also—“Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.”
Even if this personisa freaking reporter.
Why can’t I be the badass who’d hope the next thing on my agenda today is burying a body?
Bonus, if I were that type of badass, I wouldn’t care that I’ve become the world’s most notorious runaway bride.
But I’m not that kind of badass.
Which means I need to find a different way to deal with this.
It has to be at least eighty degrees out here, but my teeth are chattering and I’m battling a whole-body shiver that makes me want to curl into a ball.
I’m also still sprawled across this human lump.
What would Theo do?
My brother—who is, unsurprisingly, yet again one of my favorite people in the world while simultaneously sitting at the top of my shit list—would pull a wrestling move, flip this person on their back, and use the power of his morning breath to add some extra fear when he said—something.
Probablyget the fuck off my porch before I gut you like a fish.
No, actually, that’s not Theo’s style.
But then, hiding in an apparently high-end villa and ducking into closets anytime the resort staff drops by, even to leave the food you ordered from room service on the porch, also isn’t Theo’s style.
So how does thenew and improved,doesn’t let people walk all over herEmma want to handle this?
Do I scoot off this person, hit the porch light switch and make whoever it is think Iamthe type to not blink at starting my day with burying a body? Can I?
Can I be a warrior woman for once in my life?
I’m trying to think of another dastardly plan when the person beneath me groans.
And rolls.
And wraps a heavy arm around my waist.
“Why, Peyton?” moans a deep male voice that smells like dead fish steeped in whiskey. “Give me back the whalebone.”
“Excuse me, sir.” I poke him while I try to lift his arm off of me. “You need to leave.”
“I should’ve known it would be you. There’s never been anyone like you.”
I freeze, and goosebumps erupt over my shivers while déjà vu takes hold.
I’ve heard this man say those words before.
