A delay. Of course there’s a delay. “How long?”
“No more than an hour, I promise. Perhaps a rum punch in our lounge to help you settle into island time?”
Island time. Christ. “Fine.”
She escorts me to the VIP lounge, a space that manages to be both luxurious and understated. Cream-colored sofas arranged around low tables, floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of manicured gardens and the ocean beyond. The sound of steel pan music drifts in from somewhere outside, faint and tropical and surprisingly pleasant.
“I’ll have the bartender bring that rum punch right over,” Marina says. “It’s our specialty.”
I almost ask for something stronger—the kind of drink that would blur the edges of my current mood—but Dr. Vaughn’s warnings about stress and heart health echo in my head. Alcohol probably isn’t the smartest choice for someone who just had a cardiac episode two weeks ago.
“Actually, Marina, I’ll take sparkling water. With lime.”
“Of course, sir.”
I settle into a chair facing a large, open window and accept my sparkling water from a server who appears and disappears with ninja-like efficiency. The first sip is crisp and cold, and I feel some of the tension start to leave my shoulders.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
The ocean breeze stirs the long curtains, bringing in the scent of island flowers and coconuts. Outside, palm fronds sway gently, and I can see glimpses of guests lounging by what appears to be an infinity pool. Everything is calm, controlled, exactly what I need.
For the first time since boarding that plane in Miami, I allow myself to relax slightly. My breathing slows, my shoulders drop away from my ears, and the constant hum of anxiety that’s been my companion for weeks starts to fade.
This is what a vacation is supposed to feel like, I suppose. Peace. Quiet. The absence of?—
“Wow! This place is incredible!”
The familiar voice hits me like a cold shower. I don’t need to turn around to know who’s just entered the lobby with all the subtlety of a marching band, but I do anyway, drawn by some masochistic impulse to confirm my worst fears.
Ella Manning sweeps up to the reception desk in all her chaotic glory, beach bag slung over one shoulder, sundress now slightly wrinkled from travel, dark hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the lobby windows. She’s gesturing animatedly at something Marina is showing her, and even from across the lobby, her laugh carries clear and bright.
Every head in the vicinity turns toward her. Not in annoyance—in fascination. People look at her the way they look at the sun when it breaks through storm clouds, half-blinded but smiling anyway. Which reminds me: I forgot to pack sunglasses, damn it.
What are the odds she’d be staying here? In a place like Barbados, with dozens of resorts scattered across the island, what are the fucking odds that she’d end up at the same one I’m staying at?
I watch as she leans across the check-in counter, probably sharing some enthusiastic observation about the decor or asking a dozen questions about local attractions. Marina’s professional smile has shifted into something more genuine—another victim of the Ella Manning charm offensive.
Whatever. This is fine. It’s a large resort. I can avoid her easily enough. Different restaurants, different pool areas,different schedules. I’ll retreat to my suite and she’ll probably spend her entire vacation making friends with every staff member and guest on the property.
Except she’s been standing at that desk for an unusually long time now, and Marina’s expression has shifted from welcoming to concerned. There’s obviously some kind of issue.
I should mind my own business. I should finish my sparkling water and wait for news about my suite without paying attention to whatever drama is unfolding at the desk.
Instead, I find myself getting up and walking toward them.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, and both women turn toward me with surprise.
Ella’s eyes widen when she sees me. “Alec? What are you doing here?”
“Apparently the same thing you are.” I look between her and Marina, whose professional composure is starting to show cracks. “What’s going on?”
Marina clears her throat delicately. “Well, this is rather unusual. There seems to have been a system error in our reservations. Both of your bookings are for the same suite.”
“The same suite,” I repeat slowly, because surely I misheard.
“The Coral Crown Honeymoon Suite,” Marina confirms, her voice getting smaller with each word. “I don’t know how it happened, but it appears you’ve both been assigned to the same accommodation.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I paid an obscene amount of money for privacy and solitude, and instead I’m being told I have to share a room with the most disruptive woman I’ve ever encountered.
