“Maybe…” I allow, and they both pounce, rattling off all the reasons I should go.
It took thirty minutes and two more beers before I finally relented. “All right, all right. I’ll go. But only so you two will shut the fuck up about jet skiing and fresh fish.”
Lane smacks me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit!”
“But absolutely no women. They’re nothing but trouble,” I inform them with a final slash of my hand. “I’m done with women.”
Chapter 4
Why are those pineapples upside down?
Awarmsaltywindslinks through the slightly open window at the front of the shuttle van and teases the ends of my blonde ponytail. I close my eyes and inhale the peace, only opening them when the tinny voice of the driver comes over the speaker.
“If you’ll look to your right, you’ll see a field of pineapple plants. Fun fact about pineapples: each plant produces only one fruit and then dies. But don’t you worry. Small plantlets called suckers grow at the base of the plant, and they are planted to grow even more pineapples.”
I dip my head to look out the window, seeing hundreds of shrubby plants growing low to the ground. I had no idea they couldn’t produce more than one pineapple. My mind begins churning. I could probably work that fact into a story. I pull out my notebook and jot down a few ideas. Maybe an analogy related to love where a dying relationship spawns new growth. Perhaps a sucker joke in there as well.
The male voice continues. “And to your left, there’s a grove of coconut trees. Beyond that is a vegetable garden. Pineapple Island Resort prides itself on growing most of the fruits and vegetables that are prepared in our gourmet kitchens.” Then the man chuckles. “But pineapples are definitely our favorites here at this resort. Am I right?”
Everyone cheers, and I join in. The shuttle is a large flamingo-pink passenger van and, besides me, there are two couples and four women onboard who all seem to know each other.
Seated in the second row on the left side, I watch as the couple in front of me share a sweet kiss before the woman glances back at me. I quickly look away, embarrassed that I’d been staring. They’re a lovelycouple, him with golden hair that sweeps over his forehead and her with porcelain skin and a mass of auburn curls.
They whisper for a moment—no doubt talking about the creeper behind them. Then the woman turns in her seat to give me a bright smile.
“Hi, I’m Jane Ford, and this is my partner, Gaston Chevalier.”
“So nice to meet you,” I say. “Sorry I was gawking earlier. You two just seem really sweet together.”
She laughs a throaty chuckle as Gaston swivels around and rests his forearm on the seat. “We don’t mind,” he assures me. “Are you here by yourself?”
Stranger danger!
But I can’t really deny it since I’m sitting alone, so I do the next best thing, letting them know that, while I don’t have anyone physically here with me, I’m not totally out of touch with the outside world.
“Yes. My father was worried about me coming alone, so I have to call him every night when I’m safely locked in my cottage. Otherwise, he’ll send in the troops.”There. That should do it.
I don’t mention that after my best friend went missing on our Spring Break trip in Mexico seventeen years ago, I haven’t been outside the United States. Mostly to appease my fathers… both of them.
My dads aren’t a couple or anything. Emmett McNamara is my biological father, and Isaac is my stepdad—who I call Pops—and I adore them both.
“Fantastique,” Gaston says. Judging by his name and accent, he’s a Frenchman.
Jane gives me a kind smile. “You’re welcome to eat dinner at our table tonight. We’d love to get to know you better.”
“That’s really sweet, but I was planning to turn in early and order room service. I have a lot of writing to do tonight.”
Gaston perks up. “Writing, you say? I’m an author as well.”
“He’s a professor of psychology at Georgetown,” Jane tells me, her chin lifting in pride. “Gaston has written three textbooks and has another in the works.”
I feel my cheeks blush. “I don’t write anything as cerebral as textbooks, I’m afraid. I’m a romance author.”
One of the women behind me leans forward, her brown eyes sparkling. “Oooh, are they spicy romances? I looooove the spice.” She has a bit of a southern accent like me but sounds more Louisiana than Texas.
“They are,” I assure her with a smile. “I write under the pen name Juli Mack.”
The woman lets out a shriek that causes the van driver to jolt and almost swerve off the road. “You are! I recognize you now!” She turns to her other three friends but keeps a finger pointed at my face, very nearly poking out my left eye. “Y’all, this is Juli Mack, the author I’m always talking about.”
