Page 2 of The Tropical Romance Test

He chuckles, and I have to admit, the man’s smile is anything but wrong. Warm, and teasing, making his eyes crinkle at the edges. Brown eyes, flecked with gold, currently gazing at me with interest.

Hello.

“So, are you an event planner?” he asks, turning to fully face me now. And yup, that suit is definitely designer, and boy, does it do him justice.

“For the next four days, at least,” I reply, dragging my eyes back to that clean-cut face. “I don’t understand it, I’m used to fighting to stay on budget, shaving every last dollar. But with these people, it’s like overspending is a point of pride.”

“Basic prestige demand theory,” the man nods. “People value something more when they pay through the roof.”

“Uh oh,” I groan, only half teasing. “Are you about to give me a speech on high-value women, and feminine energy, and provider, alpha men?”

He snorts with surprised laughter. “Hell, no. I actually learned it when I was doing yard work in high school,” he explains, giving me that smile again, so warm and open, I’m wondering if I misjudged him. Maybe he’s not Mr. All-Wrong, after all, but the soulful small town soulmate himself.

How would he look in flannel…?

“I thought the way to get more business was selling my services cheap,” the man continues, oblivious to the fact I’m currently stripping him naked in my mind. “Then my uncle told me to offer a platinum service, double the price. Suddenly, I’m out there mowing like nobody’s business, the hottest lawn jockey in town.”

“So what did you spend all that extra cash on?” I ask, relaxing. Either the vodka or this man is hitting the spot right now, because the butterfly debacle is suddenly feeling very far away.

He gives a boyish grin. “I should probably say college savings, or to donate to charity, but… I was saving to rent a hotel room for junior prom,” he admits. “I was dating Louise Fishbaker, and I was horny as hell, but I wanted to be a gentleman about it. Nothing but the best three-star Ramada Inn for a girl like that.”

“Classy.” I laugh. “So did you have your night of adolescent bliss?”

“Nope,” he says with a theatrical sigh. “She broke up with me the week before the dance for some college freshman who drove a tricked-out red Camaro. What scrawny sophomore could compete with that?”

“The lure of an older man,” I agree. “Sorry you got stood up.”

He breaks into a grin. “Not exactly. I was loitering on the front steps, feeling sorry for myself, when this gorgeous senior had a massive fight with her boyfriend, and decided to use me to make him jealous. Turns out, my mom’s beat-up Honda minivan has some perks, after all. Like very spacious backseats.”

I laugh. “Oh, I remember.”

“Spent some time back there yourself?” he asks, giving me a mischievous smirk.

“Maybe… I went through a rebellious phase in high-school,” I find myself admitting. “Fancied myself a brooding, artistic type. Dyed black hair, red lipstick, pretentious clove cigarettes… it took me a while to figure out that just because a boy quotes dead French philosophers and plays bass guitar, it doesn’t mean he’s not trying to get in your pants, same as any other guy.”

“I apologize,” the man says, raising his glass to me. “On behalf of horny adolescent boys everywhere.”

I smile. “Don’t get me wrong, I was a horny, hormone-fueled monster myself,” I add. “I mean, I was out there reading erotic Buffy fanfic with the best of them.”

“Erotic what now?” he blinks.

I blush. “Don’t ask.”

Looking back now, those wild, teenage adventures seem like an old nostalgic movie, someone else’s story. Once I got pregnant and decided to have a kid before I even graduated college, spontaneous ceased to be a part of my vocabulary. After all, there’s not as much chance for reckless, passionate flings when you have to schedule a babysitter ahead and time and go pump every three hours.

But now my daughter, Lottie, is fourteen-going-on-forty-five, and pretty much everyone agrees, I’m in dire need of some reckless adventuring again. Or even just mildly intriguing exploits.

Like the kind I could have discovering what this man is hiding under that expensive suit…

My phone suddenly buzzes – this time with an alarm. My flight is boarding. I scramble down from my stool. “I have to go,” I blurt, wishing I didn’t need to be in Miami in a couple of hours to play babysitter to half a million dollars of rare orchids. “It was, umm, nice meeting you.”

Nice meeting you?This is why I don’t have romantic adventures – not because I’m a mom, but because my skills of charm and seduction have been gathering dust so long, they’re practically pre-historic.

“You too,” the man stands, also, and peels off a couple of twenties from his wallet, gesturing to the bartender that he’s covering my check, too. “Good luck with those butterflies.”

I wince. “Thanks. Knowing my luck, I’ll be stuck roaming around with one of those butterfly nets myself, trying to capture the stragglers before they flutter south.”

He chuckles, as we exit the bar area together. “I’m that way,” he nods to the right.

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