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The walk-in closet was as big as my bedroom at home. Four robes—two plush, two lightweight cotton with the St. Claire logo tastefully embroidered on a pocket—hung neatly. A built-in set of drawers took up one wall. A wall safe was also provided. Convenient if you had anything of value, like Mrs. Stockton’s diamonds.
After unpacking, I booted up my laptop. Fingers poised above the keyboard to type in my password, I froze.
What the hell was I doing? I had seven days to do anything I wanted, and my first thought waswork?
St. Claire was literally paradise on earth, where the only people were guests and the staff who served them. How could I consider working when every whim and desire I had wouldbe fulfilled? If I couldn’t find the sexy should-be cover model, maybe a muscular, tanned lifeguard would cross my path. Or a limber, inventive yoga instructor. Or a sensuous cook to feed me grapes and fresh oysters... I needed to be spontaneous and confident.Channel Elle Woods, I heard Amanda and Jane instruct. This was my last free week. My promotion loomed ahead, and now was the time to throw caution to the wind, as they say. Dosomethingso I had stories to tell my girlfriends when they thought I was a boring workaholic who lived for spreadsheets and fiscal accountability.
I shut my laptop, put my phone on the charger, and changed into my new bikini and wrap-around sundress.
It was three in the afternoon: I would socialize, eat, drink, be merry. And track down that gorgeous man who’d smiled at me in the lobby.
This was my vacation, maybe my last vacation for years. The irony? With my promotion, I’d have more money—enough to pay for a trip to St. Claire myself—but no time to take even a three-day weekend. I’d never really cared about the trade-off until I got here, and now the thought of this trip being the first and last for me was depressing.
But money meant security. It meant helping Grams, paying my rent, saving for retirement. My dad had thought of all that and created a modest trust for me in the event he died... and then he’d died. How could I forget all he’d taught me, the responsibility he’d instilled in me, and turn down a promotion that included my name on the door?
I had a week to make my decision, and there really was only one decision I could make. Why was I doubting myself?
I knew who I was at work: Mia Crawford, CPA, Financial Planner. My clients respected me. My boss valued me.
But numbers didn’t keep me warm at night. If I took the promotion, I wouldn’t have time to find love. I would be alone for the rest of my life.
I had to work. I had to take care of my Grams and makesure my future was financially secure. But what if I never found anyone to share my future with?
The thought made me surprisingly sad.
Maybe I’d never find my forever love, but I damn well could find a lover for the next six days.
Chapter Four
“The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”
—Mark Twain
I considered the main outdoor bar options from two perspectives: comfort, and the ability to meet single men.
The circular bar in the center of the pool, accessed by a bridge, would make me feel onstage. It was a focal point of the resort. I noted that Doug, David, and their friends sat under an umbrella table, laughing. Another couple—a fit forty-something man and a woman ten years younger—sat with an older teenager who looked exceptionally bored. The girl wore jean shorts and a hoodie and stared at her cell phone, clearly not wanting to be there. When the man turned his profile to me, I recognized Andrew Locke, the very handsome, slightly-too-old-for-me former baseball player who had a girlfriend.
I shielded my eyes and squinted. His girlfriend was the rude woman from the gift shop. Silky brown hair cut stylishly to fall perfectly on her shoulders, large designer sunglasses, long tanned legs. She leaned over and kissed Andrew. The teenager got up and left.
The pool had the benefit of allowing me to show off mycute bikini. But everyone was in couples or groups, and swimming solo would make me feel even more isolated.
The Blue Dahlia connected the main resort building to the beach with the bar dividing indoor and outdoor seating. Dahlias of every hue—except blue, which didn’t exist in nature—filled colorful vases on the tables, with additional displays of the flower mixed with wide, green stalks in tall urns in the corners.
I crossed the threshold. The lazy overhead fans moved the flowery scent of the dahlias and jasmine around. Neither too cold nor too hot, as if the island itself was the perfect temperature.
The honeymooners—I still didn’t know their names—had their faces together in the corner, alternately talking and kissing, ignoring their rapidly melting drinks. Hadn’t I just seen them making out in the lobby? I didn’t see the Stocktons—I would have enjoyed getting to know them better. Maybe because Nelson had the same sensibilities as I did about the hang glider, or maybe because Anja seemed genuinely friendly.
I approached the buffet of snacks and selected plump grapes, cheddar cheese, and a spear of fresh fruit I didn’t recognize that made my mouth water. Pineapple-glazed meatballs on toothpicks smelled great, so I took a few.
“Ohmigod, this is amazing,” a woman said as she approached the buffet. “I justcan’t.” She picked up a plate and put one fruit spear on it. I glanced at my very full plate and bit my lip, but didn’t say anything.
The woman—a little younger than me and pretty in an exaggerated way with dyed blond hair, too much makeup, and boobs that might have been fake (but I wasn’t going to touch to find out)—spoke rapidly. “I’m Candace Tremaine. My friends call me CeeCee. My boyfriend and I have been here since Friday, and I swear I’ve already gained five pounds. And I’m going to the gym every day!”
I spied the bar, but CeeCee blocked my path.
“Did you just come in today?” CeeCee asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Mia.”