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No guarantee she’d written about Sherry, but who else here lived in Arizona and had brought their girlfriend to the island?
I might have to dig a little deeper on Ms. Sherilyn Morrison, interior designer.
My phone beeped with an incoming message, making me jump as I was so engrossed in online gossip. It was Brie. I felt surprisingly guilty—and protective—about what I’d learned about Sherry.
Where you at? I have some tea.
I let out a deep breath, my bangs fluttering up. Guess I was going to the luau after all. I responded:
Getting dressed. Be there in a few.
Chapter Fourteen
“He made her more confident, more daring. He made her more... herself. Or at least the herself she wished she could be.”
—Julia Quinn,Romancing Mister Bridgerton
The weekly St. Claire Caribbean luau was spectacular and, according to the brochure in my room, one of the highlights that guests most often mention.
I could see why.
Staff had transformed the wide patio that separated the pool from the sand with gazillions of tiny lights woven through the trees and lanais; candles floated in the pool, which was underlit with turquoise. Tiki torches framed the paths from the main lodge to the party. The sun hung low over the mountain but had not yet set, casting the most beautiful splash of pinks, oranges, purples, and indigo across the sky.
I pictured having my wedding reception right here, on the beach, by the light of a hundred torches, the amazing scents of steaming fish and barbecued steak making my mouth water.
Of course, I needed a husband to have a wedding reception. I didn’t even have a boyfriend.
The party prompted the early closure of all resort restaurants and bars. Six temporary bars were set up, plus the main pool bar was open. It was a meet and greet, a celebration of the island. Endless food, drink, and a live band brought over from St. John.
I stood at the edge, feeling a bit out of sorts. The party was in full swing by the time I arrived. Apparently every guest was here. Dozens of people I didn’t know mingled, groups of four and six chatting and drinking champagne or fruity beverages. More people joined the groups as I watched. I didn’t recognize anyone.
Everyone was dressed in “island chic”—white shirts on the men, cute wraparound dresses on the women. Some flowered, some solid colors, all highlighting sun-soaked skin. Jewelry sparkled in the flickering light, again making me wonder what was real and what was fake.
I scanned for Jason and saw him at a temp bar across the way mixing what looked like a martini. His warm, sexy smile; his confident movements as he shook, poured, placed the drinks on napkins; his easygoing vibe even as he quickly served the older couple. My stomach fluttered—now I knew what the books meant by “butterflies.” He turned his head, as if knowing someone was watching him. I attributed my heating blood to the warmth of the tiki lamp next to me. He caught my eye, and his smile widened. Was he thinking about our almost kiss? Was he thinking about what might happen tonight? I unconsciously licked my lips; when I realized what I’d done, I prayed he hadn’t noticed. After all, he was at least twenty yards from me.
Then he winked, and I knew that he’d seen, that he knew exactly what I was thinking, and it pleased him. He motioned for me to come over; I walked forward as if he’d tugged on an invisible string.
I was almost there when a couple cut me off, and then I heard my name.
“Mia! There you are.Finally.”
Brie grabbed my arm and pulled me away—away from Jason, away from a much-needed drink after a very busy afternoon.
I didn’t have an opportunity to protest, but I grabbed a glass of champagne from a roving waiter as Brie navigated through people until she found a vacant, partly enclosed lounge seat. Itripped and sat heavily on the pillow-strewn oversized chair, barely saving my drink from spilling.
“What?” I finally said.
“I’ve beendyingto tell you what I found, but my dad insisted we have family time after the hike. Which was fine, because Sherry was getting a massage—” eye roll “—so it was just dad and me. But this is big!”
I wanted to tell her what Sherry said to me at the spa but decided to keep it to myself for now. If my idea about Sherry was off-base, I didn’t want to cause problems in their family. Instead, I asked, “What did you learn?”
She glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot.
“First,” she said, her voice low but excited, “Trevor Lanceismarried.Secondmarriage. He dumped his first wife—the one he met in college and had two kids with—seven years ago for Krystal Kline, a bikini and lingerie model. She turns thirty next month. He’s fifty-one.”
“I thought he was married, but—”
“And,” Brie interrupted, “Krystal is in Europe this week for a bachelorette party for her best friend. So he brings his mistress here?” She looked at me meaningfully. “Anyway, I don’t think CeeCee knows, do you?”