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“Of course.” Andrew shook Doug’s hand.
“Andrew Locke, Mia Crawford,” David introduced us. “Mia came over on the ferry with us.”
Andrew smiled and took my hand. “Good to meet you, Mia. Is this your first time on St. Claire?”
“Yes,” I said. Andrew was not only attractive, but exactly the kind of man I gravitated toward. I glanced at his hand. No wedding ring.
“What do you think so far?”
“Beautiful,” I said. “I can’t wait to hit the beach.”
“My girlfriend and daughter are waiting for me there right now,” Andrew said. “David, I’ll reach out, and we’ll have drinks to catch up.”
Okay, girlfriend. Scratch him off the list. Also, he was at least ten years older than me. Not an insurmountable problem, but I didn’t go after men who were taken, no matter how attractive and friendly.
“That would be great,” David said.
Andrew smiled at me. “I’ve been coming to St. Claire every year for more than a decade. If you want any information about the island, let me know.”
Andrew said his goodbyes and headed toward the beach.
David glanced at his watch. “Let’s unpack. We’re meeting the others in thirty minutes. See you tonight, Mia. If you don’t come, you’ll hurt our feelings.”
They headed down a path that led to private beach cabins. I wasn’t sure if David was serious or not, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
I headed toward the lobby when I heard Nelson Stockton’s familiar voice. “Anja, you don’t know what happened, and I’m not going to take any chances with you.”
The couple sat on a love seat in a nook that faced the waterfall. They were practically hidden among the plants that lined the alcove. A tiny bird hopped on the table in front of them, then flew away.
“Darling,” Anja said in her subtle accent—not foreign, maybe a touch of the South. “I won’t let you do this. Do you think I’m so weak I can’t survive exposure?” She reached out for her husband, her diamond bracelet sparkling in the sunlight coming from the open roof.
“You shouldn’t have to. Dammit, woman, I love you!”
I felt a jolt of compassion, the emotion in Nelson’s voice hitting a chord deep down, the tone more than the words telling me how deeply he loved his wife. I didn’t want to intrude on their private conversation any more than I already had, so tried to discreetly backtrack. Unfortunately, Nelson saw me.
“Ms. Crawford, yes?” he asked with a nod.
“Yes, hello,” I said as if I hadn’t noticed them.
“I’m Nelson Stockton. We met briefly on St. John. My wife, Anja.” He took her hand, kissed it.
Anja smiled warmly. “We’re going to have a bite to eat in the bar. Care to join us?”
“Oh—thank you, but I still need to check in.”
“We’ll be there all afternoon, I’m sure. The beachside bar—the Blue Dahlia—is quieter and more relaxing than the poolside bar. Stop by and we’ll get to know each other.”
It sounded like a genuine invitation, just like David and Doug’s earlier.
“Thank you, maybe I will,” I said with a smile and walked away. I wanted to know more about whatever had upset the couple.
Next to the reception desk was a long table with multiple glass canisters filled with icy water, a different fruit floating on the top of each one. Oranges. Lemons. Pineapple. Cucumber. I poured some of the lemon-infused water and drank deeply, looked around the lobby again, and spotted the most gorgeous man I’d seen in, well, forever.
I poured another glass of ice water. I needed it.
He could have walked right off the cover of a romance novel. Sun-kissed brown hair that curled at the collar, his eyes a deep green, like a lush forest at sunset. His skin light brown from both heritage and time outdoors. Like a Mayan god touched by St. Patrick. He was wearing khaki shorts and a lightweight jacket over a white polo shirt that might have been a staff shirt. Staff or guest, he was the most attractive man I had seen all day. All week. All year.
He was chatting with an employee and the honeymooners.