Page 2 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“Very few of us are what we seem.”

—Agatha Christie, The Man in the Mist

I never leave home without a book.

The idea that I might be trapped somewhere without something to read gives me nightmares. Lunch break? That’s a good chapter—ten

if I’m reading James Patterson. Commute on the subway? Easy two chapters, each way. Doctor’s office? Dentist? Waiting for my grandma to stop flirting with her doorman? A couple pages

to pass the time.

I’m not antisocial, but real people—at least the ones I’ve met—are not as interesting, smart, or funny as the fictional characters my favorite writers

create. I can solve a murder, climb the Himalayas, fall in love—all in four hundred pages or less. Much more exciting than

my life.

And this book practically jumped into my hands at the Newark airport kiosk. The cover with the silhouette of a man and woman running

from a raging fire and the title Slow Burn had my heart racing. The packaging didn’t lie. The book was so engrossing, by the time I made the layover in Miami to change

planes, only half the story remained. The suspense was pitch-perfect, drawing me into the tightening web of lies and deception

as the title suggested. The sexual tension between Christina and John was intoxicating, leading to a satisfying love scene

that was worth the wait, leaving me a bit overheated.

I could practically hear Grams. “ It’s fiction, Mia. This is why you expect too much from your boyfriends. ”

It wasn’t just fiction, not to me. It wasn’t that the men in romance novels were perfect—they weren’t—but they had a spark

with the heroine. Together, the characters found love. Sometimes, they worked together to solve a crime. Sometimes, they lusted

for each other and discovered more than physical attraction. Sometimes they thought they hated each other... until the

coin flipped and they fell in love.

Mostly, they weren’t alone anymore. My career was right on track, but my love life had barely left the station. Every man

who seemed interested in me, every man I gave a chance, failed in a fundamental way. Not just in bed, but in life.

Was I destined to either live alone with two cats for the rest of my life or settle for a man who didn’t know how to cook

or get me off?

There were still three chapters left by the time the plane landed at the small St. John airport. I’m a fast reader... but

when a book is especially good, I replay every snippet of dialogue in my mind, every detail I consider might be a clue to

the mystery, and then I savor the emotional connection between the characters as the ending draws near.

One of my favorite children’s books is this Sesame Street story about Grover, who doesn’t want to turn the page because of the monster at the end of the book. For me, it’s not a monster

I fear, but that the book will be over, that even if I reread it, the discovery is gone because I know what happens. So, the

better the book, the slower I read, and I intended to draw out these last three chapters for as long as it took to reach St.

Claire.

As I boarded the ferry, the quiet pulse of the engine and fresh salt air eased my tension.

I watched couples board and realized I was one of the few singles heading to the resort.

I figured there would be other single people on the island, but now that it was almost in sight, I wondered how I was going to actually find a vacation boyfriend, a guy I could have fun with.

.. and sex with... no strings attached.

When I was home, the fantasy of a week in paradise with a hunky man had been exciting; now that I was here, I was terrified that I’d be alone the entire trip.

I was just going to have to channel Grams and talk to every single man until one of them appealed to me.

I couldn’t help feeling, again, that this trip was a waste of time and a ridiculous amount of money. I’d been with McMann

I felt wholly out of place taking a vacation on a ritzy private island with the type of people

I usually worked for, not socialized with.

And not one of the passengers was an unattached man.

Thank God for the champagne the server offered. The guy was cute in his crisp white uniform, but way too young. He probably couldn’t even legally drink what he was serving.

I took a sip while avoiding eye contact and gawking just a little (okay, maybe a lot) at the couple who were making out in

the corner and who also had made an exceptional PDA scene in the Miami airport. They were practically begging to star in a

viral TikTok video, “The Couple Who Ate Each Other’s Faces Off.” Honeymooners, probably. Or maybe they were adulterers, stealing

away for a week while their unsuspecting spouses watched the kids, fed the dog, and went to work.

A redheaded woman came in from the rear deck, her wide-brimmed hat hitting my forehead. “Excuse me,” I muttered.

She didn’t acknowledge me but gazed around the cabin as if looking for someone. She hadn’t had a companion when I saw her

at St. John. She’d been reading the local newspaper, which was now partly sticking out of her oversized yellow Kate Spade

purse that matched her oversized yellow sun hat.

And she was gorgeous. My hopes for a vacation boyfriend fell to the bottom of the sea. If there was a single hunky guy on

St. Claire, he would be all over her. What were the chances there were two attractive single men under forty?

The young server approached with a tray of champagne. “Ms. Jones, Ms. Crawford, it is a pleasure to serve you this afternoon.

May I offer appetizers?” With a sweep of his free hand, he gestured to one of several food stations set up—far more food than

ten people could eat on a thirty-minute cruise.

“Thank you,” I said with a smile, too nervous to eat.

The redhead sized me up and, deciding I was no threat to her status as Queen Bee, smiled warmly as she lifted a flute from

the silver tray, ignored the server, and introduced herself. “I’m Amber Jones.”

She spoke in a tone that suggested she expected me to recognize her name. I smiled right back and extended my hand. “Mia Crawford.”

Amber looked at my hand as if I had germs. I dropped it, self-conscious. My clients expected formalities like shaking hands

and general politeness, but clearly that wasn’t going to be the case here.

“Have you been to St. Claire before?” I asked, trying to minimize the awkwardness as I discreetly glanced around the cabin,

looking for a place to hide to finish my book.

“No.” She, too, looked around the room, overtly people-watching. “I wonder how long Nelson will keep his newest acquisition

around,” she whispered snidely.

At first, I didn’t know what she meant, but I followed her eyes to where Nelson Stockton, one of the first black owners of

an NFL team, stood drinking a beer while his much younger wife sipped her bubbly. Was Amber referring to the wife as an acquisition ? I was all for being catty when having drinks with a girlfriend, but the comment seemed cruel when spoken to a stranger.

Assessing Nelson and his wife, I thought they made an attractive power couple. He was a large, fit, sixty-something former

athlete who now co-owned the team he used to play for. Mrs. Stockton was as beautiful as Amber but in a completely different

way. Amber was tall, rail-thin, lush red hair, hazel eyes, smooth translucent skin. Mrs. Stockton was voluptuous, with catlike

eyes and light brown skin so perfect I couldn’t even tell if she was wearing makeup. Her golden-brown hair was wrapped around

her head in braids, and her jewelry, though a bit overdone, was classy. Thirty? Forty? Fifty with an amazing plastic surgeon?

Another server came over with more champagne. I exchanged my empty glass for a full one and tried to make an escape before

I was roped into another conversation. I turned and headed out the back, where I nearly collided with two men.

“Hello!” they said in unison with smiles bearing equally gorgeous straight white teeth. The taller man said, “I’m David, this

is my husband, Doug.”

“Hi,” I said. “Mia Crawford.”

“You were on the plane in Miami. First time at St. Claire?”

“Yes. You?”

They laughed as if I’d said something hilarious when it really was just a polite question.

“Oh, no! It’s our fifth anniversary. We’ve come here every year since our honeymoon.” Doug kissed his husband on the cheek

and grinned. “We’re meeting up with friends who were celebrating their fifth anniversary during our honeymoon. They arrived earlier, but David here is a doctor ,” he said with pride, and to instill a bit of envy, I thought. “Works far too hard if you ask me, so we couldn’t fly out