Page 9 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“I would hate for your pretty face to be smashed on the rocks when your parachute fails or a gust of wind slams you into the

mountain,” I said.

“I take it you’re afraid of heights.”

I hesitated. Had he been flirting with me? I looked up at him, and his eyes sparkled. Jason was intoxicating.

“I’m afraid of falling,” I said, chin up, holding his gaze. “Like every sane person.”

“And your name?”

“I thought the staff knew everyone’s name.” I didn’t mean to sound so snarky. Was I disappointed that he didn’t know?

“Mia Crawford,” he said. “But I thought I’d be polite and ask. Excuse me.” He walked over to where a couple had just sat down

on a love seat facing the ocean.

He’d been friendly, flirty, and I had offended him. I hadn’t meant to, but I felt wholly out of my element here. I tried not to be obvious as I watched the man. I could look, right?

Look, don’t touch. Everything about Jason Mallory went against my sensibilities. Maybe it was best this way—I could find another

guy. I mean, if it was this easy to flirt with Jason Mallory, then I could surely flirt with the other men on staff. Men less

likely to risk breaking their necks on a daily basis. But, I reminded myself, no matter how much I safeguard, even risk-free

men could be the source of unplanned heartbreak. Like my dad.

He’d died suddenly, in a stupid car accident that wasn’t his fault. A jerk who’d driven all night had fallen asleep at the

wheel and hit my dad head-on when he was heading to work early in the morning. That’s when I learned the hard way what financial

havoc Grams’s free and fun lifestyle had wreaked on our family. I finally understood my dad’s frugal nature—it was directly

related to growing up with financial insecurity and general chaos. Now I take care of Grams—just like my dad had done. Because

for all her faults, she had the kindest heart, and we both loved her.

A girl walked in—the bored teen who’d been sitting with Andrew Locke and his girlfriend at the pool. She slumped at the end

of the bar, reached over the counter, and grabbed a premade fruit stick from the tray. She called out to Jason as he walked

back from serving the couple. “Hey, Jason, can I get one of those strawberry daiquiris you made me yesterday?”

Jason said, “Now that you’re legal, you can have anything you want, within reason.”

Major eye roll. “I already have one dad.”

Jason started making her drink. Fresh strawberries, a light touch of both light and dark rum, lime, ice. That looked good

too.

“And where is your overbearing brute of a father?” Jason asked lightly.

“One guess.”

“What are your plans?” Jason said without guessing.

“If I said I was going to get drunk, you probably wouldn’t serve me.”

“I don’t want your dad to get me fired.”

“He probably wouldn’t notice,” she mumbled and took the drink from him. “Later.” She looked me up and down long enough to

make me uncomfortable, then headed toward a lounge chair on the beach.

Jason wiped the counter as he made his way back to my side of the bar. “Brie’s dad has a new girlfriend,” he said.

“Is she really old enough to drink?” It came out before I realized it was a dumb question.

“Eighteen is legal here,” he said. “But I wouldn’t let her get wasted.” He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “She’s

apprehensive about college and the fact that her dad has a serious girlfriend.”

Observant and cute. What wasn’t to love about this guy? Maybe I could overlook his risky nature...

“Her dad really isn’t a brute,” Jason said. “He’s actually a pretty cool guy. Former baseball player. Andrew Locke?”

“I met him earlier,” I said. “The orthopedic surgeon who apparently saved his career introduced us.”

Jason laughed. The sound was genuine and filled my heart. He seemed to be as happy and content as I wanted to be. Jason acted

like he loved his job and his life, and suddenly I wanted to love my job and my life just as much.

“Dr. David Butcher,” Jason said. “David and his husband visit St. Claire every year for their anniversary.”

“I heard the story on the ferry,” I said.

Did everyone know everyone else’s business on this island? Were there no secrets?

Suddenly, I thought, What does the staff know about me? It wasn’t that I had secrets, but the idea that my life was ripe for analysis among guests and staff made me squeamish.

“Andrew pitched for the Dodgers for six years, had surgery, then was traded to the Braves for another six years, had even

better stats. Retired at thirty-five.”

“He must have a good financial planner,” I heard myself saying, then mentally slapped myself. Stop thinking about work! Yet... retiring at thirty-five and not having to work was a huge accomplishment. I might have to ask him who he worked

with—I was always interested in new ways to safely build my clients’ portfolios.

He nodded to my drink. “Another?”

“I’m not done.”

“You’re almost done,” he said as he started mixing another drink. Sure, why not? I thought. Maybe a couple drinks would loosen me up.

“Sherry is the first woman he’s brought since I’ve been here,” Jason said. “It was always just him and Brie. She’s feeling

displaced.”

I was getting an overprotective big brother vibe. I felt for the sulky teenager.

“Being a teenager isn’t easy,” I said.

“But it’s fun,” he said with a flirty grin, placing the fresh pina colada in front of me and removing my nearly empty drink.

“Nothing about being a teenager is fun,” I said, twirling the little umbrella in the icy concoction. “It’s all about navigating

shark-infested waters and coming out with a diploma and your sanity intact.”

“I can’t imagine that a cute girl like you didn’t have every teenage boy begging for a date.”

The comment almost stunned me into silence. “Me?” I said with a squeak. I forced a laugh. “I was a very awkward, somewhat

nerdy teenager.”

“Who grew into a swan.” He really was flirting. If I had any doubts before, they were gone. He was smiling and friendly and

had a sparkle in his eye, as if he was both having fun and enjoying my company. My heart pounded and I feared I was blushing as I picked up the fresh drink.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m going to check out the beach.”

“If I can do anything for you, let me know,” he said. “I mean it, Mia.”

Come to my room tonight for no-strings sex...

But I didn’t say it. He watched me leave, and I didn’t look back.

Men like Jason Mallory who were born attractive and outgoing probably had the time of their lives in high school. He wasn’t

built like a football player—maybe baseball. Soccer with those lean muscles. Or maybe the class clown. Someone that everyone

liked because he made them laugh. I liked him. A lot.

Not your type, Mia , I told myself.

Who cares? I heard Jane and Amanda echo in my head.

It’s not like I had great success with the men I thought were my type.

The beach looked inviting, and I needed time alone to decompress. I passed several guests lounging in cabanas or soaking in

the sun by the pool. Many were reading books, including an older woman lying on her stomach reading an erotic romance, one

I’d heard a lot about but had never read. Maybe she’d leave it on the free table when she was done.

Another woman was reading in a partly shaded cabana while her significant other appeared to be sleeping. I tilted my head

ninety degrees to see the cover—a domestic suspense I’d read when it first came out last year. A terrific book by one of my

favorite auto-buy authors. An older man in another cabana was reading on a tablet. I hated when I couldn’t see the cover.

An empty lounge chair with a large adjustable umbrella beckoned me. The only thing between me and the ocean was white sand.

No people, no headaches, no annoyingly sexy, hang gliding bartenders.

Brie the grumpy teen was sitting two chairs over, reading on her phone, which always gave me a headache. Give me a solid book

over technology. She wore a black bikini on her tall, lanky body, her shorts and hoodie dumped in the sand.

I sipped the pina colada and put it down on the table before adjusting the huge umbrella to provide just the right amount of sun.

I lathered on sunscreen—the last thing I wanted was to nurse a sunburn all week—then leaned back on the wide chair, tattered romantic thriller in hand.

I was so looking forward to getting lost in a great story about love the second time around against a backdrop of hidden treasure,

pirates, and race-against-time suspense.

When I opened the cover, grains of sand fell out. I frowned and wiped them off my chest. The previous owner had really abused

this book. I flipped through the front matter and found the opening chapter.

Three pages in, I gasped.

Someone had written in the margins of the book.

Only monsters wrote in books! (The same kind of monsters who left books in the sand.)

In college, I was loath to write in books even if the professor said to do so. Sticky notes became my favorite tool. Why mar

a perfectly good book with ink or even pencil?

Someone—a woman, judging by the neat, flowery handwriting—had written next to the paragraph that described the lost treasure:

A treasure hunt! Sounds like fun, haha.

It was a free book; I shouldn’t get so upset about the violence done to it. And I happened to agree with her sentiment here:

a treasure hunt would be fun. Who didn’t love stories like Uncharted and Outer Banks where the journey was just as exciting as the discovery of something special? I felt an odd kinship with my fellow book lover

and vaguely wondered if she was still here on the island, if I could track her down to have a drink or three and see if we

had anything else in common.

I jumped back into the story, ignoring the bold penmanship.

The author did a great job integrating the history of the fictional Santa Regina into the first chapter, describing the lost treasure, and introducing the main characters who had once been lovers until Juan disappeared with a treasure he and Gabrielle had found together.

Jerk. He probably had a good reason, but what it was, I could only guess. Gabrielle certainly didn’t believe anything he said.

Smart woman.

After reading a particularly biting comeback from the heroine, I smiled. Gabrielle was more confident, more sarcastic, and

bolder than I’d ever be. There were so many times my manners prevented a witty response. Or I’d think of something perfect

to say... ten minutes too late. If I were the author of my life, I could go back and edit all those conversations where

I’d bitten my tongue, misspoke, didn’t say what I should have.

I’d love, for example, to have stood up to Amber Jones when she blocked me on the boat. Or told Andrew’s girlfriend not to

be rude to staff.

On the next page, another passage was underlined.

Gabrielle tied back her thick red hair to keep it out of her face while she cleaned the deck. Why pay deckhands when they

did such an awful job?

The previous book owner had written:

Sounds just my type. I hope she’s not TOO mad at me...

What did that mean? Why write it in the book? Should I take the book back and find another? This running commentary distracted

from the story.

I drank more, adjusted the umbrella to block the sun because I was overheated, and turned the page.

The end of chapter one had Juan showing Gabrielle what he’d found. The last paragraph was underlined:

Three gold pieces stamped with the royal crest, hidden away from the world, buried on an island, until someone found them. Why couldn’t it have been me? Gabrielle thought. Why couldn’t it have been my dad?

The book vandal had drawn an arrow and written at the bottom of the page:

He just walked by on the way to the bar. How much will he pay for the truth? How much will he pay for me to keep his secret?