chapter 3

The plane dropped like a stone onto the runway, and the violently applied brakes had everyone in coach jerking forward and back. Frankie couldn’t see much of the tropical paradise outside the window from her middle seat vantage. She was crammed in between a guy who smelled like he hadn’t showered in four days and a little old man who had fallen asleep at twenty thousand feet and slept on her shoulder for an hour.

She had to pee and could have killed for a roast beef sandwich, but at least the flight was over and she only had to fight her way through customs and immigration now. In an hour—two tops— she’d have her toes in the white powdery sand, a drink in her hand, and that sandwich.

Frankie waited for the elderly narcoleptic to stand and then wriggled out into the aisle behind him to help him with his carry- on.

She lugged her own carry-on with her, thankful that Pru had insisted on flying the bridesmaid dresses down on her father’s plane. The rest of the wedding party had arrived on private planes they’d chartered together.

She waddled down the aisle toward the ever-smiling flight crew and the humid breeze. Frankie stepped out onto the rolling staircase and slid her sunglasses on. Eighty-three degrees with a beautiful, balmy breeze. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Even though her hair had just doubled in volume.

She followed the rest of the passengers onto the tarmac and into the long, low building of Grantley Adams International Airport. The line zig-zagged its way between the ropes. Anxious travelers ready to see paradise thumbed over the screens of their phones. But Frankie was content to people watch. The residency line for immigration was short and brutally efficient as Bajan passport holders were welcomed home. To her right was the expedited line where travelers with Louis Vuitton luggage and oversized sun hats were guided through the process by resort staff dispatched to collect them.

Frankie’s line crawled along at a snail’s pace as harried parents tried to juggle official questions and cranky toddlers and young backpackers zoned out on their phones, needing a prod forward every time the line moved.

One such backpacker caught her eye and gave her a smile. “Hi there,” he said softly, pushing a shock of blond hair off his forehead.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, he was Australian. “Hi,” she returned.

“Come here often?” She laughed.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he teased.

“If you can find a bartender in here, yes, you can buy me a drink.”

The line moved and the woman behind him—in a sun visor with flowers on the brim and a Hawaiian shirt—prodded him forward.

“See you around,” he winked.

They caught up again when the lines froze at exactly the right place.

“We meet again. It must be fate.”

“Oh, you’re good. I bet that wouldn’t work as well without your accent,” Frankie told him.

“I like yours,” he confessed.

Boca Raton Grandma gave the Aussie another push. “Sorry, honey. But I got a frozen margarita waitin’ on me,” she said to Frankie as they passed.

Frankie’s immigration officer was an unsmiling girl in her early twenties with YouTube tutorial-level makeup. “Have a nice stay,” she said, shoving Frankie’s passport through the slot in the Plexiglass. Her tone implied she didn’t give a damn whether Frankie’s stay was nice or not. But dealing with three plane loads of grumpy tourists would do that to a person.

Frankie pushed on past baggage claim. With Pru bringing her bridesmaid dress, she’d been able to shove everything else she needed into her carry-on and saved the checked bag fee. A small victory in what had been a year of hemorrhaging money. The two bridal showers, the girls-only engagement party, engagement party, the pre-emptive bachelorette party, and now the destination

wedding. She should have taken a third job. But a few more weeks with the caterer, and she’d have the credit card paid off and could stop spending money like it magically appeared replenished in her wallet every morning.

Customs was much faster. A quick scan of her bag, and she was pointed toward the exit. Her phone started ringing in the beach bag she’d dual-purposed as a purse.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Oh thank, God! I thought you were dead.” May Baranski was nothing if not dramatic.

“Not dead, Ma. Just in paradise.” The automatic doors parted and she walked into the heat. It was a covered area rife with tourists who looked lost and cab drivers who looked like buzzards circling carrion.

“Why didn’t you call me when you landed? You said you’d call me.” Her mother had infused normal protective instincts with steroids until she was convinced that all of her children were in constant mortal danger or worse—destined to remain single and childless while the rest of her friends became nanas and grammas.

“I literally just walked through customs, Ma. They don’t let you chit chat on your cell phones while you’re in there.”

Her mother scoffed. The idea that anyone could keep her from a safety report on one of her children was ridiculous to May.

“Tell me all about your flight,” May demanded. Frankie blamed herself. She liked her parents, liked talking to them, and somehow that had evolved into almost daily calls “just to check in” or “catch up.” Hell, half the time she was the one doing the dialing. Her mom was a fount of information on old neighborhood and family gossip.

“It was crowded and long,” Frankie said, squinting at the taxi sign. It listed island destinations and their rates, but she needed to check what parish the resort was in again.

“Your father and I went to the Florida Keys for our honeymoon forty-one years ago,” May announced. “Is it as nice as the Keys?”

Frankie had never been to the Florida Keys, nor had she seen anything of Barbados beyond the tarmac and the cab line. “I’m

sure the Keys are beautiful,” she told her mother. “Look, Ma. I gotta go. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just have to grab a cab.”

“Why didn’t Pru send a car for you?” her mother squawked. “You’re just going to get in a car with a stranger?”

“A driver Pru sent would still be a stranger.” Frankie made the point in vain.

“I forbid you to get mugged or molested!”

Frankie bumped into someone and turned to apologize.

“There you are. I was worried that we were star-crossed lovers, destined never to meet again.” The Australian was adjusting the backpack she’d nearly knocked off his shoulder.

“I gotta go, Ma.” “What now?”

“There’s a cute guy looking at me.” The Aussie grinned.

“Hang up and flirt with him! Come back engaged!” Her mother disconnected the call to start planning the overdue wedding of her only daughter.

“Sorry,” Frankie said with a soft smile. “I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.”

“You can bump into me anytime you want.” He wasn’t devastatingly handsome. Not like Satan-in-a-Suit Kilbourn. But he was cute and charming and very, very tan. His hair was a bleached-out blond that was in need of a cut. His clothes were wrinkled and comfortable.

“Tell me you’re an Australian surfer,” Frankie sighed. It had been a while since she’d had a second-party-induced orgasm. She’d been lazy in the dating field, and working two jobs hadn’t left her much time for naked fun. Maybe a tropical fling with a sexy surfer would cure her sex blahs?

“As a matter of fact, I am. Tell me you’re into Australian surfers and that we can share a cab so I can charm my way into a date.”

Frankie laughed. Easy, charming, funny. Perfect.

She lowered her lashes. “I’ve never had an Australian surfer before, so I can’t vouch for my preferences in the area.”

His blue eyes, the same color as the sea they’d flown over, widened in appreciation. “Where are you staying?”

“Rockley Sands Resort.”

“Bugger me.” His face fell. “That’s north of Bridgetown. I’m on the other side of the island.”

“Franchesca.”

A good stiff breeze could have knocked Frankie over. It had to be a mirage. She was certain of it. That was not Aiden Kilbourn leaning against a Jeep in shorts and a sexy short-sleeved button down. Boat shoes and Ray-bans. His beard looked a little scruffier than the last time she’d seen him.

“What the f—”

“I take it you’re Franchesca?” the Aussie asked. “Yeah, but… we’re not together.”

Aiden straightened from the fender and crossed to her. “Let’s go.” He reached for her bag.

Instinctively, Frankie snatched it out of his reach. “I’m taking a cab,” she insisted.

“No, you’re not.”

“Aiden, I told Pru I’d take a cab.” “And I told her I’d pick you up.”

“Franchesca, it was lovely meeting you, but I’ve got to go,” the Aussie said, backing away.

“Oh, but…”

“Maybe I’ll see you around the island.” He blew her a kiss, dropped a “mate” in Aiden’s direction, and sauntered off in search of a cab.

“Damnit, Aiden. I didn’t even get to give him my number.”

“Pity.” He hefted her bag into the back of the Jeep and secured it with a tie down strap.

“So, what’s this? You’re doing your good deed for the day and giving a poor stripper a ride?” she shot back.

“I already apologized for that.”

“And it was touchingly heartfelt,” Frankie reminded him. “Get in the damn car.”