by Brooke Moss
With a careful push from her index finger, Steph slid the device closer to Lucy. “Luce,” she said innocently. “What’s a bome?”
A flock of overly energetic butterflies buzzed around in Lucy’s gut. She had hoped to keep at least this secret separate from her working life. Nerves got the better of her and it became difficult to swallow. Making an effort to appear nonchalant, Lucy brushed the straight chocolate strands of her shoulder-length bob free from her neck.
Steph quirked an eyebrow at the action and her expression became playful. “And why does he miss playing ninja on the beach volleyball courts?”
Rosie spat out a laugh and snorted, which only encouraged Steph to release the quiet chuckle she’d been trying to contain.
“Okay. Okay.” Lucy perched her slender figure on an empty barstool and then raised her hands to silence them. “Ha-ha. It’s all very funny, but it’s not what you think.”
She spun her mobile phone around and glanced at the screen. Several messages in a conversation with her best friend Maddy appeared.
Maddy: Your loving bome has called again, begging for your phone number. Apparently, he had a dream about the old days. You two playing ninja on the beach volleyball courts or something. He said he misses it. He misses you. Anyway, call me.
Lucy: Tell him he can take his fond memory and shove it up his womanizing ass!
Maddy: Are you ever going to talk to him again? You know he still doesn’t know why you stopped.
Maddy: Luce? Maybe I should just give him your new number and be done with it.
Lucy swore and her two friends were lost to hysterics once more.
As she madly messaged Maddy back, Lucy noticed Steph move forward, the fabric of her black Ponte jacket creasing as she leaned her elbows on the table. Even though she tried not to be obvious, Lucy was sure Steph had seen the reply “don’t you dare” before it had been sent out into the universe.
“So, are you gonna confess or what, Luce? Who is this guy she’s talking about? And what is a bome?”
Lucy sighed in frustration and placed her mobile phone back on the table. She frowned up at Steph and then rolled her turquoise-blue eyes. “Bane of my existence,” she said.
Steph’s curious expression brightened, and she relaxed her long, wiry frame back into her seat.
“Clever,” cheered Rosie.
“So, out with it? Who is he and what’s the deal?” Steph rubbed her hands together eagerly.
A heavy dread seemed to weigh against Lucy’s insides as she realized she didn’t have much choice in the matter at hand. She could tell the girls now or put up with their constant inquiries every day at work until she caved. Knowing them well meant Lucy knew they wouldn’t give up until they had enough gossip to satisfy them. Releasing an almost never-ending sigh, Lucy resigned herself to the task.
“He—the bane of my existence—is an old former friend of mine. We became friends in middle school. We were best friends until senior year and then I cut off all contact with him when I went to college.”
Shifting her short buxom figure to the edge of her chair, Rosie leaned her elbows on the table and frowned forlornly. “What happened?”
“It must have been something pretty crappy for you to shun him in such a way,” Steph said before taking a sip from her glass of wine.
Lucy looked down at where her hands rested on the table. Unconsciously, she had begun to pick at her fingernails—not ripping, but fiddling. Just thinking about the reason aroused feelings of anger and betrayal. The emotions washed over her, burning through her as if the situation had happened only yesterday, not nearly a decade and a half ago. She took a deep breath and blurted out the transgression.
“I’d thought we were friends. Great friends. Then he started to make his way through my girlfriends, dating one by one as if it were a sexy schoolgirl smorgasbord. He would never date any one in particular for a long period of time, but almost always left a broken heart in his wake and a crying mess that I had to clean up.”
“What a bastard,” spat Rosie.
Steph narrowed her gaze. “And never once did that include you?”
Lucy frowned. “We were just friends.”
You can’t hide from destiny….
Callum Hawthorne is one of those lucky guys who seem to have it all. He’s a wealthy property tycoon, the CEO of his family’s company. He’s handsome, intelligent and charming and has a gorgeous new woman on his arm every week. But there’s one thing still missing – the love of his life, Lucy Spencer.
Fourteen long years ago, Lucy left for college and cut off all contact with Cal, leaving their mutual friend Madison as his only connection. That was until in his effort to save his deceased father’s beloved Gold Coast property, The Calypso, Cal contacts Insight Marketing, the best advertising firm in Melbourne, and discovers his Lucy among the team.
Successful marketing executive, Lucy Spencer had managed to avoid her ex-best friend for nearly half their lives. Fearful of trusting him, loving him and having her heart broken all over again, Lucy tries to keep her distance from him, but discovers that there is a fine line between love and hate, and maybe – just maybe – Cal could be her inescapable destiny.
Available at all major retailers
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tammy Mannersly is an Australian author based in Brisbane, Queensland. She loves writing romance, has a fondness for animals, is crazy about movies and enjoys a great Happily Ever After. Her passion for writing started from a very young age and led her to complete a Bachelor Degree in Creative Industries majoring in Creative Writing at Queensland University of Technology.
You can find out more information about Tammy and her work on her website: www.tammymannersly.com or by visiting:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tammymannersly
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16935790.Tammy_Mannersly
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Twitter: https://twitter.com/TammyMannersly
You Had Me At Aloha
Sarah Vance-Tompkins
OTHER BOOKS
BY SARAH VANCE-TOMPKINS
Kisses On A Paper Airplane
Valentine Kisses
You Had Me At Aloha
Copyright © 2018 Sarah Vance-Tompkins
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To the woman who taught me letting my imagination take flight between the pages of a book is the best kind of travel.
I love you Mom.
CHAPTER 1
I’m in the middle of an epic panic attack.
It’s five o’clock in the morning and my stomach is doing acrobatic stunts. My heart rate is out of control. I can’t stand still, pacing back and forth across the parking lot. Five minutes ago, I developed a facial tic. Turns out it’s not nerves, but a hummingbird-sized bug trying to pollenate my face. I swat it away, bobbing and weaving in the dark.
Spotting a line of people in front of a large stainless steel urn in the back of a pickup truck, I wonder if a cup of coffee is the cure for what ails me. I wander over and get in line for a fix. I raise the paper cup to my lips and take a sip of the scalding hot liquid. It’s dark, bitter and just plain old nasty. Ack. Who drinks this crap? It’s horrible. I take a second sip just in case the first wasn’t as bad as I thought.
Yep. That’s bad.
Leaning back, I look up at the hundreds of stars still twinkling in the early morning sky. My breath catches in my throat. A sky filled with countless twinkling stars is novelty for me. I’m not sure if it’s my lifestyle, or the city lights of Chicago that prevent me from looking up at night. Out here the stars are so close, it’s as if I could reach up and touch them with my fingertips.
I can’t see palm trees or jungle foliage in the early morning gloom, but I know I’m on a tropical island. Surf laps against the shore nearby. Hibiscus and jasmine scent the moist air, and the shrieks of exotic ocean birds disturb the pre-dawn silence.
&nbs
p; Maui isn’t paradise for me. My bliss doesn’t include bugs the size of small aircraft, gritty flip-flops, or intermittent Internet service. Oh, hells no. This girl needs her twenty-four/seven access to social media. That’s my idea of paradise.
There was a time when I dreamed about a life of adventure. I wanted to be a jetsetter in designer clothes, wearing a fedora at a rakish angle like Marion Ravenwood while dashing through international airports to meet up with Indiana Jones in some far-flung location. I fantasized about a life lived out of a set of well-worn suitcases, on the move from one idyllic location to another.
My dreams didn’t come true as much as they dramatically changed. After my parents died, I longed for one thing: a risk-adverse life. And so for the past fifteen years, I’ve kept my head down. Retracing my footsteps back and forth five days a week like a pack animal, between my studio apartment on the Near North-side and ‘The Loop’ where I work as a social media strategist at Brown & Fox Media.
I live my life in the ‘virtual’ world, which is why not having any bars on my phone gives me heart palpitations. I check for the sixth or seventh time since arriving at this destination. Yep. ‘No Service’ is displayed in the left-hand corner of the screen. I stuff it into the kangaroo pocket of my University of Michigan sweatshirt. I hope I have the willpower not to check it again, since it’s currently nothing but an expensive paperweight.
Hoping to gentle my jangling nerves, I take a deep uneven breath. Glancing around at the other people huddled together in the dark parking lot, I wonder if anyone has noticed I’m here alone. Yep. I’m going solo on a sunrise snorkeling adventure.
What the hell was I thinking?
My imagination runs wild, anticipating all the many Technicolor ways this trip can go wrong. I turn a critical eye on the crew. My anxious brain transforms the free-spirited twenty-somethings into a bunch of rum-swilling, expletive-spewing pirates who’ll force us to walk the plank once we’re in open water.
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, trying to keep a stress headache at bay.
You’re not up for this.
My self-confidence starts to unravel knowing in the next fifteen minutes, the crew is going to escort us down to the beach where we will all wade into the water and board a catamaran in the pre-dawn darkness. Sounded easy-peasey when I signed up for it, but now I’m wondering what in hells bells was I thinking?
Other than some quiet whispers and nervous laughter, the people gathered to go on this early morning boat trip are remarkably quiet. For a moment, I’m transported back in time when I went to a summer camp on the shores of Lake Michigan and I wasn’t frightened or anxious about activities. It’s so long ago, almost as if it happened to someone else—in another lifetime.
You can’t handle adventure.
“Vivienne Parker,” Mallorie calls. The only female member of the crew is wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and mini-skirt. She searches the group for a response with a flashlight.
“Here,” I answer, reflexively jabbing a hand in the air.
She nods and checks me off the list on her clipboard. “Okay. We’re all here. Let’s go.”
I’ve been dreading this moment all morning as Mallorie and Josh lead us out of the parking lot and down a narrow paved road. I let my hair fall around my face, hiding from the scrutiny of the people on either side of me.
I think about striking up a conversation with the woman in the line next to me, but the idea of speaking with a total stranger sends a shudder of panic through my body. I’m an introvert’s introvert. I can’t talk to someone I’ve never met unless under I’m the influence of a strong cocktail.
When we reach the end of the road, we turn left onto a narrow cement sidewalk. There’s no doubt in my mind what’s going down now. We’re re-enacting the opening scene in the Academy Award-nominated film “Dunkirk.” Which, if memory serves, resulted in a bloody conflict by air, land and sea with the Nazis.
My nausea returns, and doubles-down. I’m going to be seasick on dry land.
What is wrong with me?
Why do I dream of adventure, when in reality I can’t handle it?
I glance back over my shoulder just as the guy in front of me stops suddenly. My face bounces off his shoulders, leaving me completely disoriented.
“Sorry,” I apologize. Rubbing my chin, I check if I’m bleeding.
He grunts in response, then kicks off his leather sandals and bends down to pick them up. Following his lead, I toe off my Converse All-Stars. Tying the shoelaces together I let them swing from my hand and shuffle down the three sandy steps in my bare feet to the beach. My toes sink deeply into soggy damp sand. It is cold and clammy between my toes.
Ugh. This is not paradise.
I close my eyes and force myself to ignore the uncomfortable feeling, pretending it’s not another warning sign I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this.
I should go back to the hotel. I should wait to go to the beach until the sun has heated the sand to a comfortable temperature. Then I can do something safe and risk-free like sit under an umbrella and read a book.
“Please move forward into the water,” Mallorie shouts.
“Stay in your lines,” Josh adds.
This won’t end well.
Another wave of nausea hits and nearly knocks me over. I want to run in the opposite direction of the shore.
“You will have to wade into the water past your knees to board the boat,” Mallorie shouts. “Once everyone is onboard, Captain Dan will go over the safety instructions.”
In less than an hour, the sun will make a spectacular appearance over Haleakala Crater but until then, my surroundings aren’t real. Until daybreak, my world is all make-believe.
My pulse is racing. My palms are sweating. This is my last chance to bail out and go back to relative safety of the empty parking lot. From there, I can catch an Uber back to the hotel. I hesitate for a moment, waiting to make a decision. I’m surprised when of their own volition my feet follow the faceless forms shuffling into the dark water at the shore. The cold startles me as the waves lick at my skin.
Two days ago, if someone had told me I’d be standing ankle-deep in the Pacific Ocean, I’d have told them to go fuck themselves. Then, I would’ve gone back to doing one of the many virtual tasks that keeps me in perpetual motion from seven in the morning until ten o’clock at night Monday through Friday, and most weekends, for the past ten years.
I’m not passionate about my work, but I work hard at it, nonetheless. I’m not getting ahead or keeping up with the Joneses. I’m paying my bills, and keeping a rent-controlled roof over my head. That’s it. The chances I’d ever end up on a Hawaiian island are so infinitesimal; you’d have to be an MIT professor to do the calculations.
Within three steps, the water is up to my knees. My self-doubt is loud and out-spoken. My inner monologue admonishes me in a bruising manner. A tone I should be accustomed to by now: You’re too old for this shit.
I’m thirty-five, and well aware it’s the cut-off point where other human beings stop being willing to forgive you for your clueless daily mistakes. Once you’re thirty-six, you tumble over into the land of ‘everything you do or say could be held against you’ by your judgy friends and relatives.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I become painfully aware I’m twenty pounds heavier and ten years older than anyone else getting on this boat.
Did I mention I’m in a bathing suit? Yep. In public. On purpose.
It’s not horrible. A black tankini fully covers all of my ladybits. I bought it yesterday without trying it on. Grabbing the largest size on the rack, I tossed it into my shopping cart along with a nineteen-dollar plastic suitcase, and a nine-dollar bottle of wine at the State Street Target, across from my office.
Correction: my former office. I don’t work there anymore. I’m unemployed. Or in the language of the IT Guy who cut off access to my work computer, “I’m in between gigs.”
Climbing up an unsteady ladder onto
the deck of the boat, I find a quiet spot along the rail to watch the sunrise over the island. The water is smooth and glassy, but my stomach is doing figure eights as a gentle breeze blows warm, salty air across my face.
Next to me, a father and son gesture toward the ocean swells. I catch the dad’s eye and smile, pretending a catamaran adventure alone is normal, even though I know it’s not. When he looks back at me, my cheeks flush with heat. Glancing back over my shoulder at the aft of the boat, my heart skips a beat.
Streaks of gold and orange cut across a light gray sky. The edges are dabbled with a brilliant shade of pink, and a few fluffy clouds in the shapes of animal crackers float high above. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
Just for one second, I am calm, strong and purposeful.
You’re on a boat. The sun is rising over the horizon. It’s spectacular. Nothing else in the world matters.
How the crew can go on about their business without being knocked to their knees in awe and wonder as the first rays of the sun appear over the volcanic crater rising ten thousand feet above the island, I haven’t a clue. The surface of the water is like velvet as the bubbling surf of the boat’s engines fan out behind us.
All my troubles have been left behind on the shore. For a single moment in time, everything in my world makes sense. My headache and nausea fade into distant memory.
Maybe, I don’t need to go into the water. Maybe, I don’t have to strip down to my bathing suit and put on a mask and fins. Maybe, I won’t get my hair wet or learn how to breathe through a tube. Maybe, the sunrise alone is worth the cost of the boat trip. They’ll serve breakfast soon. I can eat. I can always eat. And Captain Dan mentioned something about mimosas during his safety lecture. Maybe, I’ll just stay on board while everyone else snorkels in the ocean and enjoy a hot meal and a Mimosa, or two.