Page 8 of Sunburned

“Bonjour, madame.”

I turned to see a ridiculously sexy Frenchman, dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt and black trousers, smiling at me. His skin was bronzed, his high cheekbones accentuated by his close-cropped beard, his tousled hair the kind of rich, multidimensional brunette that women paid a fortune for in the salon.

He took off his sunglasses, revealing eyes of mesmerizing blue. I mean, shit. My eyes were blue, but they were more of a standard midnight blue. His were stop-you-in-your-tracks blue, as electric as the sea I’d just flown over. “You are Audrey Collet, yes?” he asked in a lilting accent.

I nodded as he leaned past me to easily lift my suitcase. He smelled faintly of cologne and cigarettes.

“I am Laurent.” He deposited a business card printed on thick stock into my hand, and my eyes slid over the type, something about executive services. “Here we are.”

He loaded my suitcase into the back of a Mercedes Sprinter van, then reappeared at my side, deftly taking my hand to help me up into the back seat. My heavy bag threw me off balance and he caught me, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt, his arms surprisingly strong for his slight frame.

“Merci,”I said breathlessly, allowing him to deposit me into the cool leather interior before he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

I smiled to myself as we turned onto the two-lane road that ran up the hill next to the airport. Clearly I needed to get out more, if an interaction as innocuous as that could make me flush the way it just had.

I didn’t date much. Rosa accused me of being jaded, and perhaps I was, a little bit anyway, but it was more that I liked my life just fine and didn’t see any reason to rock the boat. After all, I didn’t just have myself to think about. Any man I spent time with needed to be right not only for me, but for my boys. And I didn’t exactly have the greatest track record with men. Tyson had shattered me, and I’d in turn shattered a string of boyfriends afterward. I’d learned the hard way that it was better to keep my occasional entanglements casual and brief, with no risk of anyone’s getting shattered.

Now that I was here, I suddenly realized how nervous I was about seeing Tyson again. Not because I was still in love with him. No, that had ended a long time ago. But because he’d always known which of my buttons to push, and now I had an added vulnerability in the form of two ten-year-old boys I loved more than life itself.

I was older now, I reminded myself. I wouldn’t allow him to manipulate me the way he used to.

Laurent glanced in the rearview mirror, his bright eyes mercifully hidden by sunglasses. “Is this your first time to visit St. Barthélemy?”

“Yes,” I replied, glad for the distraction.

“It is a special place.”

We skirted the roundabout at the top of the hill, where a bronze statue of a man in a loincloth stood, spear in hand, blowing into a conch shell. “This statue honors the Arawak, the first tribe to inhabit the island,” Laurent explained.

As we bumped over the narrow road that ran along the ridge of the island, I noticed that the landscape was more arid than tropical, with cacti and succulents rooted in the dry, rocky soil. The views on both sides were spectacular, jagged green hills embracing red-roofedseaport villages and white sand beaches, the electric blue sea beyond marked with sailboats and yachts. In the distance, the islands of St. Martin and Anguilla shimmered on the horizon.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Have you always lived on the island?”

“No. I came from France five years ago.”

“What brought you here?”

“There was a girl,” he said with a sly smile. “But I stayed afterward because I like the lifestyle. Also, the surfing is not so bad for the Caribbean.”

I smiled. “Really?”

In the rearview mirror, I saw I’d caught his attention. “In the winter is best, but we can get swells any time of year.”

“I’ve got kids, so I don’t get to go as much as I used to, but I grew up surfing in south Florida. Same thing. Not as reliable as someplace like Hawaii, but you can still have a good time.”

“How old are your children?”

“Fourth grade. Twin boys.”

He raised his brows. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, you seem very young to have children this age.”

“I had them young,” I said.

“I coach some boys this age in surfing,” he said. “It is a good age.”

The van came to an abrupt stop, and I leaned forward to see a pair of rust-colored chickens crossing the road.

“Have you worked for Tyson long?” I asked.

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