Page 117 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“Well…” Instead of finishing her sentence, she taps the tip of my nose.

I grab her finger and close my teeth around it, as though I might bite it.

She squeals and yanks it away, very effectively using a fun strategy to end our discussion of how she’s a serious person who uses a fun strategy.

In other words, proving my point.

We catch the next taxi. I direct the driver to the little village on the west side of the island, a few blocks from the FedEx place, just to humor her.

“Here?” the cabbie asks, slowing in front of one of the ubiquitous stands that sell random assortments of food and household goods. This particular one also marks the transition to little shacks separated by stretches of thick jungle foliage.

“Perfect,” I say. I pay him, and we hop out. We pause in the shade at the side of the road that unfurls behind us like a brown ribbon into lush green jungle. To the other side is the road to the tourist hub. You can see people crowd around street vendors who’ve laid out their wares on blankets and small tables under colorful paper lanterns outside restaurants for the well-heeled tourists.

The FedEx station turns out to be just as modest as I’d imagined—more like a counter at the back of a dusty store that seems to specialize in bags of dried noodles, plantain bananas, and religious pictures in elaborate frames. We head to the back and stand at the counter under a beaten-up and decidedly unofficial-looking FedEx sign, and the clerk comes back and takes our package and our money for an overnight rush and throws it into a box. It goes out on Tuesdays and Thursdays, he tells us, then heads back up to the front.

She turns to me. “Today’s Tuesday.”

“I can’t say I have a hundred percent faith in this process,” I tell her. “We might not have the results until after we’re back.”

She nods without expression. Our two-week cruise ends on Saturday. Does she think about what happens when we’re back?

“You’re gonna be so shocked when the results come through,” she says.

“Doubtful.”

She smiles, and we head to the front. She pauses to browse the postcards, examining one of a baby wearing sunglasses. “I think I deserve an extra bonus once I crack this case wide open.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a case,” I say.

She picks out a postcard with a crab on it. There’s a speech bubble where the crab is saying something about siestas. “I really want to assemble all of the passengers in the lounge and for you to make a speech about how one passenger among us is not who they say they are.”

“Oh, I make the speech? How did I get such an honor?” I ask, sliding my finger under the strap of her sundress, unable to keep from touching her, wanting her. I plant a soft kiss on her shoulder.

“It feels right for you to do it instead of me.”

“I see,” I say. “And then afterward the lights go out and a shot rings out? And when we turn them back on, somebody’s dead? Should I be the one to command that nobody may leave the yacht?”

“Yes, please.” She adds a postcard of a white dog wearing a hat to her small stack. “This looks exactly like my friend’s dog, Smuckers. Except Smuckers usually wears a bowtie.”

“Who makes a dog wear a bow tie?”

“He loves it.” She buys the cards, and then we head out to the dusty street and nearly bump into Marvin and Serena.

“You made it!” Marvin says, looking over at the store we just left. “Doing a little shopping?”

Tabitha pulls out her postcards. “Best. Selection. Ever,” she tells him. “You should check it out.”

Serena gives the store a disdainful look, but Marvin squints at the sign as though he’s taking note of it. “Maybe I will.”

“Let’s go.” I grab Tabitha’s hand and lead her toward the small, dusty hub.

Tabitha looks backwards. “He’s going in there,” she says.

“You recommended it for postcards,” I say.

“Should we double back and shadow him?”

“Now you’re being silly. Come on.”

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