Page 4 of Marrying the Accidental Groom
His grin faded a touch. His big mouth always got him in trouble. “Sorry. That was?—”
“It was supposed to be a honeymoon,” she said flatly, flipping the folder closed. “My fiancé—ex, I guess—he called it off three days ago.”
Gideon blinked. “Oof. That’s . . . Yeah, that’s awful.”
She shrugged one shoulder like it didn’t matter, but the way she adjusted the edge of the folder again—perfectly square against the counter—gave him an idea how upset she was.
“Sorry,” he said, more gently this time. “For real. That sucks.”
She gave a small nod, eyes trained on the condensation running down her mostly full drink. “The resort was non-refundable. Besides, I don’t have anything else to do. This was the plan. So here I am.”
Gideon lifted his cup in a small toast. “To a solo vacation.”
She raised an eyebrow but clinked her plastic cup against his anyway. A quiet, reluctant sort of truce.
“So what now?” he asked. “Stick it out and spend the week proving you’re the better half? Or head home and let the island win?”
She hesitated, then sighed. “I don’t know. I thought being here would help. Like maybe I could still enjoy it, on my own.But nothing’s gone according to plan, and now I’m sitting in a glorified snack hut talking to a stranger with sand in his hair.”
He brushed a hand through his hair, remembering that he’d taken advantage of his extended layover in Tahiti and ventured to the nearby beach, then nearly missed his flight. “Probably not just sand. Salt. A little seaweed. You’ll soon find that’s very on-brand.”
She didn’t smile exactly, but her shoulders loosened—just a bit. “I find thatterriblyhard to believe.”
His lips twitched at the small display of sarcasm from this prim and proper woman. Outside, a delivery truck rattled past the open wall.
Gideon watched it roll by, then glanced back at her. “You ever do something just because it sounded like a bad idea?”
She gave him a sharp look. “That’s not how I operate.”
“Then maybe that’s the problem.”
She opened her mouth to argue...and then closed it. Her gaze slid to the clock again. The shuttle was now thirty minutes late.
He stood and tossed his cup. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “But it involves pineapples. And maybe a criminal offense. Not sure yet.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious. You gave me thirty minutes. I intend to make them count.”
“I didn’t agree to any such thing,” she protested, but followed him anyway.
Gideon led the way out of the snack bar, weaving past a row of mismatched chairs and a half-hearted tropical mural toward a wide-open loading area behind the welcome center. The pavement shimmered with heat, and the hum of idling engines pulsed like background music.
She followed, but only barely. He glanced back. Her steps were tight, cautious. Like she was ready to bolt if he tried anything weird.
He stopped beside a battered delivery truck parked near a stack of cardboard boxes stamped with fruit logos. The back was open, crates of pineapples and bottled water stacked high. A man in a stained T-shirt and flip-flops was busy ratcheting a tarp down, earbuds in and sweat running down his temple.
“Hey, man,” Gideon called, flashing a smile. “You headed toward the resorts?”
The guy pulled one earbud out and gave him a once-over. “Maybe. Why?”
“Any chance you’ve got room in the back for two weary travelers?”
The man blinked. “You need a ride?”
