“You think you know everything,” he muttered. The ice in his voice had melted, leaving something warmer buried in the grumble. “And stop whipping ferns at me.”
I straightened my back and kept up the march toward the huts, my sandals slapping through the sand.
Honestly, it made sense why he hadn’t flaunted his promotion in Joan’s face. No matter how much swagger he carried, Grant still had to answer to the board and to his grandfather. He’d always been on shaky ground with them, especially after stepping into a role everyone had assumed his cousin would hold.
Grant was a walking tabloid scandal waiting to happen. There were plenty of glossy photos of him with the woman-of-the-hour draped on his arm. For someone in the miracle business, he looked less like a guardian angel and more like a devil in disguise.
I shoved the thought away. I had bigger problems, like the way Grant’s question suddenly sliced through the air.
“What was on the napkin?”
I flinched. Speak of the devil—literally.
“Your eulogy. Short, sweet, anddisposable.”
“Very funny. I saw you hide it. Tell me the truth.” He stopped short, suspicion flickering across his face. Then loud enough to silence the birds, he hissed, “Did that bartender give you his phone number? Because he’s interested in the lifeguard.”
I huffed a breath. This was what happened when you put too many matchmakers in paradise.
“Don’t you think I know that? I’m the expert.” I tugged on my badge chain and smirked. “Who do you think is going to be a bridesmaid at their wedding?”
Grant’s jaw ticked. “Spells.”
Ugh, I knew that tone. If I didn’t tell him something close to the truth, he’d have a murder board set up in his hut by nightfall. There’d be red strings criss-crossing my badge photo until he solved the case of the elusive cocktail napkin and the two-timing bartender.
I unfolded the napkin and held it up to him between two fingers. “Relax, Detective. It’s just the directions to a scenic trail. I thought I could get in a little sightseeing while I was here.”
Grant eyed the napkin as if it offended him. “You? Alone in the jungle? A beetle would land on your forehead, and you’d fling yourself into a gorge.”
I locked my muscles at the mental image so I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a preview.
Why was my skin so itchy?Ick.
“You’re projecting. How you handle insects is your own weakness. But don’t worry. Now that we have our mandate, I’d rather swim with the sharks than go on a scenic hike with you.”
I crumpled the napkin—carefully—in my fist and spun on my heel. A few more steps, and I burst through the foliage, finding the entrance to our huts.
There they were, two identical beach bungalows practically on top of each other. Each had a thatched roof, whitewashed walls, and a little deck painted a cheery shade of blue. Seashell wreaths dotted with bells and glass-ball ornaments dangled from the doors, and more tiki torches lined the sandy path leading toward the beach. Our punishment huts came with a spectacular view.
I tapped my resort card against the keypad without giving Grant another look, pushing inside as the lock blinked green. The seashell wreath jingled when I slammed the door shut behind me. My suitcase waited in the narrow entryway, a bag of company swag hanging from the handle, along with an armband tied-dyed in Christmas colors.
My mouth dropped at the name stamped across it:Team Delspell.
Over. My. Dead. Body.
Our last names had been mashed together like a trending celebrity couple. It was humiliating! And worse? They put his name first.
I yanked the armband off the suitcase and unzipped the side pocket. A chemical tang stung my nose as I uncapped a permanent marker. With one defiant stroke, I slashed a line throughDelspell, then scrawledSPELLANEYin bold, capital letters.
Better.
Wheeling my suitcase into the bedroom, I heaved it onto the bedspread with a thump. Our first team-building exercise started in thirty minutes, and I still had to unpack, swap my strappy sandals for sneakers, and throw on the Sunbelt polo.
I dumped the bag of company swag beside the suitcase and rifled through the contents. A package of sugar cookies glinted up at me like a frosted treasure. I ripped it open and crunched off the end of an iced snowflake. Fuel for the competition.
The laminated retreat itinerary peeked from beneath a pile of die-cut stickers, ready to be slapped onto bare coffee tumblers and tablet cases, displaying our Snow-and-Sun pride. Each day had a mix of mandatory events and so-called relaxation blocks.
Brochures promised everything from spa massages to parasailing. One even advertised a full-daySilence and Nonverbal Communicationworkshop at the neighboring resort. Registration required.
