Chapter 5
ALEC
Four and a half hours. That’s how long I’d been trapped in a metal tube with a woman who treats conversation like a competitive sport and has enough optimism for ten people.
My eardrums are still ringing from her enthusiastic commentary on everything from cloud formations to cookies and a hundred other topics I’d never paused to consider before meeting her.
Normally, I might’ve been tempted to feign interest in the magical, healing powers of Sedona, or the dozens of activities and excursions she’s hoping to partake of in Barbados—especially when the chatterbox is hot as Ella Manning.
But she hadn’t exactly seen me at my best today.
Odds are, she’s chalked me up as the biggest asshole she’d ever met.
I’m not sure why that bothers me like it does, but there’s no point in examining it.
We shuffle off the plane, me with my carry-on, her with her monstrous tote bag. I feel a strange urge to say goodbye or something, but she’s immediately swept into a conversation with our flight attendant and I decide to seize on my chance to make a clean exit.
I catch myself looking back toward our arrival gate.
Ella’s paused there now, her bright sundress and that oversized beach bag making her impossible to miss in the crowd.
She’s laughing with some stranger about god knows what, gesturing with her hands in that animated way that suggests she’s probably sharing another life story with someone who didn’t ask for it.
I shake my head and head through the airport toward ground transportation.
The tropical breeze hits me as I step outside, warm and humid and carrying the scent of something floral I can’t identify.
For a moment, I understand why people vacation in places like this.
Then I remember I’m here under doctor’s orders, not by choice, and the momentary peace evaporates.
My driver is waiting exactly where Martha said he’d be—black luxury sedan, tinted windows, and blessed silence.
No chatter, no random observations about the weather or local customs. Just professional efficiency and air conditioning that doesn’t smell like chocolate chip cookies and something even sweeter, far more tempting, than any amount of refined sugar.
“Mr. Beckett?” The driver nods respectfully as he opens the rear door. “Welcome to Barbados. I’m James, and I’ll be taking you to Palm Court resort.”
I slide into the leather seat and immediately feel some of the tension leave my shoulders.
The partition between the front and back seats offers additional privacy—exactly what I need.
I pull out my phone to check messages, then remember Dr. Vaughn’s explicit instructions about disconnecting from work.
Instead, I open the meditation app, figuring I should at least attempt to follow medical orders.
“Close your eyes and find your center,” the narrator instructs in that same funeral-director voice. “Imagine your place of peace, your sanctuary of calm.”
I close my eyes and wait for something to materialize. My mind is a blank slate. Just a list of anxiety-producing memories and places that I’d hardly consider sanctuaries of calm. I coax myself to relax, to fade into the narrator’s voice and really give this exercise a chance to work.
“Breathe deeply, and let yourself slide easily, tranquilly, into your centering calm.”
What enters my mind instead is completely unwelcome: blue eyes sparkling with mischief, dark hair glowing in the sunlight streaming in through an airplane window, the warm pressure of a small hand on my shoulder as she maneuvered around me in the cramped first-class aisle.
Fuck.
I snap my eyes open and yank out the earbuds.
This meditation bullshit isn’t working. The last thing I need is my supposed “place of peace” being invaded by a woman who represents everything I try to avoid—unpredictability, emotional chaos, the kind of genuine enthusiasm that makes my carefully constructed walls feel flimsy.
“How long is the drive to the hotel?” I grumble to James from the backseat.
“Thirty-five minutes, sir. Possibly a bit longer today. Crop Over is in full swing this week.”
He says it like I should be excited. If I’d known there was a festival going on, I would’ve insisted that Martha switch my itinerary to somewhere less… festive.
The drive to the resort passes through increasingly lush landscape. I stare out the window at towering palm trees, tropical flowers in colors that look too vibrant to be real, and glimpses of turquoise water and white sand. It’s beautiful, I suppose, in an aggressively perfect way.
Palm Court Barbados announces itself with understated elegance—no gaudy signs or flashy displays, just coral stone gates and manicured gardens that probably require an army of groundskeepers. The car winds up a curved drive lined with royal palms, and I catch my first glimpse of the main building.
It’s impressive without being ostentatious. Colonial architecture with modern luxury touches, all white columns and dark shutters against the backdrop of impossibly blue ocean. The kind of place that caters to people who have money but don’t need to flaunt it.
Not the worst place to be exiled for a week.
“Here we are, sir,” James says, pulling up to the main entrance where uniformed staff members are already approaching with that subtle efficiency that marks truly high-end service.
A valet opens my door before I can reach for the handle. “Mr. Beckett, welcome to Palm Court. I’m David, and we’ll take excellent care of you during your stay.”
They handle my luggage and I’m escorted through the lobby—all polished marble floors, tropical flower arrangements, and the sound of water trickling from hidden fountains.
It would be relaxing if the lobby wasn’t overrun with a hundred tourists, some new arrivals like me, and others wandering around with drinks in hand, wearing flip-flops and sunburns in varying levels of severity.
David leads me to the check-in desk where a pleasant-looking young woman greets me with a big smile. “Mr. Beckett, such a pleasure to have you with us. I’m Marina, the head concierge. I hope your flight was comfortable?”
“Fine,” I say, not mentioning the four-hour endurance test that was sitting next to Hurricane Ella. “I’d like to get to my suite as quickly as possible.”
Marina’s smile doesn’t waver, but something flickers behind her eyes.
“Of course, sir. There’s just a small matter we need to address.
Your suite isn’t quite ready at the moment—festival week has us running a bit behind schedule,” she adds with a nervous little laugh.
“Would you mind terribly waiting in our VIP lounge? I can offer you a complimentary cocktail while we finish the final preparations.”
A delay. Of course there’s a delay. “How long?”
“No more than an hour, I promise. Perhaps a rum punch in our lounge to help you settle into island time?”
Island time. Christ. “Fine.”
She escorts me to the VIP lounge, a space that manages to be both luxurious and understated.
Cream-colored sofas arranged around low tables, floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of manicured gardens and the ocean beyond.
The sound of steel pan music drifts in from somewhere outside, faint and tropical and surprisingly pleasant.
“I’ll have the bartender bring that rum punch right over,” Marina says. “It’s our specialty.”
I almost ask for something stronger—the kind of drink that would blur the edges of my current mood—but Dr. Vaughn’s warnings about stress and heart health echo in my head. Alcohol probably isn’t the smartest choice for someone who just had a cardiac episode two weeks ago.
“Actually, Marina, I’ll take sparkling water. With lime.”
“Of course, sir.”
I settle into a chair facing a large, open window and accept my sparkling water from a server who appears and disappears with ninja-like efficiency. The first sip is crisp and cold, and I feel some of the tension start to leave my shoulders.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
The ocean breeze stirs the long curtains, bringing in the scent of island flowers and coconuts. Outside, palm fronds sway gently, and I can see glimpses of guests lounging by what appears to be an infinity pool. Everything is calm, controlled, exactly what I need.
For the first time since boarding that plane in Miami, I allow myself to relax slightly. My breathing slows, my shoulders drop away from my ears, and the constant hum of anxiety that’s been my companion for weeks starts to fade.
This is what a vacation is supposed to feel like, I suppose. Peace. Quiet. The absence of—
“Wow! This place is incredible!”
The familiar voice hits me like a cold shower. I don’t need to turn around to know who’s just entered the lobby with all the subtlety of a marching band, but I do anyway, drawn by some masochistic impulse to confirm my worst fears.
Ella Manning sweeps up to the reception desk in all her chaotic glory, beach bag slung over one shoulder, sundress now slightly wrinkled from travel, dark hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the lobby windows.
She’s gesturing animatedly at something Marina is showing her, and even from across the lobby, her laugh carries clear and bright.
Every head in the vicinity turns toward her. Not in annoyance—in fascination. People look at her the way they look at the sun when it breaks through storm clouds, half-blinded but smiling anyway. Which reminds me: I forgot to pack sunglasses, damn it.
What are the odds she’d be staying here? In a place like Barbados, with dozens of resorts scattered across the island, what are the fucking odds that she’d end up at the same one I’m staying at?