The Paradise Fling (Starlight River #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

Lauren

The photo I post this morning isn't the one I want to share.

The one I like best was taken hours ago, at five-thirty a.m., before anyone else was awake, at a small coastal chapel I'd found by accident while exploring the village of Positano. The church’s whitewashed walls were pinkish in the earliest light, and a single fishing boat was visible through the arched doorway.

I'd crouched on wet stone for twenty minutes waiting for the angle to be exactly right.

There was a hum in the recesses of my brain when I found that perfect shot.

It was low and warm, like standing near something live, something vibrant.

I've felt it before, in certain places: Lake Michigan in the winter, on a hike in Sedona, in a prehistoric cave in Spain where the light did something impossible.

I've never been able to explain it and I've learned not to try.

My old boss would have said it was just instinct. I think it might be something else.

I glance at my photo again. It wasn’t taken with my Nikon, but with my iPhone. Then I peek at my social media engagement data from the last six months and post a photo of myself at the villa pool instead.

The caption practically writes itself.

This week I flew to Italy to find my center.

The Amalfi Coast has been calling my soul, and I answered.

Sometimes the most sacred thing you can do is say yes to beauty.

Soaking in the light, the salt air, the ancient energy of this place — and feeling so grateful.

What sacred spaces have been calling YOU lately?

Drop them below. Huge gratitude to @chasebank and @alitalia for helping me answer the call.

#sacredtravel #goddesslife #soulful #amalfi #manifestyourlife

With a swipe and a tap, I post it to my one-point-five million Instagram followers as I take my first sip of coffee.

Officially, I’m a spiritual travel influencer.

I photograph sacred sites, healing retreats, ancient temples.

Places where the intangible and the mystical live in the light.

Or I used to, before I discovered that photos of myself in front of those places get three times the engagement of the places alone.

Tiresome, but necessary, if I want to make money. And like it or not, money’s needed to travel. Such is the life under capitalism in the 21st century, I guess.

The comments arrive almost immediately.

omg your energy in this photo is everything

What crystals did you pack for this trip? asking for a friend lol

You are literally glowing. What's your skincare routine??

This is the sign I needed to book my Italy trip thank you queen

Within three minutes, I get a hundred likes. The photo of the chapel still lives in my pro camera, unseen by anyone but me.

I look up from the sleek white leather sofa as the villa's owner comes in from the terrace.

“Amazing party, wasn't it, Lynn? I mean, Lauren?”

I fight the urge to scream. Giovanni's a well-known event planner in Italy, and he can never remember my name.

I've been to his sprawling villa three times in recent months for various weekend-long events sponsored by fashion and liquor brands — and once, memorably, a “conscious living” summit that turned out to be a champagne-soaked influencer gathering with a singing bowl left untouched in the corner.

I've given Gio tags and shout-outs, which boost his profile.

He still can't remember my name.

This is the part of my life that doesn't make it into my captions.

Somewhere along the way, chasing the sacred-travel niche led me straight into an international party circuit — the same three hundred glossy, loud, perpetually jet-lagged people, rotating through the same villas and yacht decks and sponsored “experiences.” Half of them post about chakra alignment and then drink until four a.m. I'm not judging. I do it too, occasionally.

It's superficial and I hate it, but this is my life now. When I was in photography school in Chicago, I dreamed of being a nature photographer, or perhaps a portrait shooter. Not this.

“Fab. The party was fab.” I drain the rest of my coffee.

“Going somewhere?” He glances at my hard-shelled black suitcase. A willowy, bronze woman in a flowing linen dress saunters down the marble stairs as if they're a catwalk and folds herself against Giovanni's chest. That’s his girl of the month.

I've never been that girl, thank God. This is all business for me and for him, and I'm grateful Gio understands that. He’s a little slippery, but hasn’t been inappropriate with me.

On social media, I'm a seeker, a wanderer, a woman in tune with the sacred geometry of the universe.

In reality, I'm hired help, like a PR person with better lighting.

I'm selling other people's brands — swank hotels, wellness retreats, Gio's parties dressed up as spiritual experiences.

Being an Instagram influencer is exhausting and lonely at times, but it beats being an unpaid intern to an ornery old portrait photographer in frigid Chicago.

Still. That job, at least, taught me to actually look at things. My old boss used to say that a good photograph is an act of attention — you're telling your subject, I see you. I think about that more than I'd like to admit these days.

“Headed to Rome,” I say. “A hotel's putting me up for a few nights, and I'm going to tour the Porta Portese Market...” My voice trails off because he and the model are kissing, cooing, obviously paying zero attention to me and my plans to tour a flea market. A trip I’m actually looking forward to.

Giovanni looks up, flushed.

“Sounds great, Lynn. Have a good journey, thanks for all the photos. I'm getting so many subscribers,” he says in his thick Italian accent. “We're off to the pool.”

He strides over and we kiss each other goodbye on both cheeks.

“Until next time, Gio.”

“Ciao, ciao, maybe we’ll catch up in Berlin,” he says as he and the woman walk toward the door that leads to the pool.

Berlin. I wonder what's happening there and when.

I sink back onto the white leather sofa, straightening my sky blue caftan I'd bought at a boutique in town. My phone pings with an email notification.

“Oooh, Kate,” I whisper. I love hearing from my best friend.

Of all the people back in the United States, Kate's the one I miss most. Even more than my own family, who mostly make contact when they need something.

I love my mom, dad, and three younger siblings.

I learned recently that loving my family and being available to them were two different things.

Hey L. Where are you? I tried reaching you the other day but couldn't get through. I really need to talk with you. Can you call me when you get this? ASAP. Any time of the day or night. Love you. K.

I frown. A sinking feeling takes over. What’s wrong with Kate? Instead of staying in our old loft in Chicago, or joining me on my travels like we'd planned, she moved back to Florida to help her mom and her business. It was only supposed to be for a few months and Kate had been hesitant to go home.

I check the time. Still fifteen minutes until my hired car comes, probably longer in Amalfi Coast tourist traffic. I tap Kate's number.

She answers on the second ring. “Lauren,” she squeals.

I scream when I see her sun-kissed face. “Oh my God, you look so good! So tan! You’re glowing. Have you been living outside? You look incredible!”

She laughs. “Shut up. I look like a trash panda. I have been running every day, though. And working in the bar, on my feet for hours. Mom's been able to get some rest, though, which is good. I can’t believe how hard perimenopause has hit her.”

Kate's mom owns a tiki bar in Cypress Grove, a small town in inland Florida built around a natural spring. An actual tiki hut with a thatch palm frond roof and everything, like in the movies. Kate had shown me photos when we lived together.

“Running? Wow, that's new. What's going on? Are you okay? Something about your tone worried me. I could tell that you’re a bit off. Intuition, you know?”

Kate unties and then ties her long brown hair. That means something is, indeed, wrong. She's nervous. Four years in a dorm and then years in our Chicago loft means I know every mannerism and tic.

“Okay, ah, well...”

“What is it?” I bring the phone closer to my face. Kate's usually blunt as a sledgehammer.

“I'm getting married,” she blurts.

I stop breathing for a second.

“What?” My voice echoes through the minimalist living room. This is a little too blunt. Kate, married?

Kate, who loves nothing more than casually flirting with every man in sight?

Kate, who fiercely guards her independence?

Kate, who said she was going to Florida for only a few months and promised to meet me in Europe eventually?

Kate, who said she wanted to be a digital nomad while doing her graphic design business?

Married?

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

She rubs her lips together. “It kind of...happened.”

“Getting engaged doesn't kinda happen.” I make air quotes. “Last time I talked with you, which was, what, a week ago—”

“Two weeks.” Her mouth slants.

“Sorry. Two weeks. But we've been emailing and texting.” I lose track of time when I'm traveling, and she knows it. “Who is he? Where did you meet him? Does he live in Cypress Grove? What about our plans? What’s going on?”

She glances to the side, and I realize she's in the bar. There's a framed autographed photo of Elvis behind her, and a row of oversized hot pink plastic glasses, the kind tourists use for frozen cocktails.

And a plastic alligator.

“He's a guy I went to high school with.”

I narrow my eyes. “You never told me about a guy from high school. You always said everyone hated and bullied you but you never gave details, and you had one friend, the one obsessed with pirates.”