Chapter 2
Valerie
The path leading to our newly assigned huts was overflowing with tropical flowers, giant ferns, and tiki torches with their flames wavering in the breeze. I inhaled a deep, citrusy breath and counted all the ways I hated Grant Delaney.
One: he was too close.
The man was barely a step behind me. If I stopped short, he’d smack into me and send me toppling into the bushes.
Two: that wasn’t oranges in the air, it was Grant’s cologne, warm spice wrapped in tropical notes. It smelled amazing. I wanted to enchant it into a scented voodoo doll, so I could have the dual satisfaction of breathing it in while I stuck pins into his broad shoulders.
Three: I hated that even though we couldn’t have a civil conversation and spent most of our time finding new ways to get under each other’s skin, I still gravitated toward him. There had to be a term for it, and I was positive it lived somewhere on the family tree of Stockholm syndrome.
“Stop following me,” I muttered, whacking a fern out of the way and letting it whip behind me.
“You heard Joan. We’re supposed to spend every minute together.” The ice in his tone could have frozen the path into a skating rink.
“I’m surprised you didn’t pull rank. Aren’t they planning to announce your promotion to head of the Snowbelt division at tonight’s luau? You’d think your family inheritance would come with a perk.”
Grant made a low sound in his throat as he reached over me, lifting a drooping fern out of my face.
“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, and disposable.”
“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 through Delspell, then scrawled SPELLANEY in 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-day Silence and Nonverbal Communication workshop at the neighboring resort. Registration required.
I pictured Grant's abduction in the middle of the night, gleefully imagining him forced to spend the day expressing his emotions through interpretive nodding. I was tempted to sign him up, but with HR’s mandate, they’d probably abduct me, too.
Our tropical island, hidden somewhere in the Pacific, was split clean down the middle.
One side was reserved for magical corporate retreats like ours with team-building, enchanted mixers, and a revolving door of witchy keynote speakers.
The other side catered to mystical renewal.
It was the kind of place that promised to heal your aura and realign your love life for a modest fortune.
Photos showed moonlit vow renewals and rune-etched gongs.
They even offered spiritual counseling for relationships on the brink.
My waterfall was tucked down there, too, right beside the couples therapy the bartender had recommended.
Ha! The only couples therapy I wanted to attend with Grant was electroshock therapy, where I got to press the button. I scowled, brushing cookie crumbs from the bodice of my dress. One had fallen a little deeper, and I fished it out before glancing awkwardly toward the open window.
Straight into Grant’s hut.
He was mid-motion, tugging a Snowbelt polo down his obnoxiously sculpted abdomen.
Was the man secretly hauling Christmas trees between cases in some lumberjack side hustle?
Meanwhile, my idea of working out was lifting a gingerbread mocha to my mouth or stretching to snag a romance novel off the top shelf.
Okay… maybe I did need a little shock therapy. And fewer romance novels, considering the way my gaze lingered like the heroine in every rom-com. But this wasn’t some classic enemies-to-lovers trope where the hero was hiding a deep well of emotion behind his death stare.
This was true crime.
Grant's glare met my scowl across the short distance.
“Like what you see, Spells?” His voice drifted lazily through the open window.
I swayed closer, clocking the way his gaze dropped to my hips. With a little zing in my chest I couldn't control, I curled my fingers around the curtain. My teeth sank into my bottom lip, a low hum vibrating in my throat.
“Very much…”
Grant went still, that smug look going sharp at the edges. His chest expanded as if he’d just sucked in a breath.
My smile turned feral. “As much as getting stung by a jellyfish. In the face.”
I yanked the curtain shut.
Take that, Delaney.
I dusted my hands together. Out of sight, out of mind. At least for the next few minutes. I grabbed my sneakers and wrangled my brain to focus on the task ahead.
This island was supposed to be my salvation, and it would be. I had my map, a self-fulfilling itinerary, and enough reckless determination to ditch Grant and go trekking through the jungle.
Beetles beware. I was getting my groove back, even if it meant lying, cheating, and sending my nemesis on a wild-goose chase to do it.