Chapter 2

2

ELLA

I feel like I got mugged by a scrappy band of raccoons.

To a person who grew up in a place with harsh winters, a tropical escape is enticing. The annual dream. When the world is dreary and gray, social media and television teasers with white sand beaches, the warm glowing sun, and lounging by turquoise water triple the allure.

That’s well and good when on vacation for a week.

In real life, the part that is slightly out of frame is that the humidity is brutal on both hair and skin, making my body feel like an oil slick. The bugs have a mob hit out on all life forms, especially humans, and if you don’t get out of the wind’s way, it’ll give you a gale-force shove to the other side of the island.

Found out all of that the hard way.

On the bright side, my bronze glow game is strong. People pay big bucks for my all-natural highlights, thanks to the sun. But that’s where the bonuses of being literally stranded on a tropical island end.

After being ditched by the guy I thought was my billionaire boyfriend-to-be, my pity party lasted exactly as long as it took me to consume a nineteen-dollar bag of gourmet caramel popcorn. Resort prices, I tell ya.

But there are worse places to be stranded. At least I have a job. But, believe it or not, life in the air-conditioned haven of a luxury resort comes with its own problems.

I push my cart down the wide hall. Edwina glides toward me. She’s an ally, but I’ve learned to watch my back. Stories abound about employees doing each other dirty. One front desk worker hid cooked crab legs under the bed of an available room to try to get a housekeeper in trouble with management.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she says in her accented voice that reminds me of birdsong.

“Hi, Edwina. Did you hit the jackpot last night?”

This is the standard opening to our daily dialog.

On cue, in a conspiratorial whisper, she shakes her head slightly and says, “There would be signs.”

“What should I look for?” This is my line.

She taps her chin. “A safari hat. You?”

We give each other hints about how we’d spend our winnings. They get more outrageous by the day.

I wouldn’t win the lottery because I don’t play, but I answer anyway. “One of those Formula One race car driver suits.”

Her laugh is louder than usual. “I kid you not; I found a bright yellow jumpsuit or whatever it’s called and a helmet in room two-oh-nine last week. That must mean you won.”

“I wish.” My life has proven to be one big series of losses.

She smiles warmly. “Someday, your Prince Charming will come, sweep you off your feet, and you’ll have your happily ever after.”

I chuckle because that’s a silly and stupid dream. I’m a romantic—er, I was. Past tense. I lived in a cotton candy cloud of mushy romance novels and sappy movies, love notes, and sweet nothings. I chased happy endings like those aforementioned raccoons after hitting the jackpot in a bakery's dumpster after closing time.

Now I know better. I was fatally silly and stupid when it came to Slater. He may as well have thrown the entire concept of love into a dumpster and set it on fire.

Unfortunately, there’s no one in my life to help drench the flames.

My thoughts drift to the last time I felt so much as a flicker of hope in the romance game—the night I officially met Jack, and we snuck into the pool. With him, it was different. If kissing him was silly and stupid, maybe I want to be silly and stupid. However, Jack didn’t know my true identity and hasn’t been back. It was a foolish fling—a one-time event.

Edwina says, “Don’t give up hope. I haven’t.”

I glimpse my future, white-haired like Edwina, still working here, still waiting.

The Jewel Island Private Resort port is tiny, and most employees come in on the daily ferry. If I could afford housing and a boat pass, I would, but I’m stuck here until further notice.

She pauses, glances up and down the hall, and sneaks a slim box made of buttery packaging that’s about the size of a paperback book into my hands. “Take this. It’s dangerous out there.”

My eyes widen because this is the size and shape of a box of chocolates—something I haven’t had in ninety-two days. Yes, I’m counting.

She adds, “It was left over from the anniversary party on the third floor.”

My mouth waters because although I’m constantly surrounded by the finest of everything from apparel to jewelry to culinary delights, I’m saddled with a strict Don’t even look and definitely do not touch policy.

It’s a specific form of agony.

I make a mental note to repay Edwina for her kindness, then complete my morning rounds before my break. Despite my complaints about the muggy weather, I go outside behind the main building to a little employee courtyard to get some fresh air and rest my feet since my work shoes are half a size too small.

Inside, the climate control is kept at a cool sixty-eight degrees, and I welcome the sun on my skin. I yawn and my eyes dip as sleep gathers on the edges of my consciousness. My chin hits my chest at the same time as the nearby door whooshes open with a gust of cold air.

Female voices rise and fall, followed by laughter. It’s two members of the three-part front desk clique on their break.

Yvonne, the self-appointed ring leader because she has seniority, cuts a glance at me. Without so much as a hello, she confers with her cohorts in hushed tones. No doubt they’re admiring how shiny and frizz-free I keep my hair.

Newsflash, ladies. It’s a wig. My real hair is a salt- and humidity-stricken disaster.

I’m pretty sure it’s turning into felt.

If they’re talking about me at all, it’s likely gossip and speculation. When I started working here, I thought the behind-the-scenes work environment would be like in the movies with everyone breaking out into a choreographed song and dance routine while cleaning up around the pool at the end of the day.

Yeah, romantic—some might say delusional—notions spilled into every aspect of my life.

The joke was on me because these hotel employees are cutthroat and willing to take each other downtown to Cage Fight Alley if they think it might result in a promotion. I’m not positive it’s a real place, but I don’t really want to find out. I reckon the raccoons would know.

They look in my direction and then quickly away, followed by a round of snickering.

This just in, there’s an invisible wall between us and our elite guests. You’re never getting through, no matter how snooty you act!

“I heard that the owner’s son is going to be here anytime now.” Yvonne’s voice floats toward me, pricking my ears.

I stiffen, worried about what this might mean.

The other woman, Minka, asks, “Is his room ready?”

“It had better be.” Yvonne glances my way, well aware that I’m part of the housekeeping crew, even though she’d never admit it because such information is beneath her.

She doesn’t know our brief but storied history, however, flashing around his itinerary must be her way of gloating—pointing out that she’s a VIP Jewel Island Resort employee.

“He’s going to inherit this place someday,” Minka says.

Yvonne adds, “And billions. The last time he was here, he asked me how my night was and then winked. This time, I’m sure he’s going to try to make it a little less boring if you know what I mean.”

The subject of their conversation makes my chest tight like one of those raccoons just kicked me hard.

Minka says, “I’ve lost count of how many women he’s dated.”

“I’ve heard he has a reputation, but there’s no shame in his game. Am I right?” Yvonne asks.

They laugh together, but I can imagine them throwing the other under the guest trolley in a race to see who will get to the billionaire first.

Sorry to burst your bubble, but the bad boy hype is overrated.

Yvonne continues, “I’m not stupid enough to think he’d want to marry me or anything, but we could have a fun time. I heard that when he visits, he picks one woman to be his fling for the weekend. Though I’m sure he has some standards.” Once again, Yvonne looks at me and says, “He’d never hook up with the help.”

Joke is on you because I wasn’t always the help. But Slater has always been a jerk.

If only I’d known the truth. They wouldn’t believe my story f I warned them. Most days I ask myself how I got here, how this is my life.

If I were in a musical, I’d sing a solo about how hard it is being “The Help,” and then I’d strut past the mean girls, with a boost of confidence giving me a little skip in my step. Instead, I slip away unnoticed, which is the way I’d like to remain if the resort owner’s son is returning.

To my knowledge, Slater hasn’t been back since his abrupt departure, likely jet-setting and “flinging” himself around the globe on Daddy’s dime.

But it doesn’t matter. After Slater, I’d never want to be with a billionaire, not because the finances wouldn’t help me tremendously, but because they can’t be trusted. Yvonne can keep her fling. I want something real. But I’m not looking, so it doesn’t matter.

On my way to the lobby, I dig in my bag for a coin. I find loose change from all over the world when cleaning rooms. I save the US currency, but toss the rest in the massive mermaid fountain, wishing to find a better way to pay for my dad’s care.

Today, I just hope that Slater doesn’t find me still here.

With the break clock ticking, I breeze past the Beachside and sit on a bench, enjoying my freedom while I can.

A couple jogs on the beach, bringing to mind Jack. Like a woman on a desert island, I think about him often. I’ll never forget when something flickered in his piercing blue eyes … and in my chest.

By now, he probably has a girlfriend. Maybe he’s engaged. Or married with a kid and a doodle dog or something equally adorable. Would he and his bride have come here for their honeymoon?

The notion makes me sad even though it shouldn’t. After being burned by the billionaire resort owner’s son, I know better than to believe that a knight in shining armor or Prince Charming is going to rescue me, despite Edwina’s optimism.

Someday, when Dad’s bills are paid, I’ll find my way off this island, but until then, this job pays more than I’d make in Philadelphia. My living expenses are virtually non-existent, but the stress of literally being a beach bum is ever-present, and I pray daily that I don’t get caught.

Maybe the raccoons will take me in.

I open the box of chocolates, but liquid pools in the little crevices where the morsels should be. My fault for leaving them in the sun.

This about sums up my life. It’s like a box of melted chocolates. Literally. Would it be wrong to lick the remains of the chocolate from the little tray? Probably.

But I don’t want to be right. I want chocolate. My break is over. Time to get back to my so-called Cinderella life.