Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,8

we were kosher. I had no interest in making small talk for an hour and a half.

“New roads,” I said. “New faces. New everything. And a chance to become someone I couldn’t become in Waynesville.”

Brooks sipped his coffee. “Is there a man in this dream of yours?”

I shot him a dark look. “My dream is good enough without a man. I can take care of myself. I can make myself happy.”

Brooks frowned. “Then why didn’t you get yourself the coffee you were clearly pining over?”

Touché, Hipster Douche. Touché.

I pushed the coffee back into his hands. “I like caramel. Not hazelnut.”

Chapter 4

Wes

“Is Katie here today?”

The young woman behind the checkout counter at the lobby of the El Cartana shook her head. Her big brown eyes flicked up to me. “No, not today sir. Was there something I could help you with instead?”

I frowned. Usually when I left the hotel, Katie was there to check me out. We’d exchange playful banter and I’d leave with a grin and a feeling of contentment. Not being able to say a proper farewell didn’t sit right to me.

“Can I leave her a note?” I asked.

The young woman, whose nametag read Abby, nodded. “Of course!” She opened a drawer, rummaged around, and pulled out a notepad and pen. “She comes in tomorrow morning as usual. I’ll make sure this gets to her.”

I scribbled out a quick note for Katie, thanking her for the drink last night and her company. As always, she was a great part of my trip. I told her the next time I saw her, I’d probably have new books in tow. I signed it from W. so as not to tip off any of the employees who might catch a glance of the note, passed it back to Abby, and thanked her.

She checked me out and I collected my bags and made for the valet, where I caught a hotel car down into town. Cruz Bay was bustling with activity when I arrived at the docks. People were milling around, trying to sell handmade trinkets, pashminas, tourist shirts and hats, jewelry, key chains, picture frames, and much more. I politely said no thank you to the vendors as I made my way down the dock to the ferry. A line had already formed of people showing their tickets to two men in reflective vests at the ramp to get on the ferry. As I approached, I held up my ticket and they waved me on board.

I made my way up to the highest deck and moved to the front of the boat. I liked to have a view as we sailed to the bigger island, St. Martin, where I would catch my flight back to New York. Others had the same idea, and soon, the top deck was full of people with binoculars and cameras. They all crowded the railings to capture pictures. Some took selfies while others asked strangers to take their photos for them.

I soaked in the view through my eyes instead of a camera lens.

When the ferry left, the horn blew loudly enough to startle some of the passengers. Amused, I smiled down at the water. The sun beat down on my shoulders and back, and before long, I was sticky with sweat and saltwater.

At St. Martin, I caught another car. This one took me to the airport. It was a small building located right smack on one of the public beaches on the island. No word of a lie. There were signs planted in the sand warning people that the plane jets could blast them clean off their feet if they were in their path. The planes came in freakishly low, sailing right over the heads of beachgoers going about their afternoon in the sun to land on the tarmac roughly five hundred feet from the shoreline.

The first time I’d seen it, I couldn’t make sense of it.

Who chose such a bizarre place to build an airport? Why not go a little farther inland?

I supposed it made landing easy, but still, people were stupid by default. If their eyes were glued to their phones, they hardly noticed a damn thing happening around them. I should know. As a writer, I spent a good bulk of my time people-watching. I watched for behaviors and mannerisms, things I could mimic in characters in my books to create genuine, three-dimensional people within my work. In all my years watching strangers, that is something I’d concluded—when looking at their phones, people were