Island Affair (Keys to Love #1) - Priscilla Oliveras Page 0,79
family thought it’s where she and Luis had met. Who’s to say they couldn’t meet up in Miami for real?
She’d love to. Would he? Or was he fine using this interlude to fill his time off and he’d wave good-bye at the end without wanting more?
The what-ifs tumbled in her head as they rode past the Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum, one of their stops on the Conch Tour Train yesterday. The two-story cream house with avocado-colored shutters and a walk-around porch on the second level already had a line of people waiting to enter. A high privacy wall kept the house and property mostly hidden from view, but passersby caught a glimpse of the famous writer’s Key West residence through the open gates and ticket booth.
“Since you like the outdoors, I bet you’d love skiing in Vermont or New Hampshire.” She veered closer to Luis as a pair of mopeds zoomed by. “The snow-covered mountains and ski slopes are a different view than the open ocean, but equally majestic.”
“Actually, one of my sister’s personal-training clients lives in Vermont and snowbirds here in the winter.”
“Great skiing there. Does your sister work with her clients year-round or only when they’re local?”
He nodded. “Anamaría trains several online and is trying to grow her business. She’s actually planning to meet a group of them for a triathlon up north this fall. Threatened to drag me along just to get me off the island.”
Eyeing the way his big frame dwarfed the bicycle, Sara couldn’t imagine anyone dragging Luis anywhere. Though she could think of a few places she’d like to try.
Luis slowed as they neared the busy curve at the end of Whitehead Street where the red, yellow, white, and black painted monument marking the famous Southernmost Point of the United States sat. Tourists lined up for pictures. Some stood on the seawall staring across the ocean, straining their eyes to catch a glimpse of Cuba a mere ninety miles away. Others sampled fresh coconut water from a vendor or perused artwork and memorabilia for sale at another pop-up booth.
“Wanna take a picture?” Luis propped his sunglasses on top of his head and squinted at Sara.
“That’s okay.” With the swarm of people, the wait would be long, and she’d had a photo taken with her family yesterday. A rare group picture she would treasure.
“How about lunch?” he asked.
“I’m good, unless you need to stop.”
“You’re not hungry?”
She shook her head.
“There wasn’t much time for breakfast before mass, did you grab a snack back at the house?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him, her mood sinking with his line of questioning.
Luis started to say something else, but instead he clamped his mouth shut and slid his Ray-Bans in place to shield his eyes again. The lazy smile that had spread his lips throughout their bike ride wilted like the poinciana flower petals scattered along the road’s hot surface.
“The Southernmost Beach Resort is up ahead.” Luis maneuvered his bike through the crowd, tossing the words over his shoulder as she followed. “It’s a public beach, so we can stop there and cool off. Maybe grab a bite at the resort café.”
Disappointment tightened Sara’s chest. Given one guess, she knew what lay at his desire to stop at a beach with a convenient café.
Once clear of the crowd, they pedaled off, heading toward the majestic Southernmost House at the end of the block. As she’d done yesterday, Sara marveled at the Victorian bed-and-breakfast with its round turret, intricate two-story balconies, and peach and pastel colors offset by the brick red roofing. Elegant gables added a dollhouse appeal and lush tropical grounds beckoned travelers seeking a respite in paradise. It was also, as Sara had emailed her agent about last night, the perfect spot for a photo shoot featuring the new line of tropical chic clothes she hoped to design with the investors from Miami. If—no, when—her agent finagled the final terms of the contract.
She and Luis pulled to a stop as Duval Street dead-ended with the Southernmost House on the right and a public beach with an open-air restaurant on the left. His expression grim, Luis walked his black beach cruiser to the bike stand, then waited for Sara to park hers alongside it. Working in silence, he looped the u-shaped steel lock through their bikes, securing them together.
Sara eased away from him and the issue she knew he wanted to push—what she had or hadn’t eaten today.
Rather than argue, she strolled to the sidewalk’s edge, where she kicked off