“They ask us to sing our songs again.” – Oracle of Mermaids

Chapter 1

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Sam said automatically, her fingers tightening on the strap of the laptop case that rarely left her shoulder.

“And what is your business on Siren Island?” The customs agent spoke with a bouncy cadence, his words slow and richly rounded, the music of the islands flowing through his voice.

“I… I mean, pleasure,” Sam said, startled to realize it was true. A drop of sweat slipped between her shoulder blades. That morning, in a haze of what-the-hell-am-I-doing, she’d donned what she’d come to term her Air Barbie uniform. It had breezed her through most airports in the world, straight into whatever hotel finance meetings she was attending, and had earned her more than her fair share of upgrades . 

Impeccably tailored slacks? Check. Tasteful diamond stud earrings? Check. And a silk blouse in a muted color – not too bright, as she’d learned that the men in the board meetings she ran often took a power color as an invitation to flirt. 

Though why she’d added her diaphanous silk scarf and patent leather sling-backs to the outfit, Sam had no clue. 

Her plane wouldn’t be landing in a fiercely air-conditioned airport with valets to whisk her luggage away as she went from one perfectly manicured space to the next. Oh no. Not even close. 

Instead, here she was holding up a line of sweaty, boisterous passengers who all seemed to have overindulged on the plane ride down to whichever hotel’s all-inclusive vacation package they’d signed up for. The sun, an angry unrepentant dictator, broiled them all with her cruel rays. 

“Which is it, ma’am? Business or pleasure?” The customs agent regarded her carefully, and it annoyed Sam to see not even a sheen of sweat on the man’s face, though he wore neatly pressed khaki pants and a button-down shirt. Why were there no enclosed rooms in this hut of an airport? Samantha knew for a fact that the island had access to the internet; surely they’d learned of the invention of air conditioning by now.

“Pleasure. My apologies. I travel so much for work that I forgot this trip was for pleasure,” Sam said, sweeping her tastefully highlighted auburn hair over her shoulder and flashing the agent the smile that had opened more than one door for her in the past. 

“That’s a shame, ma’am. One should never forget to take time for pleasure.” The agent’s voice never changed, but something flashed in his eyes for just a moment – a warm male appreciation that, for once, didn’t feel predatory. Sam got the impression that he enjoyed all women. When she heard him begin flirting with the lady behind her, who sported a fanny pack and an unruly swath of grey hair, her assumption was confirmed. 

His words followed her as she tapped her foot impatiently by the single-loop baggage conveyor belt, and Sam’s annoyance reached peak levels as another passenger jostled her to peer over her shoulder.

“I really hope they didn’t lose our bags this time. I swear, Carl, every time we come here something gets lost.” 

Then why did they still come here? Sam wondered in frustration, deliberately spreading her elbows a bit to strike a power pose – the one she used in crowds to force people to step away from her a bit. 

For that matter, what was she even doing here? As Sam’s thoughts flashed back over the last forty-eight hours, sweat began to drip in earnest down her back, and she was certain she could actually feel the blood pumping through her heart. Gulping for air, she looked around wildly. What this airport needed was some fans. 

The sunlight seemed to get brighter and the eager laughter of the crowd around her sounded like the braying of mules. The faces and laughter and heat and sweat all pressed on her until Sam turned to run – only to find herself trapped by the crowd. Panic skittered its way up her throat and she gasped, trying to draw a breath against the warm press of bodies pushing toward the bags that now belched from a small flap-covered hole in the wall. 

A hand closed on hers and Sam’s gaze slammed into cool blue eyes – the color of the sea – and a calm wave of energy seemed to pour through her. She lost herself in the reassuring smile of a woman, a peaceful oasis of calm, who pulled her through the crowd. 

“Sit.” Samantha’s butt had barely touched the seat when the woman unceremoniously pushed Sam’s head between her legs. She gulped air, desperately trying to hold her panic attack at bay. The last thing she heard before it all went dark was the woman’s voice. 

“This one’s mine.”

Chapter 2

“Are you feeling better, Ms. Jameson?” The woman – an angel if she’d ever met one, Samantha had decided – clambered into the dusty driver’s seat of a raggedy pick-up truck. She beamed at Sam, who sat wilting in the front seat, holding a frozen bottle of water to the back of her neck. 

“I think so,” Sam said, willing to sell this woman her first-born if she would just turn the air conditioner on. 

“Welcome to Siren Island. I’m Irma Margarite, and I’ll be your fearless leader,” Irma said with a chuckle. 

Despite her embarrassment at being a wilted mess, Sam smiled back at her. “It would be nice to let someone else take the reins for once,” Sam admitted. 

Digging in her butter-soft leather satchel until she found her quilted Coach sunglasses case, Sam slipped the dark shades over her eyes. Feeling calmer behind the glasses, she studied the woman next to her, who chattered briefly to a man in the parking lot, in a language that sounded similar to Spanish. 

But still, no air conditioning. 

Irma threw back her head and laughed at something he said, her thick braid of salt-and-pepper hair bouncing with her movements, the turquoise bangles at her wrist clinking softly as she shifted the truck into gear. She wore a breezy island dress in the carefree way of women who cared little for what society thought about their bodies. The loose linen dress in the colors of sunset made her look incredibly alluring, and Samantha immediately decided she wanted to be her when she grew up. 

Except she was already grown up. Long past it, and on her way toward spinsterhood, as her family enjoyed reminding her. Sam wondered if anyone even used that word anymore – other than her family, of course. Cool air finally sputtered from the dusty vents in the truck’s dashboard.

“Why’s that?” Irma asked, and Samantha realized she’d repeated her question. Irma shot the truck out into traffic with barely a glance for oncoming vehicles. Sam desperately wanted to ask if the truck’s indicators worked, but tamped down the urge. Others often made fun of her for following the rules, but deviating from what was expected of her had only led to massive screw-ups in the past. For years now, she’d kept her nose to the grindstone and worked tirelessly to prove to everyone that a Jameson, and a Jameson woman at that, could indeed lead a wildly successful – hell, even enviable – career as the senior accountant and luxury portfolio manager for Paradiso Hotels. It was a career that thumbed its nose in the face of the chosen profession of the Jamesons – the law. 

“Why’s what?” Sam realized she’d been plucking at her trousers – a sure sign she was stressed – and she involuntarily closed her eyes as they approached a traffic circle at a higher rate of speed than she deemed necessary. 

“Why do you want someone else to lead you?” Irma asked, her tone light as she beeped the horn at someone.

“I’m tired.” Sam was surprised to hear herself say the words. “I’m just so tired of playing by the rules.” She bit her lip and closed her mouth before the entire story came tumbling out of her mouth to this random woman driving her to some god-knows-what bed and breakfast here on a speck of a Caribbean island.

“You’re in luck then,” Irma said. “We have very few rules at the Laughing Mermaid Guesthouse. You’ll have all the time you need to rest up.” 

Sam feared she’d need more time than the three-week stay she’d impulsively booked yesterday. Her unexpected absence was leaving her company in the lurch, she knew, but after what they’d done Sam was feeling very little loyalty to them anyway. It was unlikely three weeks would be enough to change her life, but maybe – just maybe – she’d get some peace and quiet for once. 

“Why did you have an opening for that long? At the last minute? In high season?” Sam blurted, then internally chastised herself. Just because she was the senior accountant overseeing the international accounts of Paradiso Hotels & Villas didn’t mean it was any of her business to pry into this woman’s business or operating numbers. But in her opinion, for any place to have that much time available for booking at the last minute must mean poor service or something else hellish awaited discovery on the other end. 

“We had a cancellation due to a guest’s personal emergency. I was a bit flustered, as it is high season, but before I had time to get frustrated your reservation pinged through. It was meant to be,” Irma said with a shrug, a smile hovering on her serene face. 

Sam suspected this woman didn’t do “flustered,” but kept her opinion to herself. She was good at that – in fact, it seemed she’d been doing it for much too long. Otherwise Paradiso would have known a thing or two about what Sam would tolerate in her workplace. 

Namely, that would not be the resident asshole, Christopher, and his shocking promotion to Chief Financial Officer – a position that had long been promised to her, so long as she kept her head down and worked extra hours. Paradiso Hotels had no idea they were about to lose their best accountant – the one who was intimately familiar with all the books for their million-plus dollar rentals. Sam hadn’t even quite admitted it to herself yet, so instead of losing her shit when Christopher was named CFO in the huge board meeting yesterday, she’d calmly left, booked the vacation her friend Lola had been pushing on her for ages, and turned off her cell phone. 

In that order.

At the time, it had felt amazing. Perhaps it was a bit sad that turning off her cell phone was the most rebellious act Sam had done in years, but there hadn’t been much time for her to examine that little nugget of information before the panic had begun clawing its way in. What had she done? Leaving the company for a vacation in the middle of acquiring several new luxury properties was… unheard of. Not just frowned upon, but actually unheard of. 

Samantha’s networking circle of friends had reminded her repeatedly over the years that she had scored a dream job, one that flew her to fabulous locations all over the world. In other words, they didn’t have much sympathy if she wanted to vent when things got stressful. They all said the same thing: Any girl would kill for her job. Except Lola, that is. Lola never said that. 

Instead of weathering the storm at her to-die-for job, Sam now found herself sticking to the seat of a woefully under-cooled truck while her company scrambled to handle her absence. 

The truck lurched its way to a stop in front of a simple white villa tucked between a row of palms on a hidden dirt road. There’d been no sign for the turnoff to the Laughing Mermaid Guesthouse, and Sam was certain that no guest would ever find their own way down the weaving potholed road to the inn. She’d certainly never find her way back – if she even decided to rent a car. Between packing and steadfastly ignoring the pinging of arriving emails from her open laptop, she’d forgotten about that little detail. Silently cursing Lola and her bohemian friend’s love of “off the beaten path” locations, Sam sighed as she peeled herself from the front seat, and stood flapping her blouse against her chest and eyeing the villa wearily. 

“Welcome home, Sam. I think you’ll find exactly what you’re looking for here,” Irma said, hefting Sam’s bag easily over her shoulder and swinging past her down a mosaic pathway in a cloud of sunset silk and tinkling jewelry. 

“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” Sam called after her.

“Even better.”

Chapter 3

It wasn’t often that Samantha felt intimidated. But there was something about the careless confidence with which Irma held herself – breezing through a shaded passageway, up a flight of cool white stairs, chattering all the while about the island – that left Sam feeling like she’d landed in an alternate universe. One where she wasn’t in control, and this exotic grand dame of a woman ran the mothership. 

Even though Sam had told Irma she would like someone else to lead for a while, it was a hopeless lie. Sam was as likely to give up her carefully controlled regimen as she was to start spouting poetry and dancing naked in the moonlight. 

Some things were as reliable as the rising of the sun each day, and the fact that Samantha Jameson would always follow the rules, work hard, and carefully mold her life into a perfect example of success that even her family couldn’t pick apart was one of them. 

Or had been, until now. 

“Welcome to the Laughing Mermaid, Samantha,” Irma said, her eyes creasing at the corners as she smiled at Sam. “This room is called the Dreaming Moon. We hope you’ll be happy here.” 

“The Dreaming Moon?” Samantha almost snorted at the silliness of the name. In her business she knew clients preferred to book rooms with ocean views and easy-to-understand names like Blue Bay or The Palms. The Dreaming Moon was a touch too whimsical, in her opinion. 

Irma studied her with those clear blue eyes, and Samantha tugged at her scarf, involuntarily pulling it over her more, as if the silk could hide her from the careful scrutiny she saw in Irma’s gaze.

“Yes. You’re never too old to dream under the light of a full moon,” Irma said, swinging open a thick wooden door to reveal a room that begged for relaxation. Samantha actually felt tension easing from her shoulders as she stepped into the airy room. 

Whitewashed stucco walls were set off by brilliantly-colored hooked rugs thrown over cool tile floors. A huge bed, with airy white netting hung from four posters, was tucked under a rounded alcove in the corner. Artwork dappled the walls, from easy black-and-white sketches of mermaids and celestial bodies to boldly-colored oil paintings in streaks of cobalt blue that showcased the ocean in all her moods. Sunlight danced across the floor, streaming in through the gauzy curtains framing the two French doors which Irma moved across the room to throw open. 

Samantha sighed audibly as she followed Irma, as if pulled by the call of the waves outside, to stand on the balcony overlooking the prettiest stretch of ocean she’d ever seen. It was funny, Samantha thought as her eyes drank in the sight of the empty beach, surrounded by a lush garden of palms, orchids, and aloe plants: She’d seen her fair share of majestic beaches in her line of work, but there was something about this beach – no, this space – that spoke directly to her soul. 

“It’s stunning,” Samantha breathed. 

“Some would even say magickal.” Irma winked at Samantha, her arms crossed over her sunset caftan. 

“It does feel that way,” Samantha said. “Perhaps because it’s so uncluttered? I’ve been to some of the top beaches in the world, but they’re always so busy with tourists. This… this is like its own secret slice of heaven.” Sam clamped her mouth shut. She must be more worn out than she’d thought, to be this giddy about a beach. 

“It’s a perfect spot to let go – to be free from life’s expectations for a bit,” Irma said. “I hope you’ll let yourself be free here.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘be free,’” Samantha said, finding the woman’s phrasing a bit odd, but still too distracted by the view to be annoyed. 

“Isn’t that what a holiday is all about?” Irma asked, those cool blue eyes assessing Sam once more. “To let yourself be free from the roles you play back home?”

“Some would say it isn’t role-playing so much as just living your life,” Sam countered. 

“Ah, well. In that case, I hope you can live your life differently for a little while down here,” Irma said, and patted Sam’s shoulder gently as she stepped from the balcony. “All the information you need is in the guidebook on the table. I’ll leave you to unpack. Please know that both of my daughters and I are always available to answer any of your questions. Rest well, Samantha.”

Samantha nodded her thanks and turned back to the ocean, tamping down her annoyance at Irma’s words. Who was this woman to imply that Samantha was just role-playing in her life? If a concierge had ever said something like that to a guest at one of their hotels, they would have been written up. Guests didn’t want to be reminded of any of their stresses or shortcomings, Sam fumed as she unzipped her suitcase, looking for something more suitable to wear in the humid weather. It was extremely presumptuous of this woman to assume Sam needed to be free from her life. A life that anyone would love to have, she reminded herself. 

As she pulled on a tasteful black one-piece suit and grabbed her beach essentials – an iPad, two books, sunscreen, a big floppy hat, and a notepad – Samantha found herself wondering why Irma’s words had felt like a criticism. Perhaps she was just a little on edge. Or maybe Samantha was looking for criticism? Her whole life she’d been criticized in one form or another – by her family, her ex-fiancé, and now even her work. The one place where she thought she had excelled. 

Samantha was reminded of a quote she’d read years ago that had stuck with her. Grabbing her tote, she wandered from her room to follow the stairs down to a softly shaded passageway where a ceramic mermaid pointed the way to the beach. For some reason, now more than ever, the quote zipped around her brain, niggling at her. 

Sometimes the only way to win the game is not to play. 

Was that what she was doing here? Stepping out of the game? If she removed herself from the constant criticism of her family and the pressures of her job, what would happen? Would Samantha Jameson as she knew her cease to exist?

Or perhaps it was time for the real Samantha Jameson to be born.

Chapter 4

Sam wasn’t used to deep self-analysis; frankly she rarely had time for anything other than work and a hurried catch-up dinner with Lola when she was in town. Brushing off her deep thoughts with a laugh – Irma clearly had gotten into her head – Samantha strolled into the garden and followed the little winding pathway that led through a small orchid garden to a beach shaded by tall palms.

Delighted to find the beach relatively empty, Samantha carefully chose a lounge chair with a bright turquoise cushion under a palm tree whose leaves fluttered softly in the breeze. Settling in, she pulled her books and notepad from her bag and set them with her water bottle on the table next to the chair. Dutifully applying her reef-safe sunscreen – an environmental side project she’d spearheaded at all their account hotels – Sam relaxed slowly back into the chair. Her eyes drank in the sight of the sun playing across the waves lapping lazily at the shoreline, and she began to relax incrementally. Even if she had hell to go back to when this vacation was over, in this moment Sam felt she’d made the best choice for her – regardless of what anyone else thought. 

The alternative would have been to have a meltdown at work, and that kind of emotional display was something Samantha refused to allow herself. She’d always found it taxing when women cried in the workplace; in her mind it only gave men something to use against them in the fight to break through the glass ceiling. Men could raise their voices, shout, and throw tantrums, but the minute a woman cried at work she was considered weak and “not upper-management material.” 

It was complete and utter bullshit, but Samantha had learned long ago to play the game by the rules. Her tears were shed in private, or with Lola, but never in the presence of co-workers. 

Sam eyed the two books she’d brought with her – one she’d had for a month now, and one she’d bought on impulse at the airport book stand. With a sigh, knowing she probably wasn’t actually ready to quit her job, Samantha picked up the book that outlined the details of the new accounting software the company would be unrolling in the coming year, leaving the brightly colored romance novel untouched. Grabbing her notepad and pen, she bent to the book, forcing herself to focus lest she be left in the dust at the next meeting. 

A movement from the beach pulled her eyes from the dreadfully boring chapter on converting spreadsheets and Sam paused to see what – or who – had interrupted her solitude.

As interruptions went, it was a doozy, Sam thought, glad that the sunglasses shaded her eyes and hoping her hat hid the fact that her mouth had dropped open. A man had pulled his kayak to shore down the beach, where Sam just now realized a house was all but hidden on a hill among swaying palm trees. Tanned skin rippled over lithe muscles as he hefted his kayak with an easy grace and put it on a small dock. Sam wondered if he worked for the owner of the villa. Tattered board shorts hung loosely from his hips and wraparound sunglasses shaded his eyes. Deep brown hair with just a kiss of sun at the tips had been left to grow a little long, and Samantha was astonished to find herself itching to run her hands through it. Now where had that thought come from? Sam was not one to fantasize; she hadn’t even allowed herself to date since the disastrous end of her engagement. Her eyes slid to the cover of the romance novel on the table next to her, where a pirate readily embraced a woman whose bosom – it was always a heaving bosom in those novels – threatened to break free from her tightly laced bodice. 

“Have you seen our dreamy neighbor?” A voice at her shoulder shocked Samantha out of her reverie; she’d been staring at the man like he was a piece of cake and she was on a diet. 

“Excuse me?” Samantha asked, pulling her shoulders back and leveling a look at the woman who’d plopped into a lounge chair beside her.

“Him. The man you’re looking at like you’re a cat who wants to lap up a bowl of cream?” the woman said. All rounded curves and tumbling curls, she evoked a confident sensuality that Samantha could never muster even on her best days.

“I was most certainly not looking at him like I wanted to eat him,” Samantha sputtered. 

“Ignore her. Jolie would lap up every man she came across if she chose,” Another woman slid into the chair on the other side, and Samantha turned to see another voluptuously beautiful woman smiling at her. Great, Samantha thought, refusing to look in the direction of the man who undoubtedly could see them. She was bookended by curvy knockouts and probably looked like a staid stick-in-the-mud tourist plastered in sunscreen and boring books. 

“And every man would be lucky to have me if I let him,” Jolie preened. She stretched languidly on the lounge, her screaming pink bikini leaving little to the imagination, her midnight curls tumbling everywhere. 

“It’s a blessing to mankind that you’re more discerning, then, isn’t it?” The woman on Sam’s right was just as luscious in a simple white bikini, her blonde hair woven into intricate braids that reached almost to her waist. 

“Don’t act like you’re so pure, Mirra. I saw you cuddling with that yacht captain from Antigua just last week,” Jolie said, twirling a curl around her finger. 

“I never said I was pure,” Mirra demurred. “I merely told our guest here to ignore you as you’re embarrassing her.” 

“I’m not –” Samantha protested, but Jolie had already sat up straight. 

“Am I embarrassing you? I’m so sorry. My mouth gets ahead of me sometimes. A strength and a fault of mine, I suppose.” 

“Definitely a fault,” Mirra said.

“It’s not like you’re perfect, Mirra.” Jolie flounced back in her chair. 

“I’m sorry… do you live here?” Samantha asked, flustered by their banter. 

“See? You could have at least introduced yourself before you embarrassed her,” Mirra said. 

Samantha held up a hand to protest before letting it drop. There was no use trying to talk over these two, it seemed. 

“Fine. I’m Jolie, evil sister to this pure-as-the-fallen-snow angel of a woman, Mirra, and we help our mother, Irma, run this guesthouse,” Jolie said, sneering slightly at Mirra. 

Sisters. That made sense of their casual bickering, Sam thought as she shifted her gaze to Mirra, who rolled blue eyes the mirror of Irma’s. 

“I’m Samantha Jameson. I, uh, just booked in last-minute and plan to be here for a few weeks. It’s nice to meet you both,” Sam said, nodding at each of them with a smile. 

“So, Samantha Jameson, what do you do in the real world?” Jolie asked, examining her manicure and relaxing back into her chair. With a resigned look at her books, Sam set them aside to talk, even though she was in no mood for company. 

“I’m the senior accountant to Paradiso Hotel & Villas luxury portfolio,” Samantha said. 

Jolie whistled. “Faaancy,” she said. “I’ve bet you’ve seen loads of beautiful places.” 

“And shopped in exotic boutiques,” Mirra added with a sigh. 

“And had your taste of even more exotic men,” Jolie squealed. “Tell us everything.” 

Samantha found herself wishing she lived the life these women thought she did – in fact, what most people assumed she did. She wondered what it would be like to be so fearlessly confident. Briefly she envisioned herself strolling the boutiques in Morocco, haggling with the merchants, and taking a carefree lover with no strings attached. A giggle escaped before she could stop herself. It was so unlike her tightly wound and highly scheduled existence that the mere idea of even strolling anywhere with no agenda was a shock, let alone taking a lover on a whim.

“Oh, the woman has secrets,” Jolie said, a wicked smile dancing on her face. 

“No, I really don’t,” Samantha sighed. “I hate to burst your bubble, ladies, but my life has been more work than play. While I’ve seen some beautiful places, it’s mainly been from the window of a conference room or from the backseat of a car on the way to or from the airport. I’ve had little time to explore.” 

“Well, that’s a crying shame,” Mirra said. 

“I suppose it is, isn’t it?” Samantha admitted. 

“Not even one mysterious lover?” Jolie demanded. 

“Hush now, Jolie. Not everyone wants to tell you their secrets, you know.” 

“I’m just asking,” Jolie pouted. 

“She’s not ready to share. Let her settle in. Look at what she’s reading, for god’s sake.” Mirra held up the accounting book and wrinkled her pert nose in distaste. 

“Oh… that just breaks my heart,” Jolie said, bringing a hand to her chest in dismay. “You’re reading about software programs on this gorgeous beach when you’ve got eye candy like that in front of you?”

Helpless not to look where Jolie gestured, Sam peeked once more at the man on the beach who was now hosing off his kayak, whistling a merry tune as he worked. 

“I’m trying to balance work and relaxation,” Samantha said primly. 

“I’d say you’re not doing a very good job of it. Isn’t vacation meant to be no work and all play?” Mirra asked sweetly. 

“I don’t know how not to work,” Samantha heard herself say, and her fingers tightened around the arms of the chair as she realized it was true. She’d never really learned how to play – to just have fun – because she’d always been driven to succeed. Work wasn’t meant to be joyful; it was a means to an end, as her family had instructed her over and over. Keep your nose to the grindstone, make partner in the law firm – or in her case, chief financial officer – and prove to everyone that you were the best and the brightest. The reward was the approval at cocktail parties as you one-upped everyone with your latest promotion, house purchase, or fancy vacation. It was a “keeping up with the Joneses” kind of lifestyle she’d been raised in, and Samantha hated every moment of it. 

Though she’d never admit that to her family. 

How could she? Both of her brothers were partners at the most prestigious law firm in town and her father still worked part-time, choosing only the most elite of the cases that crossed his desk. Her mother, in a move that had shocked and then delighted the family, had switched from handling divorce cases to maritime law, proclaiming that she was drawn to the sea. Her admittedly wild U-turn of practice choices had paid off, and now Elizabeth Jameson was one of the most sought-after maritime lawyers in the Great Lakes Region.

“Now that’s a damn tragedy that you haven’t learned how to have fun,” Jolie drawled, scowling at Samantha. “What’s life without a little fun?”

“I wouldn’t really know,” Samantha admitted. “I’ve been too busy to notice.” 

“Well, I say it’s time for you to notice. Starting with that delicious man over there,” Jolie purred. 

Mirra shook her head in exasperation. “Jolie, not everyone is a man-eater. Don’t push her toward Lucas,” Mirra said, and the name seared its way to Sam’s core. 

Lucas. 

What would it be like to be a Jolie? To stroll over to this Lucas and make him beg to be with her? The mere thought of it was so ludicrous that Samantha found herself laughing softly. 

“She’s not all boring. See?” Jolie held up the romance novel and Samantha immediately blushed at the couple writhing in ecstasy on the cover. “Our Samantha has a torrid side too.” 

“I most certainly do not. It was just an impulse buy at the airport,” Sam insisted, heat creeping up her cheeks. 

“The best kind of impulse buy,” Mirra said, grabbing the book from Jolie. “I do love a delicious romance story, don’t you? They’re so much fun to read, and even more fun if you can act them out.” 

Act them out? Sam’s mouth dropped open. She would never… her life didn’t… no, wasn’t… like a novel. Nothing interesting ever happened to Samantha, aside from her latest downfall at work. And there was certainly nothing romantic about losing the biggest promotion of her life. 

“I’ve never read one, to be honest,” Samantha said. “I have no idea what compelled me to buy that book.” 

“I’d say it’s high time for you to read it, then,” Jolie said, snatching Samantha’s accounting book away from her. “I’ll just hold onto this for a day or two while you settle into the book you should be reading.” 

“But… wait. You can’t just take my stuff,” Samantha called, but Jolie was already strolling away, completely unselfconscious in her scrap of a bikini. 

“I would apologize for my sister once again, but I kind of have to agree with her on this one. If you’ve never even taken the time to read a romance novel, isn’t this a great time to do it? Go on now… let yourself be free for a bit,” Mirra said, her words gentle as she stood up and stretched, as confident as her sister in her tiny bikini and generous curves. Samantha found herself envying these women and their careless body confidence, though neither of them were remotely close to being what society declared a bikini body size must be. And they looked amazing for it, Samantha thought, wondering if she too could pull off wearing a bikini. 

“What’s with everyone here telling me to be free? I don’t see anything wrong with having discipline,” Samantha asked, using her boardroom voice for good measure. 

“There’s discipline and there’s handcuff’s. Which one are you wearing?” Mirra asked, leaving before Samantha could even begin to reply. 

What was with the people at this guesthouse? Samantha needed to have a few words with Lola immediately. 

Sam pulled out her phone to send a strongly-worded text message to Lola, but was dismayed to see there was no internet service on the beach. 

No internet and no work, Samantha grumbled, her gaze drawing back to Lucas, who was now sweeping the dock. 

Now what was she supposed to do?

Tricia O’Malley is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon etc.