Relapse In Paradise. Roxanne Smith
It might’ve been tan or even a light blue at one time. His heavy-duty black hiking sandals with tread like a tractor tire appeared to be the only thing on his person of any value.
His smooth face surprised her. Where did a homeless guy get a good shave?
And why would Quinn hire someone like this to drive her to the Hilton? The last bit of the unsettling image came from the tattoos on the man’s arms and legs. Several more on his torso were noticeable through the worn fabric of his shirt.
Emily suppressed a shudder and smoothed her hair into place. Merely examining his made her want to run a comb through hers. Luckily, he hadn’t seen her yet and wouldn’t recognize her. She made to walk past him.
He pinned her with pale blue eyes the size of half dollars. “There you are.”
Her body froze mid-stride. “Excuse me?” The flat question came out sounding like an accusation. She inwardly cringed.
The man didn’t seem fazed by her tone or dumbstruck manner. He was probably used to people reacting strangely to him. He stuck out his hand. “Emily, right? I’m Boston. Your ride.”
She took his offer of a handshake like she would any CEO’s and silently thanked God for the automatic responses her career had ingrained in her. “Boston.” This time she was careful to keep her tone neutral. “That’s an interesting name. How did you know what I looked like?”
“Quinn sent a photo.” He gave her a sort of cockeyed half-smile. Not the genuine article by a long shot, but not quite a smirk, either. A pair of aviator sunglasses kept hair from falling onto his face. He slid them back on his nose, and his cornflower blue eyes vanished behind the reflective lenses.
Cornflower? Really? It was some nonsense Quinn might use in one of her books. Didn’t make a lick of sense. Corn didn’t grow flowers and if it did, they certainly weren’t blue. “Very thoughtful of my sister,” Emily mumbled.
At least she wasn’t the only one sending out prickly vibes. She blamed Boston’s unfriendly bearing, which she gauged by his forced smile, on her choice of attire. It gave away everything about her.
She was one of them.
Suits. Working stiffs. Nine-to-fivers.
Otherwise known as someone who worked for a living.
She didn’t much care for him, either, which made his dislike easy to stomach. Indeed, the feeling was mutual. Emily only had to survive the ride to the Hilton, and they could dust off their hands and part ways.
Boston offered to carry her bag, and she let him. He could do something to earn his tip besides harbor barely contained displeasure with his fare.
Wordlessly, Emily followed as he guided her though two levels of the parking garage, and her thoughts turned to Quinn. How best to tell Quinn and Jack they sucked at making travel arrangements? They obviously hadn’t done their research on cab companies, or they wouldn’t have sent a homeless man to pick her up from the airport.
Eventually, Boston pointed them toward a late model white van with a simple logo pasted on the passenger door.
Wonderful. A ride in a nondescript white van with a total stranger.
Emily hadn’t realized she’d come to a halt until Boston paused one stride away from the vehicle. He made a lazy about-face with an amused grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter? Does my van creep you out?”
Heat flew up from her chest like a rash and spread over her face. Boston had to notice the furious blush on her pale skin, which made it worse. Didn’t he know anything about tact? “No, no. Of course not. I was, uh, admiring your company motif.”
He gave a doubtful glance at the circle drawn with The Island Experience printed in bold maroon script inside. “Whatever you say. You can sit up front if you prefer.”
She hitched her chin up a notch and started for the van. “I believe I would, yes. Thank you.”
The polite response irked her. She used manners to diffuse social awkwardness, an old defense mechanism. The more dismissive Boston became, the stiffer she’d get. It had worked so well during her marriage she and Blake were on the same sickly sweet polite terms as two soccer moms at a bake sale by the time the lawyers were called in.
She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tight muscles. Why’d she care what this bum thought of her, anyway?
“Mahalo.” He tossed her bag in the backseat of the van.
She paused in opening the passenger door. “What?”
“It means ‘thank you,’ among other things.”
Boston smoothly navigated the twists and turns of the airport with the practiced ease of a veteran driver. At least he knew his way around, and they wouldn’t waste a lot of time getting lost or turned around. Before long, they were sailing down a highway rife with morning commuters in strained silence.
Well, at least on her end. Boston didn’t strike her as the type to possess the honed social sense or level of self-awareness necessary to notice something so subtle as an uncomfortable silence.
However, her job had taught her to combat bubbles of discomfort like this one. She walked into businesses and tossed out ideas managers didn’t always want to hear with one hand while smoothing their ruffled feathers with the other.
She really ought to be able to handle one lowly beach bum. She keyed in on the only interesting thing about him she’d learned so far. “Are you from Boston, then?”
He kept his gaze on the road. “Would you believe me if I said I was?”
He didn’t appear to have come from particularly creative stock and had no discernible regional accent. He could be from anywhere.
“Sure.”
He chanced the quickest of glances and flashed his first genuine smile. It stunned her to discover it changed his whole face. He almost didn’t look homeless anymore. “Well, don’t. I’d be lying. Boston Rondibett from Mesa, Arizona at your service. And I’m never going back to that dry, windy hellhole unless God himself is tugging me by the ankles. Or my mom says please.”
“I’m from southern California. Similar climate.”
She’d meant to present common ground, but he surprised her. “I know.”
Her head snapped in his direction. “How do you know where I’m from?”
He shrugged one shoulder as if the question didn’t strike him as relevant. “Quinn told me. How else would I know? I was her and Jack’s personal guide when they honeymooned on the island. She asked me to show you around while you’re on vacation. Besides, you flew in from LAX on a non-connecting flight. See?” He slipped into an intentionally idiotic accent. “Even a scruffy dude like me can did math.”
Normally, Emily would’ve bounced back with a scathing comment, but her jaw hung loose. “You’re my vacation guide?”
“Did I stutter? Although, now you mention it, ‘vacation guide’ makes more sense in terms of a title, but it’s kind of a mouthful.”
“So, you’re not dropping me off at the Hilton and going on your merry way? I’m spending my entire vacation with you?” Emily winced. She might’ve tried harder to disguise her derision. Still, the guy needed a haircut and a bath. She hadn’t forgotten those atrocious shorts, either. She’d suggest the underside of a sewing machine if they wouldn’t be better off in the garbage bin.
Boston didn’t say a word. Apparently, he was the kind of man who spoke through action, and his next stunt involved slowing down the van.
She sputtered. They were in the center of a multilane highway with vehicles whizzing past on either side. Emily quit trying to communicate and started praying. If she was going to die, it couldn’t hurt to go out with the Lord’s Prayer on her lips.