Chapter 1Steph
The pontoon-style ferry boat contained a stowaway. A black crab, its shell four inches across, skittered sideways across the deck for several steps before freezing. I smiled at it from the uncovered, rearmost bench of a modest ferry. Heavily decorated in flamingo décor, the slightly tacky boat motored over the placid blue water. The crab was less than a foot from me, and I was curious about what it would do. It took a few tentative steps closer to my sandal, then halted again.
“What are you doing here, little guy?” The ferryman trotted over and picked up the crab by one leg, deftly avoiding its pincers as he flung it into the warm waters of the Florida Strait. He turned a smile to me, his shaggy hair somewhat tamed by a visor. “He didn’t pinch you, did he?”
I laughed. “No. I was wondering how close he’d get to me.”
The ferryman, who appeared to be in his thirties, relaxed. He wore a white T-shirt, with a second, open shirt covered with dancing flamingos over it. “Good. Some people scream bloody murder if one gets close.” He held a hand out to me and we shook. “I’m Noah.”
“Steph McIntyre.”
He swept an arm out, indicating the boat and its covered interior area, which was as spotless as the bench I sat on. “Welcome to Noah’s Ark. We’ve got champagne over there if you’re interested,” he said, pointing to a large gray cooler under the canopy.
Laughing, I shook my head. “Well, it is past noon. But I think I’ll wait until I’m back on dry land before drinking. I haven’t been on a boat in a while.”
“First time to Flamingo Island?”
My stomach flopped over, and I worked to keep the smile on my face. “No, I grew up here. I moved away years ago but decided to come back for a vacation.”
“Welcome home, then. Hope you have a great visit.” Noah moved back to the helm to guide the ferry for the remainder of its thirty-minute voyage from Miami.
I sighed, watching the water speed by the side of the boat. The afternoon was warm and sunny, with billowing clouds racing across the sky. Yet my mood dimmed.
Home… but how can it feel like home?
I’d loved growing up on Flamingo Island. Who wouldn’t? A beautiful island off the coast of Florida solely dedicated to making dreams come true. Well, as long as the dreams belonged to guests there—adult guests. The island had a bit of a wild reputation.
As a child, I hadn’t had much to do with the resorts on the island, instead spending most of my time in Portsmouth, the part of the island reserved for locals. I had many happy memories of my childhood and had always planned to work on the island when I grew up. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Eight years ago, at the age of twenty-two, I’d left Flamingo Island for good.
Was the old saying true? That you can never go home again?
Guess I’m about to find out…
I closed my eyes as the cooling breeze wafted over my face. I lived in Tampa, so I was no stranger to the warm sun and balmy weather. But there was something different about Flamingo Island. The air was more bracing, the sunshine more vivid. And I had ten luxurious days to enjoy it all.
I swung my legs onto the padded bench and sat sideways, watching the island become larger as we neared. Soon, the Pink Flamingo Hotel rose above the tree line. The white, ten-story hotel was a fixture on the island. There were other resorts, but the Pink Flamingo was the largest, as well as the anchor of the resort portion of the island. Its pure white façade was nearly blinding as the ferry passed into a shallow canal toward its dock. Pink Flamingo Hotel was emblazoned near the roofline in hot pink neon, its namesake bird alongside. I couldn’t help but grin at my destination. Part of what made the hotel ageless was that it fully embraced its theme, retro and funky. Yet it still remained classy.
Many of the people coming to Flamingo Island were there to party and hook up. But not me. I had two priorities for my getaway—scuba diving and yoga. Diving would be the challenge and yoga the reward. I glanced at the aquamarine water in the canal, trying to ignore the squirming in my abdomen.
My last dive had been a disaster and part of why I had left Flamingo Island to begin with. My friend Jana couldn’t believe I wanted to vacation alone. But solitude sounded like paradise after the workweek I had just completed. A nearly sixty-hour grind had finished my active projects as a team leader at Allied Insurance. I was free to enjoy my vacation with a clear conscience and nothing left unfinished.
After Noah tied the ferry up to the slip, I said goodbye and stepped onto the broad wooden dock. To my left was Portsmouth, but there was nothing for me there now. Instead, I turned right. The wooden boardwalk continued next to an asphalt road, then ended at a narrow, paved lane that led toward the Pink Flamingo. I turned and strolled down the lane.
The ferry dock was part of the busy tourist area Pink Bay Marina. The vibe was adult and boisterous—full of shops, restaurants, and bars. The place really came alive at night, especially when the nightclubs got going. Manicured foliage and palm trees stood between the marina and the lane I walked down, screening the busy area from view. A few golf carts whizzed by, the main mode of transportation on the small island.
Pulling my suitcase behind, I walked through automatic glass doors and into the lobby of the Pink Flamingo. Fresh and modern, white couches with pink throw pillows were placed around the lobby. A giant wooden pink flamingo etching was the focal point behind the check-in desk. I quickly checked in and received my room key, then crossed to the elevators.
Minutes later, I opened the door to my room on the ninth floor. Posh and updated, the large open room had a gray carpeted floor and a narrow, white dobby-striped comforter on the king-sized bed. Pink accent pillows piled on top. A plush flamingo for sale was placed prominently on the bed. I ducked into the bathroom to find modern double sinks and a huge walk-in shower, all tiled in modern white. Not so standard was the giant glass flamingo, one leg cocked under it, hanging on the wall. I flipped a nearby switch, illuminating it in all its blushing glory.
I laughed, already loving the place. I lived here for twenty-two years, and this is my first time in an actual room of the place.
I crossed the main room and swept open the sheer drapes to reveal a stunning ocean view. My breath caught as I unlocked the slider and opened the door. Stepping onto the balcony, I rested my hands against the metal railing, warm and smooth under my fingers. The sparkling ocean vista before me captured my attention. My room faced south, and the afternoon sun was to my right and heading toward the horizon.
The hotel pool lay directly below with pulsing sounds of reggae music coming from the attached bar. Palm trees lined the area between the pool and the beach, and nearby was a wooden building with a thatch roof. Sunlight glinted off some sort of water feature in the front.
“Time to explore a little,” I murmured, going back inside.
Downstairs, I passed the main restaurant and exited onto the pool deck. As I neared the beach, the thatch-roofed building came into focus, a red-and-white dive flag flying from the roof. The brick path led to two glass doors, a sign reading Flamingo Fish over them.
Another canal, smaller than the one I entered on the ferry, ran behind the dive shop, and vegetation screened it from view. An expansive free-form display pool lined with large rocks lay in front of the building and was open to the canal. A metal grate prevented any fish or other animals from entering or exiting the pool. I opened the glass door and entered an open room filled with scuba equipment. My nose wrinkled at the sharp scent of neoprene permeating the air.
A Hispanic man about my age with neatly cut black hair stood behind the counter. He smiled at me. “Afternoon.”
I approached the counter. “Hi. I was hoping you had space on your morning dive trip tomorrow.” Despite diving being one of my main goals for the trip, I’d been too nervous to muster the courage to make reservations in advance. Instead, I let fate make the decision for me.
“Absolutely.” The man’s English was lightly accented.
Okay, fate chose. I’m diving again.
The question was, did that excite or terrify me?
His smile turned flirty. “I’m Diego, a divemaster here. How many divers are in your party?”
He was a good-looking man, but I wasn’t interested in a vacation fling. My last relationship had ended over a year ago, but I wasn’t a casual hook-up kind of girl. “I’m Steph. And it’s just me diving.”
Unease rolled through my stomach again, and I forcibly pushed the negative feelings down. Both at the memory of the experience and of the man I’d dived with that day, who had turned that dive into a nightmare.
He was permanently in the past, right where he belonged.
“I took a refresher in a pool last week in Tampa, but I’m pretty nervous about this,” I continued. “I haven’t dived in years and my last experience wasn’t great. Is there any chance I could get a private guide?”
Diego’s flirtatiousness disappeared, and his brown eyes filled with concern. “I’m sure we can work something out. We’ll get you diving again. Let me check our schedule.” He woke his computer and peered at the terminal before brightening. “You’re in luck! Our instructor is free tomorrow morning, and I can schedule him to dive with you. He’s great—really reassuring. How does that sound?”
Tension I didn’t realize I’d been holding drained from my shoulders. “Perfect! I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’d just like a little extra instruction to start.”
“He had a cancellation—usually he’s booked solid, so it sounds like you’ve got great timing. You need to rent equipment?”
“Yes, all of it.”
Diego passed over a clipboard with several printed pages attached. “If you want to fill out the sign-up form and waiver, I’ll get you scheduled. The boat leaves from Pink Bay Marina, behind the hotel. If you show up there at eight forty-five, we’ll get you fitted with gear.”
As I pushed through the doors into the bright sunshine again, I walked with more confidence, proud of myself for taking on something that frightened me. Diving had been one of my favorite activities once, and it was high time to get over the fears and heartbreaks of the past.
I continued exploring the resort. A cement walkway lined with shops enticed me from across the pool and I headed that way. The ocean was an amazing mixture of blue and aquamarine shades, and I smiled, looking forward to the next morning. A private dive with an instructor was more than I had hoped for. I’d expected to be paired with a divemaster, but instructors had much more training.
I strolled past a clothing boutique and a craft store exhibiting pottery and local wares. On the opposite side of the lane was a glass-fronted building with a long line of fuchsias hanging from a covered walkway. I crossed over, attracted by the riot of pink color, then the name stenciled on the window, Fuchsia Flow, sparked my interest further.
I entered a cool lobby with a soothing trickling fountain. A Zen rock and sand garden gave the room a calming vibe, and more fuchsias hung in the corners. Soft, ambient music emanated from hidden speakers. A middle-aged woman, her dark, curly hair pulled back into a thick ponytail, was placing rolled-up yoga mats into a large barrel, but no one else was present. Seeing me, she looked up with a smile. “Hello there! My next yoga session doesn’t start for forty-five minutes, so you’re a little early if that’s why you’re here.”
I found it impossible not to return her smile. “No, I just arrived on the island. But I’d love to sign up for a class tomorrow.”
The woman stepped behind a counter made of rose-colored glass. “Are you interested in a beginner or experienced class?”
I was highly experienced, but not about to show off. “An all-levels Vinyasa class would be great.”
The woman’s brown eyes crinkled as her smile deepened. She had a soothing, approachable way about her that immediately put me at ease. “That’s our bread and butter! I’m Monica Crandall. I manage the studio and teach the classes. Would morning or afternoon be better?”
I introduced myself. “Probably afternoon, but I’m not sure when exactly. This class will be my relaxation after diving in the morning. I’m nervous about it and need to plan some winding-down time.”
Monica’s smile turned encouraging. “Our dive team is fantastic. They’ll take good care of you—don’t worry.”
I tried to return her smile, but it felt forced. “That’s what I’m counting on.” I met Monica’s warm, interested eyes and found myself opening up. Sometimes it was easier to talk to a stranger. “I haven’t been scuba diving in eight years. The last time was when my boyfriend at the time took me on a dive that was way more than I could handle. It put me off the sport. And him.”
The yoga instructor reached across the counter and patted my hand. “Let the staff know you’re a little worried. They’ll make sure you love your dives.”
“I’ve already done that,” I said with a more natural smile. “I’m hiring the instructor to dive with me.”
The yoga instructor beamed. “Well, there you go! He taught me to dive—you’ll love him.”
“So I’ve heard. I guess I could sign up for a late-afternoon yoga class. I’m not sure when we’ll be back.”
Monica waved a hand at me casually, still smiling. “I have classes all day, and you can drop in if that’s more convenient—classes are rarely full. The schedule is posted on the front window and on the TV in your room. Just come by when you’re ready. You can charge it to your room afterward.”
“That’s a great idea. Thanks.”
As I left the studio, the beach enticed me, and I ran up to my room. After changing into a sporty bikini, I stepped onto the soft white sand and placed my towel on a lounger. As I stared at the turquoise ocean and stretched out on my back, thoughts of that last dive entered my head.
Until that day, I used to love diving. With Quinn out of the picture, maybe I can love it again. I might be back on Flamingo Island again, but he’s nowhere near here.
A server came by, asking if I wanted anything to drink. Just because I’d never stayed at the Pink Flamingo before didn’t mean I wasn’t familiar with it—everyone who lived on the island was. I grinned at the young woman. “Absolutely. I’m officially on vacation, so bring me a Pink Passion. In the flamingo cup, of course.”
As I sipped the sweet concoction from its pink paper straw, I finally relaxed. The frozen drink was delicious—coconut, mango, and lots of alcohol. I held up the large pink glass in a toast to the ocean, gripping it by the flamingo’s long legs.
To a badly needed vacation. And to putting old demons in the past where they belong.
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