“Sorry,” I said. “I have some things to take care of before work.” My words were rushed and I tripped over a tree root as I hurried off the beach but I had to get out of there before I crossed a line. Though I knew a line had already been crossed. I had sought him out, worn my sexiest outfit, and said the words that I knew he needed to hear. I would like to say this was unwitting, but working in the service industry has given me keen people skills. I could tell that Russell from Iowa City was a people-pleaser and that his wife, Irene, made him feel like a disappointment and that hearing me say he was the opposite would all but make him fall in love.

He was married. Irene was waiting for him back home in Iowa. There were women on St. John—Tessie among them—who thought nothing of sleeping with men who were here on vacation. Tessie routinely had one-night stands with gentlemen who were staying at Caneel by themselves; that was one of the reasons I disliked her.

I was not going to sleep with Russell from Iowa City.

And yet, when I got to work at five o’clock and noticed the yacht was gone, I felt something like sorrow. My hero had left, and I couldn’t remember his last name. I would never see him again.

So imagine my surprise when, at seven o’clock, as the hibiscus-pink ball of the sun was sinking into the water and Lucinda Caruso was shooting me a smug glance from the table where her Harvard-educated ass was sitting with her Big Deal parents—a look that I could only assume meant that she had slept with Oscar after all, poor girl—Russ walked across the beach and into the restaurant. I blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the blinding light of the sun just before it set, but then he waved at me and I hurried over. “I thought you left,” I said. “The yacht—”

“Todd and Stephen headed over to Virgin Gorda,” Russ said. “They have business. I told them I wanted to stay here and mull over their offer. They’re coming back Monday to pick me up.”

“Stay here on St. John?” I said. I was so happy that he wasn’t gone forever that I wasn’t quite following.

“At Caneel,” Russ said. He pulled a key out of his pocket. “Honeymoon 718.”

“How did you manage that?” I asked. “I thought we were full.”

“I put the general manager in a headlock,” he said.

We laughed. I said, “I’d put you in my section but you’ll probably be more comfortable at the bar.”

He said, “Bar is fine but I’ll miss you bringing me my conch fritters.”

I said, “If you think I’m going to let someone else bring you your conch fritters, you’re crazy.”