Page 13 of The Romance Adventure

Our gazes never met in a swirling frenzy of desire. My pulse didn’t jog when our hands touched. And I’ve already forgotten what his deep, manly voice sounds like.

There. All is right in the world.

Except it’s not, because those are big fat lies.

Back on the road, I putt along and give the Chevrolet a pep talk as I hit the Miami metropolitan area traffic at rush hour.

The truck whines and complains. “You did well yesterday, girl. All you have to do is get me off the mainland and we’ll be good.” I stroke the dashboard like I would soothe a horse or other large working animal.

Soon, the morning commuters take their exits, opening the path for my chariot that sputters like this is her last ride. We cruise onto Dixie Highway at little more than a trot. If the Chevy had a mane, it would be breezing in the wind. Surrounded by the rich green of the Everglades and the deep blue mid-morning sky, it’s like I’m in a painting and not running for my life.

My phone survived its fall onto the truck’s floor yesterday, but I don’t need GPS to get where I’m going. I imprinted the way to Coco Key into my mind because it’s a haven, my secret place where I decided to drop the half dozen jobs I’d burned through and give my all to my dream.

Painting has always been my passion, but not on such a large scale. During my last visit, I figured why not go big... mural-sized, if I wanted to continue to live in a home or anything that resembled a shelter with a roof. Being a starving artist is seriously overrated, so I’ve given it my all to make this career move work.

Could anything make visiting my sister on a tropical island better?

Actually, yes. I wish I could say my ex-boyfriend is an ex-con, but more like an ongoing con man. I’d rather not be hiding out, but I can’t think of a better location than this forgotten Florida Key.

I’ll just let this paint-splattered mess blow over and then head back to Charleston and pick up my paintbrushes where I left off. By then, I’ll need a haircut and will have plenty of smoothies to cash in.

I pass the Greater Keys, breeze along the Overseas Highway, and roll the windows down, breathing in the fresh salt air. The mangroves cling to the coastline and kiss the white sand.

I’m not complaining about coming down here because my sis and I are besties, and bonus, she newly owns a bookstore-café when she’s not working at a law firm. I’m all about the beach reads, baby!

Our aunt owned what amounted to a shack on the island, which was more of a liability than worth the back taxes had we sold it. Robyn got a job for a lawyer and we agreed that she’d try to make something of the old building that had seen a lot of storms, sun, and salt. More than scratching the pennies out of the property, I want to see her happy and fulfilled.

Time seems to slow down as I approach Coco Key—little more than a bump of sand, land, and vegetation in the middle of the Florida Straits.

A wooden sign says Coco Key, bordered by hibiscus, firebush, and an enthusiastically spiky cabbage palm.

Everything looks much the same since my visit last summer, with the flags blowing in the wind outside the Treasure Chest. It sells souvenirs and more, everything from plungers to paperweights to oil pans. When several of the other shops on the island had to shutter, they consolidated items, because you never know when you’ll need a plastic owl to scare away the seagulls.

There’s also the Sip & Scoop, a beverage and ice cream shop, but it looks closed for the season, or for good, I’m not sure. I give a neighborly nod to the Plundering Pelican, a restaurant, and, of course, the post office, church, and a few other buildings and businesses.

In the distance, the once lively and thriving Driftwood Resort sits vacant and probably inhabited by lizards and haunted by pirate ghosts.

I pull into the sandy backlot behind the beach shack and put the truck in park. She jitters a sigh as I cut the engine.

“Thanks, girl,” I whisper, relieved to have arrived.

I’m afraid to tell Bean why I’m here, but before I can come up with a way to explain, she rushes out of the bookstore. We have a hug-filled, squealy, happy reunion.

“I officially welcome you to Beans & Books, where you will find all things coffee, chocolate, and books, obviously.”

“And my amazing, hardworking sister, aka you.”

“Oh, stop.” She blushes.

“In other words, the best things in life.”

“You’re going to make me cry.”

We both laugh because the Pratt sisters don’t cry. It’s a rule. Aunt Olga said if we got tears in the borsch, it would ruin it. We’re also not good at taking compliments, which isn’t a rule so much as a byproduct of never receiving many, except from each other.

Our Aunt Olga was actually our great aunt and had the old-school stiff upper lip demeanor that taught us what bootstraps were and that tears only resulted from mosquitoes flying directly into our eyes—thankfully, a rarity.

Bean and I head inside. The last time I was here, I painted the name of the shop on the big front window. Her cat, Nutmeg, lounges on the wide sill with her tail flicking as if to say, You again.