The Worst Best Man(5)

She laughed.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he teased.

“If you can find a bartender in here, yes, you can buy me a drink.”

The line moved and the woman behind him—in a sun visor with flowers on the brim and a Hawaiian shirt—prodded him forward.

“See you around,” he winked.

They caught up again when the lines froze at exactly the right place.

“We meet again. It must be fate.”

“Oh, you’re good. I bet that wouldn’t work as well without your accent,” Frankie told him.

“I like yours,” he confessed.

Boca Raton Grandma gave the Aussie another push. “Sorry, honey. But I got a frozen margarita waitin’ on me,” she said to Frankie as they passed.

Frankie’s immigration officer was an unsmiling girl in her early twenties with YouTube tutorial-level makeup. “Have a nice stay,” she said, shoving Frankie’s passport through the slot in the Plexiglass. Her tone implied she didn’t give a damn whether Frankie’s stay was nice or not. But dealing with three plane loads of grumpy tourists would do that to a person.

Frankie pushed on past baggage claim. With Pru bringing her bridesmaid dress, she’d been able to shove everything else she needed into her carry-on and saved the checked bag fee. A small victory in what had been a year of hemorrhaging money. The two bridal showers, the girls-only engagement party, engagement party, the pre-emptive bachelorette party, and now the destination wedding. She should have taken a third job. But a few more weeks with the caterer, and she’d have the credit card paid off and could stop spending money like it magically appeared replenished in her wallet every morning.

Customs was much faster. A quick scan of her bag, and she was pointed toward the exit. Her phone started ringing in the beach bag she’d dual-purposed as a purse.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Oh thank, God! I thought you were dead.” May Baranski was nothing if not dramatic.

“Not dead, Ma. Just in paradise.” The automatic doors parted and she walked into the heat. It was a covered area rife with tourists who looked lost and cab drivers who looked like buzzards circling carrion.

“Why didn’t you call me when you landed? You said you’d call me.” Her mother had infused normal protective instincts with steroids until she was convinced that all of her children were in constant mortal danger or worse—destined to remain single and childless while the rest of her friends became nanas and grammas.

“I literally just walked through customs, Ma. They don’t let you chit chat on your cell phones while you’re in there.”

Her mother scoffed. The idea that anyone could keep her from a safety report on one of her children was ridiculous to May.

“Tell me all about your flight,” May demanded. Frankie blamed herself. She liked her parents, liked talking to them, and somehow that had evolved into almost daily calls “just to check in” or “catch up.” Hell, half the time she was the one doing the dialing. Her mom was a fount of information on old neighborhood and family gossip.

“It was crowded and long,” Frankie said, squinting at the taxi sign. It listed island destinations and their rates, but she needed to check what parish the resort was in again.

“Your father and I went to the Florida Keys for our honeymoon forty-one years ago,” May announced. “Is it as nice as the Keys?”

Frankie had never been to the Florida Keys, nor had she seen anything of Barbados beyond the tarmac and the cab line. “I’m sure the Keys are beautiful,” she told her mother. “Look, Ma. I gotta go. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just have to grab a cab.”

“Why didn’t Pru send a car for you?” her mother squawked. “You’re just going to get in a car with a stranger?”

“A driver Pru sent would still be a stranger.” Frankie made the point in vain.

“I forbid you to get mugged or molested!”

Frankie bumped into someone and turned to apologize.

“There you are. I was worried that we were star-crossed lovers, destined never to meet again.” The Australian was adjusting the backpack she’d nearly knocked off his shoulder.

“I gotta go, Ma.”

“What now?”

“There’s a cute guy looking at me.”

The Aussie grinned.

“Hang up and flirt with him! Come back engaged!” Her mother disconnected the call to start planning the overdue wedding of her only daughter.

“Sorry,” Frankie said with a soft smile. “I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.”

“You can bump into me anytime you want.” He wasn’t devastatingly handsome. Not like Satan-in-a-Suit Kilbourn. But he was cute and charming and very, very tan. His hair was a bleached-out blond that was in need of a cut. His clothes were wrinkled and comfortable.

“Tell me you’re an Australian surfer,” Frankie sighed. It had been a while since she’d had a second-party-induced orgasm. She’d been lazy in the dating field, and working two jobs hadn’t left her much time for naked fun. Maybe a tropical fling with a sexy surfer would cure her sex blahs?

“As a matter of fact, I am. Tell me you’re into Australian surfers and that we can share a cab so I can charm my way into a date.”