The Worst Best Man(6)

Frankie laughed. Easy, charming, funny. Perfect.

She lowered her lashes. “I’ve never had an Australian surfer before, so I can’t vouch for my preferences in the area.”

His blue eyes, the same color as the sea they’d flown over, widened in appreciation. “Where are you staying?”

“Rockley Sands Resort.”

“Bugger me.” His face fell. “That’s north of Bridgetown. I’m on the other side of the island.”

“Franchesca.”

A good stiff breeze could have knocked Frankie over. It had to be a mirage. She was certain of it. That was not Aiden Kilbourn leaning against a Jeep in shorts and a sexy short-sleeved button down. Boat shoes and Ray-bans. His beard looked a little scruffier than the last time she’d seen him.

“What the f—”

“I take it you’re Franchesca?” the Aussie asked.

“Yeah, but… we’re not together.”

Aiden straightened from the fender and crossed to her. “Let’s go.” He reached for her bag.

Instinctively, Frankie snatched it out of his reach. “I’m taking a cab,” she insisted.

“No, you’re not.”

“Aiden, I told Pru I’d take a cab.”

“And I told her I’d pick you up.”

“Franchesca, it was lovely meeting you, but I’ve got to go,” the Aussie said, backing away.

“Oh, but…”

“Maybe I’ll see you around the island.” He blew her a kiss, dropped a “mate” in Aiden’s direction, and sauntered off in search of a cab.

“Damnit, Aiden. I didn’t even get to give him my number.”

“Pity.” He hefted her bag into the back of the Jeep and secured it with a tie down strap.

“So, what’s this? You’re doing your good deed for the day and giving a poor stripper a ride?” she shot back.

“I already apologized for that.”

“And it was touchingly heartfelt,” Frankie reminded him.

“Get in the damn car.”





Chapter Four


Aiden waited until she was belted in before pulling out onto the main road. He hadn’t exactly told Pruitt that he’d be picking Franchesca up. He’d overheard her talking about the maid of honor’s arrival time the night before. He’d flown down with them to keep an eye on Chip. He’d screwed up Chip and Pruitt’s happiness once before and wasn’t going to let anything happen to them the second time around.

Besides, it gave him an excuse to spend some time alone with Franchesca. He’d thought of her—a lot—since the engagement party. She was… interesting. And damned if her headache cure hadn’t worked like a charm.

He needed to do something about those headaches, about the root of them. And he’d decided to use this trip as planning time. Plotting time. It was long past time he did something about the mess.

“Did you have a good flight?” he asked.

“Great. Would have been better if I could have gotten surfer guy’s number.”

“That’s your type?”

“Ah ah ah!” she pointed a finger at him. “You of all people don’t get to comment on my type.”

“Me of all people?” he asked, stepping on the gas to go around the roundabout.

Frankie grabbed on to the handle mounted on the dashboard but didn’t tell him to slow down.

“If we flipped back through some of your latest conquests, we’d see one blonde skeleton after another shopping and smiling and getting her picture taken.”

It was the truth. But that’s what Manhattan had to offer. Hundreds of well-to-do socialites that looked alike, acted alike, and had the same goals in life.

“Conquests. Is that what Hang Ten back there would have been?”

“Shut up.”

Aiden slowed abruptly to slip around a pick-up truck stopping at a roadside coconut stand. He drove rarely in Manhattan and had been delighted to find that traffic laws were more suggestions than actual laws on the island. It took him back to his racing days. The one time in his life that he’d ever really felt carefree.

“Jesus, Aide,” Frankie said, gripping the handle as they entered the next roundabout.

The nickname, freely given, felt strange to him… warm, familiar. “Welcome to Barbados,” he offered, slipping out the other side of the traffic circle.

She let go of the handle to harness her hair that was blowing wildly in all directions. She coiled it on top of her head and secured it with an elastic band. He let his gaze travel down her body. The pink tank top and white cotton shorts showed off the lovely olive tone of her legs. She had Mediterranean in her lineage. He’d bet money on it. No blonde skeleton was Franchesca Baranski.

“Eyes on the road, buddy,” she said dryly.

“I was just wondering if it was casual day.”

“This is the one and only outfit of the whole trip that didn’t have to be coordinated with the bridesmonsters, and you won’t ruin my enjoyment of it.”

“Coordinating outfits?” He was so glad he wasn’t a woman.

“Price you pay for having friends,” Frankie said. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.”