Jill Shalvis - The Trouble With Paradise

He’d laughed and muttered “Whatever” before walking away.

She’d woken up the next morning to Goldie floating upside down and very dead in her bowl. Dorie had been devastated, and when her mother had discovered her grandma’s crystal bowl being used for Goldie’s home, also grounded.

“Call him back on your own time,” Mr. Stryowski said, jerking her back to the present, snatching Sally’s coffee right out of her hands. “Needs sugar,” he snarled after a sip.

Sally tightened her lips, and looked to be plotting his death while she shoved a sugar packet at him and poured herself another cup.

“Is it just me?” Dorie asked when he’d left. “Or does that man get sweeter every day?”

“Forget him. Call this Peter guy and see what you won.”

It didn’t surprise Dorie that Sally had read the message. There were no secrets here at Gossip Central. So she pulled out her cell phone while Sally brought her a coffee, complete with two sugar packets and a dollop of hot chocolate powder-the poor girl’s mocha latte. Her fellow employees might be a nosy bunch, but they were also incredibly sweet.

Dorie sipped her drink, then punched in the phone number. “It’s ringing.”

“Ask him if he’s single,” Sally whispered, cheek to cheek with her, straining to hear. “And don’t forget cute. You need to know because he could be some kind of desk geek with a paunch. You’re too young for a paunch.”

Dorie waved her hand to shush her so she could hear. “It went to voice mail.”

“Don’t leave your cell number. He could be a mass murderer.”

“You watch too much Law & Order.” At the beep, Dorie left her number. Two seconds later, her cell phone vibrated. With a leap of excitement, she glanced at the ID, but her euphoria quickly drained. “My mother.”

“Oy,” Sally said, speaking volumes in that one word. She patted Dorie’s shoulder and went off to the food aisles to shelve the new stock.

Each vibration of the cell phone seemed more and more agitated, until with a sigh, Dorie flipped it open. “Hi, Mom.”

“Finally. Where have you been?”

“Vacation in the Bahamas with a cute cabana boy.”

Her mother gasped.

“Kidding. I’m kidding.” She was a bad daughter. For three days her mother had been leaving messages that all started with “call your mother” and ended with “before she dies lonely, of old age because you haven’t given her grand-children to love,” and Dorie hadn’t yet called. The reasons were complicated, and mostly had to do with the fact that if Dorie was the Queen of Dorkdom, her mother was the Goddess of Guilt. “I need a vacation in the Bahamas with a cute cabana boy,” she said, and sat at the rickety employee table, pulling an empty pad of paper to doodle on out of her ever present purse. Doodling always helped. Not as much as, say, chocolate, but a close second.

“So take a vacation,” her mother said. “Phyllis is going to Hawaii.”

Dorie’s left eye began to twitch. Her sister had married a rich plastic surgeon. Going to Hawaii was a bimonthly event for her.

But for Dorie, Hawaii wasn’t on the To Do List. As an overly educated Shop-Mart clerk (damn it, yes, everyone had been right, her degree in design was worthless without the means to actually front her own clothing line), her vacation options consisted of walking as far as her own legs would take her, or hanging out on her fire escape. Maybe if she dipped into her savings account-

Nope. No can do, not since she’d emptied it out the last time something came up. Which had been a Nordstrom’s sale. Remembering, she began to sketch the skirt she’d bought there. The one she’d wanted to improve on.

But she could sketch all she wanted; the facts didn’t change. She had no job prospects in the fashion industry because the economy was down, and no designers were hiring interns whose resume read: Shop-Mart sales clerk.

She’d like to know how the hell she was supposed to get reasonable experience when no one would hire her, but hey, she’d also like to know how to have a good hair day without two hours of prep time.

“You could tag along with your sister, Phyllis,” her mother suggested. “Phyllis would pay for your flight if you watched the kids for her and Donald.”

Yes, but she’d discovered she had a severe allergy to wild, sticky, loud, uncontrollable children.

“Or you could catch your own rich doctor,” her mother suggested. “And then quit your job for something better.”

Well, gee, she hadn’t thought of that. “Doctors aren’t really my thing.”

Her mother sighed heavily. “What is your thing?”

Sweet, she wrote on the pad. She was looking for sweet. And kind. And loyal. If he happened to be cute, too, then so much the better. But not a distant, egotistical, workaholic doctor…

“There’s a block mixer on Friday night at the clubhouse,” her mom said. “All the single, professional men will be there. You’ll come, and pick one of them.”

Her mother lived in a senior neighborhood in the west end of the San Fernando Valley. The mixers there did indeed include single, professional men. All retired, all wannabe golf pros, and all hair and teeth challenged. “Thanks, Mom, but I’m busy.”

“Do you know what your problem is?”

No, but she had a feeling she was about to hear it. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we do this later? We’ll sit around and pop some popcorn and list all my faults, promise. But for now I’ve really got to get to work before my boss blows a gasket.”

“You’re scared of commitment.”

Actually, she was scared of dancing with old guys with wandering hands. She was not scared of commitment.

The truth was she was scared she’d never get a chance to make a commitment, not with her social handicap.

“And don’t take this wrong, honey, because I have only your best interests at heart, but you’re too picky.”

Dorie rubbed her left eye, which was now twitching freely. “Mom, I’ve really got to-”

“Don’t hang up-”

“Love you.” With a wince for the lecture that she knew would be headed her way the next time they spoke, Dorie shut her phone, which immediately vibrated again.

All Continental Resorts.

The excitement came back in a flash, and her heart leapt into her throat, which was silly because what could she have possibly won? “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

“Dorie Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Peter Wells, and I’m pleased to tell you that you’ve won a fabulous prize.”

“Really?”

“Brace yourself now, because you’re about to scream for joy.”

Uh, doubtful. She wasn’t much of a screamer. Sally said it was because Dorie didn’t let go enough, but she thought it was mostly because she hadn’t had sex in two years and she couldn’t remember much about the screaming factor.

Sally believed that not having sex was bad for the skin and bad for the body, and that certain parts of said body could actually shrivel up and fall off from neglect.

Dorie didn’t want to lose any parts, that was certain, but the guys weren’t exactly beating down her door.

Still, she couldn’t help but yearn for the occasional scream of joy-or otherwise.

“Dorie Anderson?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Prepare yourself. This isn’t just any contest win, this is a special, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

He was clearly reading from something, and Dorie waited eagerly for him to get to the point. Maybe she’d won a new coffeemaker. Or a blender…

“You’ve just won a weeklong, all expenses paid trip on a sailing yacht, amongst the small, intimate, beautiful islands of-”

“Ohmigod. The Bahamas?”

“Fiji.”

Definitely more than a toaster. This couldn’t really be happening. Could it? “You mean the South Pacific Fiji?”

“Is there another?”

“Just clarifying.”

“Yes, the South Pacific. You and a handful of others will be spending most of your time on a luxurious sailing yacht, complete with a captain, chef, and crew hand, and in return all you need to do is attend a seminar on the joys of resort sailboat ownership-”

Ah, there it was. The scam. How disappointing. “Look, thank you, but if you have a toaster or a coffeemaker-”

“You don’t want to go to Fiji?”

“I don’t want to buy anything, not today.”

“No purchase required, Dorie Anderson.”

Okay, his use of her full name was beginning to creep her out.

“You filled out a form at Roger’s Gym last week, correct?”

She had. Her sister had bought Dorie a membership for her birthday. She’d taken a yoga class where everyone but herself could balance on one leg with their other wrapped around their neck like a pretzel.

Dorie, on the other hand, had fallen flat on her face.

Lying there humiliated on the mat, amongst a few snickers and some pitying looks, she’d decided she was better off dressing to hide the extra few pounds rather than make a fool out of herself again.

“Take a week off and pack your bags, Dorie Anderson, because the South Pacific awaits you! A dream come true!”

It did sound like a dream. She pictured pristine white beaches, with gorgeous cabana boys serving her drinks… “So this is completely one hundred percent free?”

“That’s right!”

At least he didn’t say her full name again.

Mr. Stryowski poked his head back in the door, still wearing his favorite expression, which could scare a ghost. He tipped his freakishly big nose down at her, which caused his toupee to slide down his forehead. Slapping a hand on it, he pointed at her with the other. “You’re clocked in but not working. What’s wrong with this picture?”

She covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “Apparently I just won a week’s vacation in the-”

“I don’t care if it’s on the moon-”

Of course he didn’t.

“Get your butt to work.”

“Dorie Anderson?” Peter said in that eerily cheerful voice. “Are you interested in this fabulous opportunity, at no cost to you?”

Hands on his too thin hips, Mr. Stryowski looked about ten minutes past annoyed, and in that moment Dorie realized something-he was truly and completely sucking the soul right out of her.

So was her life.

New goal-no more letting anyone suck on her soul. No more letting anyone suck anything…

Unless it was that cabana boy.

“Hang up,” Mr. Stryowski demanded.

She held up a finger, but he kept coming.

Oh boy.

He was going to take her phone and close it. But she wanted the prize. She needed the prize. “I’m interested,” she said quickly to Peter Wells, and turned her back on her soul-sucking boss. “Very, very interested.”

Behind her, Mr. Stryowski snorted his disapproval, but she didn’t care. For a week, for one entire week, there’d be no bullying, no working her fingers to the bone for too little pay, no wondering when her life would kick itself into gear and become the adventure she’d always dreamed of.

Because it just had.

“Peter Wells? How soon can I leave?”

Day One-Kicking Life into Gear Day.

Or Finding a Cabana Boy Day.

Pick one. Hell, pick both.

Dorie had done it. She’d packed a suitcase-okay, two-and flown for a day and a half, first to Australia (ohmigod, Australia!) then onward to Fiji, specifically Viti Levu, and the international airport there.

She got off the plane and into a bright green taxi without windows. On the console sat a humongous parrot, singing along in falsetto to Cher’s “Do You Believe in Life after Love,” the warm, salty breeze ruffling its feathers. Dorie joined in, and at the harbor, got out and stood on the dock, grinning from ear to ear at the beauty around her. Let the adventure begin!

More of that light wind rolled over her, rustling the stiff fronds of coconut palms edging the streets and beach. There were people everywhere, in all colors and sizes, speaking a myriad of gorgeous-sounding languages with delightful accents.

She’d wondered if she’d fit in, and she had to say, she did. She was wearing one of her own designs, a white sundress, with brand-new heeled sandals-her cruise splurge-which gave her more height and confidence than practicality. But she figured the confidence was more important at this point.

At anchor on the bay sat a dozen gleaming sailboats, their hulls slashes of white on a backdrop of startling blue so bright it almost looked like a painting.

I’m in the South Pacific…

So hard to believe, and she took a moment to soak up the ambiance. That, and the fact that this whole Kicking Life into Gear thing felt good, really good. Following the directions she’d been sent, she walked to a slip at the north end of the docks, where she stared up at a very large sailboat. A very large sailboat that looked like something right out of one of the history books she’d done her best not to read while in school; tall, proud, and… sinkable.