The Perfect Catch: A Sports Romance (The Darcy Brothers) by Alix Nichols

Author:Alix Nichols [Nichols, Alix]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-03-22T18:30:00+00:00

TWENTY-FIVE

NOAH

The first thing I see as I get off the plane is a big sign on the passenger terminal: WELCOME TO THE CONCH REPUBLIC.

I smile.

Sophie told me how Key West jokingly “seceded” from the United States in protest for something back in the eighties. I knew the locals enjoyed their fake independence, but I didn’t quite expect a sign at the airport.

Another surprise is that it isn’t as hot as I was bracing myself for. But it is mid-December.

It’s almost winter.

After I pass through customs, I head to the taxi line. The hotel I’m booked at is out of town and pricey, but that’s what you get when you reserve last minute. And let’s not even talk about my business-class airfare; it’s the most I’ve ever paid for a ticket. Actually, for anything. I emptied my savings account and I’m overdrawn, but I didn’t touch the estate renovation account that Seb and Raph set up.

It had felt wrong.

Climbing into the cab, I give the driver the address. Amusement flickers in his eyes, but he just drops my duffle into the trunk and drives off.

Exactly one minute later, the cabbie pulls into the front yard of a large wooden mansion with a sign that says, “Marnie’s Bed and Breakfast.”

It would’ve taken me five minutes to walk here.

“Twenty dollars,” the driver says, pointing to the price list taped to the outside of the car.

I pay, grab my duffel, and head for the entrance of the bed-and-breakfast. In my peripheral vision, I spot something unusual a couple of meters to my left. It’s a toy iguana that someone has placed under the palm tree.

Must be the local version of the garden gnome.

The iguana tilts its little head and scurries up the trunk of the tree.

Noah, you’re not in Paris anymore.

By the time I’ve checked in, showered, changed into a fresh set of clothes and returned to the lobby, it’s already dark.

“How far are we from Louie’s Backyard?” I ask the guy at the front desk.

“A twenty-minute drive. Twenty-five, tops.”

“Can you call me a cab?”

“I just tried for another customer,” he says, “but the wait is about thirty minutes right now. There’s the Poultry Farmers’ Convention—”

“Never mind. I’ll walk there.”

“It’s too far for a walk,” the concierge says. “You could rent one of our bikes.”

I could—and I do.

Any chunk of time gained at this point, even if it’s just a five-minute nugget, may change my life.

The concierge gives me directions, hands me a helmet and a lock, and sends me on my way.

It’s not until I’m riding in the dark along a narrow strip between the ocean and the highway, my eyes veiled by wind and rain, that I admit I should’ve walked.

The bike isn’t the problem—it’s me.

I’m the weak link, wasted from two consecutive flights and too little food. The receptionist said it was easy-peasy. “Just ride along the water past the AIDS Memorial, Higgs Beach, and Casa Marina until you see Louie’s Backyard.”

Maybe, instead of trusting him, I should’ve asked for a map or, at least, for a description of the AIDS Memorial.

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