The Trouble With Paradise Read Free Page A

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?”

TWO
    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.
    Gulp.
    The Sun Song .
    She knew from the info that Peter had sent her that the