Chapter Five
With a few hours to kill before dinner with the boys, Samantha swapped her jeans for shorts, grabbed her camera, and set out. Hugo and Jasmine were resting, but she was restless and needed fresh air. The concierge assured her that a fifteen-minute walk in any direction would lead her to a scenic bike trail. She hadn’t made it that far when a shop’s yellow façade caught her attention. It was a converted gingerbread-style cottage with all the charming touches: wooden filigree details and dormers over jalousie windows. ‘Candy’s Shop’ was painted in cursive over a black-and-white-striped awning. The slim double doors were open wide and secured in place by cinderblock. Samantha snapped a picture and ventured inside.
Candy’s Shop was a snack bar, more or less. The menu jotted onto a blackboard had a bit of everything, from tropical fruit juices to ham and cheese sandwiches. A few bistro tables and chairs were scattered about. The countertop was crowded with jars of sweets and boxes of snacks. An older man was at the cash register. He was tall and wiry with reddish-brown skin like tobacco and vivid brown eyes.
‘Hello, miss,’ he said. ‘What can I help you with today?’
Samantha wished she could sample every fruit smoothie, every sweet treat, but she had a long walk ahead and settled on bottled water, promising herself to return soon with her friends. The man pulled a chilled bottle from a glass-fronted refrigerator and set it on the counter.
‘How much?’ she asked, reaching into her backpack for some loose notes.
‘For a pretty lady like you?’ he said, smiling. ‘No cost at all.’
A door to a back room swung open and a younger, fitter, taller, broader version of the older man entered the shop. Samantha picked up on a resemblance straight away. Except where the older man was grey and distinguished in a white button-down shirt tucked into pleated trousers, his younger counterpart was overdue for a shave and dressed as if he were about to head out to the gym in a loose T-shirt, sweat pants and trainers. He carried a wooden crate without a hint of strain. Black hair cut to a fade, brown eyes with a steady gaze, smooth brown skin scruffy at the jawline. He was insanely handsome.
‘There’s no pretty lady discount,’ he said, and dropped the crate onto a stack in the corner. ‘That’ll be four dollars.’
Stunned, Samantha crumpled the crisp new local dollars in her fist. She did not know what to say, so instead she slid him a glance so sharp it could split a papaya in two. Except, he hadn’t spared her a glance. He exited the shop by the same door he’d entered.
The older man let out a flow of apologies. ‘You’ll have to excuse my grandson,’ he said. ‘He’s American.’
The fact that Samantha managed to smile, pay for the water, drop a tip in a jar, and stride out of the shop without knocking over a ladder-back chair was a miracle. She wondered: was there a KICK ME sign pinned to her back? Because it seemed the universe was intent on bruising her backside.
She encountered a trail soon enough. It curved through a wooded area. Samantha walked at a brisk pace, oblivious to the fresh air she’d so craved, the rich red earth under her feet, and the playful birdsong she’d imagined all these weeks leading to this trip. The scenic walk that was meant to calm her only revved her up. She was in a foul mood and the splendours of nature were not enough to relieve it. This week was going to be a nightmare, she just knew it.
The nerve of that guy! So rude! His sweet grandfather was wrong. America wasn’t to blame for his attitude. He was an ass, plain and simple. The nerve of Naomi, too, choosing Jen over her! That was what it came down to in the end. She hadn’t said it, but it was obvious she had meant to give her bungalow to Jen and her last-minute date. And finally, the nerve of Timothy for dumping her just days before this stupid wedding! None of this would be happening if he’d travelled with her as planned. This was all his fault.
Samantha paused to let out a breath and realized she had no idea where she was. Her brain fogged with anger, she’d forgotten to clock any visual cues. She wasn’t lost, just disoriented. The hum of traffic rose from behind a wall of pine trees, so she couldn’t be that far away. Earlier, she’d passed a few bikers in neon gear, but also some locals dressed for everyday life. It was clear this wasn’t so much a trail as it was a shortcut connecting two neighbourhoods. The question was whether she should push forward or retrace her steps.
Pounding feet and the crunch of dry leaves caught her attention. A jogger was making his way along the trail. Perfect timing. She’d ask for directions and head back to the hotel. Hugo and Jasmine had had the right idea. She should have curled up in bed for a long nap instead of venturing out on her own. Then she saw the jogger clearly. Air buds in his ears, head low, long sure strides, that strong body, that infuriatingly handsome face … Change of plans: she was going to wander in these woods until Naomi sent out a search party. She would sooner die than ask that man for anything.
Samantha pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose and, back rigid, head high, pressed on. He brushed past her, pace steady, without so much as a nod in her direction. She fought the urge to pick up a stick and hurl it at him. Just then, he tossed a glance over his shoulder. Their eyes met. He lost his footing, tripped, fumbled, before landing firmly on his feet with the grace of a cat. Samantha wanted to laugh, so she did. ‘Ha!’
He shook it off and ambled toward her. He was just as tall, broad, brown and beautiful as she’d first thought. So he was a real man, not a thirsty single lady traveller mirage.
‘Hey,’ he said, as he approached, out of breath, sweaty and gleaming in the afternoon sun. ‘Glad I ran into you.’
‘Can’t say the same.’
He’d made her out as a scammer looking to defraud the elderly. At the time, she’d been too stunned, and too distracted by his sculpted arms, to say anything. But things were different now.
‘I owe you an apology,’ he said.
‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘You didn’t hurt my feelings.’
‘But I was rude earlier,’ he said. ‘Besides, my grandfather might not let me back in the shop if I don’t at least try to make it right.’
Samantha shrugged. ‘Who knows? He might be better off.’
He bit back a smile. ‘Look, it wasn’t personal. I’m trying to keep the old man in check. He’d give away the house if a pretty girl asked. And you’re very, very pretty.’
There was no way to take those words as a compliment. His tone was matter of fact, as if her prettiness was no more remarkable than a yellow dandelion.
‘Just FYI: I had every intention of paying and tipping and returning with my friends,’ Samantha said.
‘I appreciate that,’ he said. ‘The shop is a start-up. It’s early days still.’
What did he mean by start-up? Samantha was a content creator for a reputable financial publication. Essentially, she wrote short blog posts for their website. In her line of work, the term ‘start-up’ was reserved for companies born online or sprouting in Silicon Valley. Candy’s Shop was the definition of a little corner store catering to aimlessly wandering tourists.