Running the Numbers (32 page)

The polite response irked her. She used manners to diffuse social awkwardness, an old defense mechanism. The more dismissive Boston became, the stiffer she’d get. It had worked so well during her marriage she and Blake were on the same sickly sweet polite terms as two soccer moms at a bake sale by the time the lawyers were called in.

She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tight muscles. Why’d she care what this bum thought of her, anyway?

“
Mahalo
.” He tossed her bag in the backseat of the van.

She paused in opening the passenger door. “What?”

“It means ‘thank you,’ among other things.”

Boston smoothly navigated the twists and turns of the airport with the practiced ease of a veteran driver. At least he knew his way around, and they wouldn’t waste a lot of time getting lost or turned around. Before long, they were sailing down a highway rife with morning commuters in strained silence.

Well, at least on her end. Boston didn’t strike her as the type to possess the honed social sense or level of self-awareness necessary to notice something so subtle as an uncomfortable silence.

However, her job had taught her to combat bubbles of discomfort like this one. She walked into businesses and tossed out ideas managers didn’t always want to hear with one hand while smoothing their ruffled feathers with the other.

She really ought to be able to handle one lowly beach bum. She keyed in on the only interesting thing about him she’d learned so far. “Are you from Boston, then?”

He kept his gaze on the road. “Would you believe me if I said I was?”

He didn’t appear to have come from particularly creative stock and had no discernible regional accent. He could be from anywhere.

“Sure.”

He chanced the quickest of glances and flashed his first genuine smile. It stunned her to discover it changed his whole face. He almost didn’t look homeless anymore. “Well, don’t. I’d be lying. Boston Rondibett from Mesa, Arizona at your service. And I’m never going back to that dry, windy hellhole unless God himself is tugging me by the ankles. Or my mom says please.”

“I’m from southern California. Similar climate.”

She’d meant to present common ground, but he surprised her. “I know.”

Her head snapped in his direction. “How do you know where I’m from?”

He shrugged one shoulder as if the question didn’t strike him as relevant. “Quinn told me. How else would I know? I was her and Jack’s personal guide when they honeymooned on the island. She asked me to show you around while you’re on vacation. Besides, you flew in from LAX on a non-connecting flight. See?” He slipped into an intentionally idiotic accent. “Even a scruffy dude like me can did math.”

Normally, Emily would’ve bounced back with a scathing comment, but her jaw hung loose. “You’re my
vacation guide?
”

“Did I stutter? Although, now you mention it, ‘vacation guide’ makes more sense in terms of a title, but it’s kind of a mouthful.”

“So, you’re not dropping me off at the Hilton and going on your merry way? I’m spending my entire vacation with you?” Emily winced. She might’ve tried harder to disguise her derision. Still, the guy needed a haircut and a bath. She hadn’t forgotten those atrocious shorts, either. She’d suggest the underside of a sewing machine if they wouldn’t be better off in the garbage bin.

Boston didn’t say a word. Apparently, he was the kind of man who spoke through action, and his next stunt involved slowing down the van.

She sputtered. They were in the center of a multilane highway with vehicles whizzing past on either side. Emily quit trying to communicate and started praying. If she was going to die, it couldn’t hurt to go out with the Lord’s Prayer on her lips.

Miraculously, Boston didn’t get them killed, mangled to death in a fiery crash of steel on asphalt. He managed to ease over two lanes and come to a stop on the shoulder of the highway.

Emily released her white-knuckle grip on the door handle and seethed. “You’re a psychopath.”

Boston flicked on the hazards and put the van in park. He swiveled his body toward her and yanked the sunglasses from his face in a quick, agitated movement.

She realized then, regarding him straight on, they felt the same way about each other. Forget disdain. He’d passed judgment and found her lacking.

As she’d done him.

Boston spoke in a measured tone. “I’ll put it to you plain, Ms. Buzzly-Cobb, if that is your
real
name. I have a job to do. We don’t have to like each other, but it’ll make for a better time had by all if we can at least manage to get along. A little mutual respect would go a long way. I’ll even give you a reason to try it. I know this island like no one else you’re gonna find. Ask your sister if you want my references.”

Now,
this
Emily could handle. Directness. “I don’t care about your résumé.”

“Well, you should. It’s impressive.”

“Does it include how utterly charming you are? Or mention you’ve got the hubris of a D-list celebrity?”

He gave her a sad puppy-dog frown. “I’m simple folk. Try to keep the vocabulary at my level.”

Something in those great big blue orbs said he knew exactly what she’d said. And some of what she hadn’t. “If I don’t like you, why should I have to spend the next couple of weeks in your company? Or you in mine, given the feeling is mutual.”

“I never said I didn’t like you.”

“I can read expressions better than you can fake them.”

That seemed to catch him unaware. He stared at her unguarded. Finally, the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Me. You.” He pointed at each of them in turn and continued with exaggerated caveman speech. “See island. Pretty stuff no one else will show you. Boston good at this.” He hooked both thumbs toward himself and gave her a simpleton’s grin. “Me already paid. You sit back and get over it.”

Good thing she hadn’t laughed. Her back straightened. “
Get over it?
No, I don’t think I will. Drop me at the Hilton and keep the damn money. I’ll pay Quinn back for her trouble.”

Boston dropped his goofy act and flopped back against the seat, at the same time gusting out a great sigh. “Man, you don’t have any sense of humor at all, do you? Not a shred.”

The plainspoken observation was more insulting than anything else he’d said or done in their short acquaintance. “I happen to be hilarious.”

He didn’t seem convinced by her deadpan delivery. His loss. He wouldn’t be around long enough to get to know her unique approach to humor, which tended to run a little dry.

“Fine. If I don’t have a sense of humor, it’s probably because there’s nothing funny about your lack of class or professionalism.”

“You basically called me a dumbass. What did you expect?”

Had she? “I don’t think you’re stupid. Just repugnant.”

“Oh, that’s
loads
better.” He snorted like the whole situation amused him. “I apologize, okay? My mouth does things without permission from my brain sometimes.”

He sat up, gripped the wheel, and offered her a small smile. She couldn’t tell outright if he meant it as mocking.

“Look at us,” he said. “We’re a mess and we just met. That means one or both of us have already decided how we feel without giving the other a shot. I have a suggestion, if you’re open to hear one.”

“Let me guess. You want to start over?” She refused to roll her eyes like a teenager and had to settle for a flat stare.

Boston bit his knuckle as if unsure of his next words. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a hard ass?”

A laugh escaped her, unbidden and unexpected. It seemed to surprise them both. “I might’ve heard it a few times.”

“Well, there you go.” Relief colored the words like he’d solved a complicated puzzle. “You’re a no-excuses kind of girl, and I’m a guy with a pocket full of ’em. No wonder we didn’t hit it off.”

Great. Now, good-looking surfer dude wants to play Gandhi.

Whoa
. Good-looking surfer dude? Had that thought really popped from her cranium? Well, his eyes were pretty remarkable. And his smile redeemed quite a bit of his face. “Why don’t you start by telling me just what makes you so special, Mr. Rondibett? Then, maybe we’ll discuss second chances.”

Boston blew out a stream of breath through pursed lips and slowly shook his head. “You strike me as a tough sell, but I’ve got faith in the product. First, I gotta know something about you, though. See, there are two types of tourists. You’re either a traditionalist or you’re an explorer. Trads, they want what everyone wants—the brochure version of Hawaii. Diamond Head. Dole Plantation. Pearl Harbor and Waikiki Beach. Beautiful, special places, for sure, but there’s so much more to Oahu. And that’s what a real explorer wants to see. The soft underbelly. They want experiences no one else has, pictures no one else takes.
That
is what I can do for you, Emily. So, yeah. I’m mouthy, but I’m worth it.”

Natural-born salesman, this one. “You would say that.”

His mouth formed a flat line, some of the lightheartedness gone. “Know who else? Your sister. She hired me. I’m guessing not because you’d find me charming, but because I’ve got something to offer.”

Emily had to concede Boston’s point. Quinn definitely hadn’t chosen him to accompany her based on their likelihood of having anything in common. It left a single alternative. He might actually be something special as far as island guides went. “Okay, Mr. Rondibett. I’ll give you a shot purely based on faith in my sister’s judgment. Perhaps we can both try to be somewhat less abrasive to one another.”

“Does that mean you’ll relax a little?”

She cut her eyes to him, a warning not to push her buttons. “If you pretend to have some semblance of professionalism. Now, take me to the Hilton. I have a six hour flight to wash off.”

Boston saluted and flicked off the hazards. As he checked his mirrors, engaged his turn signal, and prepared to merge back onto the highway, he flashed Emily a lopsided, dimpled grin that made her question her decision to give this another go. “One thing, miss. We aren’t going to the Hilton.”

A Florida native, Roxanne Smith has called everywhere from Houston to Cheyenne home. Currently residing in Asheville, North Carolina, she’s an avid reader of every genre, a cat lover, pit bull advocate, and semi-geek. She loves video games, Doctor Who, and her dashing husband. Her two kids are the light of her life. Visit her website at roxannesmith.net, and her blog at smithrox.blogspot.com.