CHAPTER ONE

      NOTE TO SELF: never prepay your honeymoon.

      Ally Smith sat on the beach under a tattered umbrella nursing her watered-down piña colada and wondered why that caveat didn’t make it into any of the wedding planning books. Probably because no one plans a wedding with escape clauses.

      She should write her own book for brides-to-be. She’d definitely include a chapter on cancellation clauses, the folly of prepayments and how to mitigate the financial toll of lost deposits. Oh, and some fun stuff like how to build a nifty bonfire with three hundred monogrammed cocktail napkins.

      And a chapter on how to know you’re marrying the wrong guy.

      She dug her toes into the warm sand and watched the sailboats bobbing on the waves as they made their way into and out of the marina just down the beach. Why hadn’t she pushed harder for the trip to Australia where she could at least be snow skiing right now? June in Oz was supposed to be fabulous. Why had she let Gerry talk her into this when they lived just twenty minutes from the Georgia coast—a popular honeymoon destination in and of itself? She could go to the beach anytime she wanted. She didn’t have to fly to the Caribbean for sand and surf.

       Because I was too happy to finally be engaged.

      In the four months since she’d happened home at lunchtime to find Gerry having a nooner with their travel agent—which explained why he’d insisted they use her to begin with, and probably also why Ally was booked into the worst hotel on the island—she’d come to realize some hard truths: she’d picked good looks and charm over substance, and she should have dumped Gerry-the-sorry-bastard four years ago.

      Now, two days into her “honeymoon,” she was bored out of her mind.

      “Is this seat taken, pretty lady?”

      The low, gruff voice pulled her out of her reverie. Shading her eyes from the late-afternoon sun, she turned to find the source of the question.

      And nearly spit out her drink as she ended up eye level with the smallest swimming trunks ever made, straining over a body they were never designed to grace.

      In any decent movie, the voice would have belonged to a handsome tennis pro with a tan and bulging biceps. This was her life, though, so while her admirer did sport a tan, his body bulged in all the wrong places—like over the waistband of his Speedo. Ally bit her lip as her eyes moved upward, past the gold chain tangling in his furry chest hair to the three-day salt-and-pepper stubble, the ridiculous iridescent blue wraparound sunglasses and wide-brimmed Panama hat.

      She was being hit on by a bad cliché. This horrible vacation experience was now complete. “I’m sorry, what?”

      “You look like you could use some company. How about we have a drink and get to know each other?” Without waiting for her response, the man lowered himself into the adjacent lounge chair, took off his sunglasses and stuck out his hand. “Fred Alexander.”

      With no excuse to deny the tenets of her proper Southern upbringing, she shook the proffered hand. The palm was damp. He held her hand a bit too long, and she fought the urge to wipe it on her towel once released. “I’m Ally. It’s nice to meet you, but—”

      “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be sitting out here alone. No telling who might come along to bother you.” He winked at her.

      Yeah, no telling. There were plenty of people on the beach. Why had Fred picked her to hit on? Because you are a loser magnet. First Gerry and now this guy. At least Gerry had been good-looking, a fact he’d never let her forget.

      She had to escape. She should have just stayed in Savannah. Oh, but no, she’d been steamed over the loss of so many other down payments that she wasn’t going to let a vacation go to waste, too. It had sounded so practical at the time. She knew better now.

      “I was just about to go in, actually. I think I’m getting too much sun.” She reached for her bag and slid to the edge of her seat, ready to beat a hasty retreat. Fred placed his hand on her wrist and stroked his thumb over the skin. Ally gently moved away from his hand and out of arm’s reach as she stood.

      “I’d be happy to rub some lotion on you.” Fred’s eyes roamed slowly down her body and back up to her cleavage, making her skin crawl. With a slow shake of his head, he said, “That’s a crime, Ally. A girl with a body like yours should be showing it off in a bikini.” She’d never been so glad to be wearing a one-piece in her entire life, and as he licked his lips in appreciation, Ally felt as if she needed a hot shower.

      “Thanks, but no. I’m—”

      “Dinner, then. I saw you checking in alone yesterday and figured you’d be looking for some company.”

      Ugh. She took another step back. “Um, well, I…”

      “I’m staying here, too. Suite sixteen. It must be fate that we’re both here on our own…”

      It was in her nature to make people happy, but this crossed the line. There was “nice” and then there was “stupid.” She’d made enough stupid decisions—no more.

      “Enjoy the beach.” She could hear Fred muttering something about her attitude as she left. Whatever. What little enjoyment she’d had just relaxing to the sounds of the surf evaporated in the wake of being hit on by some creepy guy old enough to be her father.

      Maybe the TV in her room had a movie channel. She could take that shower, order room service for dinner—if they even did room service in this hotel; she hadn’t seen a menu when she’d checked in last night—and plan to do some sightseeing on the island tomorrow.

      This was the most pathetic vacation ever. Or was she the pathetic one?

      The lobby was mostly empty as she waited behind a couple checking in. More honeymooners. The young woman carried a bouquet, and the red-haired man at her side was having a hard time checking in since he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off his new bride. They seemed happy, and Ally silently wished them well as they headed for their room.

      “I’d like to see about ordering room service to suite twenty-six.”

      The hotel clerk shook his head. “Sorry. No room service. Just the restaurant.”

      Lovely. She thought she’d hit her low spot on this vacation with the arrival of Fred, but obviously there was much more awaiting her over the next few days. Like eating every meal alone.

      “But I do have a message for you, Mrs. Hogsten.”

      “Miss Smith,” she corrected automatically. Another good reason not to marry Gerry. She’d never liked the sound of his last name.

      The clerk’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he rechecked his computer screen.

      Ally sighed. “I know. It says Hogsten, party of two, but it’s just me. Miss Smith.”

      She saw the