Tropical Fantasy. Monica McKayhan

the passenger’s side of the car, which happened to be the opposite side of cars in the United States. He held the door open for her until she slid onto the leather seat. She watched as he took his place behind the wheel of his rented vehicle.

      “Doesn’t it confuse you—driving on the opposite side of the car?”

      “I love a challenge.” He grinned that mesmerizing grin again.

      “It seems silly, especially when most car rental places offer cars that are created the right way.”

      “The right way?”

      “Yes, with the steering wheel on the proper side of the car.”

      “Proper according to whom?” Vince asked.

      “According to car makers in the U.S. of A.,” said Sasha.

      “Last time I checked, we weren’t in the U.S. of A.” He maneuvered the car into traffic and spoke in his best Bahamian dialect. “Ve’re in da islands of da Bahamas, with its clear blue skies, sandy beaches and da best conch fritters dis side of da hemisphere.”

      Sasha laughed—she couldn’t help it. He sounded so ridiculous, yet he was cute in his own little way. And he had a sense of humor.

      “Yeah, I wish I was on the other side of the hemisphere—in the U.S. of A. right now,” she said.

      “Instead of here...in the beautiful Bahamas?”

      “Yes, this wedding couldn’t have come at a worse time for me,” Sasha complained.

      “Really? Why?”

      “My office is hosting its annual retreat this weekend in Savannah, and I’m missing it. My sister’s nuptials are putting a real damper on my schedule,” she mumbled.

      “Wow, you must be a workaholic,” said Vince.

      “I’m not a workaholic. My career is just very important to me.”

      “It’s your sister’s wedding. Isn’t that important too?” Vince glanced over at Sasha and pierced her with those brown eyes.

      “Of course it’s important. It’s just...I just...well, it was just not a good time for me.”

      “Are you really that shallow?” Vince asked. “There’s nothing more precious than family.”

      Had he just called her shallow?

      “I beg your pardon. You don’t know anything about me! And I’m not shallow.”

      “I’m sorry for calling you shallow. I meant to say that you made a shallow comment.”

      “I’m just saying...why couldn’t she just do a simple little ceremony in Atlanta? Why fly to another country just to say ‘I do’?”

      “You should consider it an honor to stand up for your sister on such an important day.”

      “I have things going on in my life right now,” Sasha retorted. “And this trip here, right now...this is inconvenient.”

      “That’s too bad,” said Vince. “You’re completely missing it.”

      “Oh really?” Sasha asked. “So I guess you have it all figured out.”

      “I have a pretty good handle on things. I know what’s important. In fact, when Derrick asked if I could fly to the Bahamas and be the best man at his wedding, I didn’t give it a second thought. I knew I had to be here.”

      “How noble of you,” Sasha said sarcastically and then stared out the window at the palm trees as they rushed past. She was done talking to this man.

      An awkward silence suddenly resonated through the car, and Vince adjusted the volume on the stereo. As the sound of Caribbean rhythms filled the air, Sasha pulled her iPhone out of her purse and checked her email. The music wasn’t very successful at drowning the silence, and the short drive seemed so much longer than it really was. Sasha wished her sister hadn’t sent Vince to pick her up from the airport. She’d have been more comfortable taking a taxi. At least the driver would’ve kept his opinions to himself.

      “I have to make a quick stop along the way,” Vince said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

      “You’ve got to be kidding.”

      “Not at all. Won’t take but a sec.”

      Soon Vince pulled into Potter’s Cay, the island’s fish market and fruit stand tucked away under the Paradise Island Bridge. Potter’s Cay, a place where Bahamians shopped for the fresh catch of the day and the freshest produce on the island, was an attraction that Sasha and her family had visited on occasion.

      “What are we doing here?”

      “I’m in the mood for fresh snapper.”

      “Fish?”

      “There’s nothing like it.” Vince smiled as he turned off the engine and removed the keys from the ignition. “Let’s go.”

      “Let’s go?”

      “It’s pretty hot, and you’ll roast in the car without air-conditioning.” He smiled but still seemed adamant that she get out of the car.

      She immediately caught the smell of conch fritters and fried fish. She and Vince strolled along the sidewalk, taking in the eclectic stalls where food vendors sold their freshly cooked items. Friendly female vendors sat placidly in front of fruit and produce stalls bursting with bananas, plantains, papaya, red peppers, tomatoes and yams. In front of many stalls were cages of swarming black crabs and other seafood. Fishermen in rubber boots hoisted giant bags of fresh fish and cleaned the catch of the day with sharp knives right there as customers looked on.

      Interspersed among the row of stalls serving cooked food were several stands selling fresh fish. The constant calls of “fresh fish, fresh fish,” were heeded by car after car of customers who pulled up next to the street-side stall for plastic bags filled with fresh snapper.

      Vince stepped up to a fresh fish vendor and said, “I’d like a pound of snapper, please.”

      “Some fresh conch salad too, sir?”

      “Yes!” he exclaimed and gave the brown Bahamian woman a warm smile. “I love it.”

      “What about you, my lady?” The woman smiled at Sasha. “Fresh conch salad or a conch fritter?”

      “No, thank you.”

      “What? You have to have one or the other,” said Vince.

      “I don’t...I don’t eat that.”

      “I’ll have conch salad,” said Vince, “and one for the lady too.”

      “I said I didn’t want any,” Sasha said, but Vince wasn’t listening.

      The Bahamian woman handed each Vince and Sasha a bowl of the native fare. Sasha reluctantly took hers, wondering who Vince thought he was—ordering for her like that and insisting that she taste something she wasn’t accustomed to eating. He was presumptuous and arrogant, she thought. But she tasted it, and it was delightful against her tongue. She’d never tried it before; the name conch just didn’t appeal to her. She’d always wondered how something with such an ugly name could possibly taste good.

      Not wanting Vince to know that she was enjoying her salad, she toyed with the fork a bit, picking over the food. They moved down the sidewalk to a fresh produce stand, where Vince purchased tomatoes, bell peppers and onions. He seemed to know his way around the island and carried himself as a native. If it weren’t for the crisp slacks, polo shirt and shined shoes that he wore, he could’ve easily been mistaken for an islander. The precision haircut and carefully manicured nails were a dead giveaway also. She immediately admired his confidence, although she hated to admit it.

      “So, obviously you cook,” Sasha stated.

      “I do,” Vince said. “What