Her Frog Prince

Brian’s gaze narrowed. He put down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. “People? Or just you?”

Uh-oh. The bloom was already off the Phipps-Stover rose. Their union more resembled a bunch of thorns covered with a few lingering petals.

“Let’s discuss what you’re donating to the auction,” Parris said, interjecting a change of subject before the strawberries became the beginning of a food fight.

The Phipps-Stovers recovered their manners from somewhere off the floor and slipped back into proper society mode. Brian reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a checkbook. “If you’ll just give me a pen—”

“Oh no, darling.” Joyce laughed. “We aren’t writing a check. That’s so…impersonal. I thought we’d donate a piece of art.”

“What piece of art?”

“That painting in the parlor. The one over the fireplace.”

“My great-aunt painted that.”

“Darling, it’s just a bit risqué for our tastes, don’t you think? I mean, all those orchids and lilies. It’s…well, it doesn’t send the right message.”

“Are you trying to say my aunt’s painting is the equivalent of an HBO special?” He was half out of his seat.

Oh God. This wasn’t going well at all. Parris had no idea what to do. The only event planning she’d ever done was RSVPing to a party invitation. She had to save the situation. But how?

“Your aunt was institutionalized, dear. For her overabundance of men.” Joyce put on a tight smile and gritted her teeth. “Her paintings reflected her…needs, shall we say? And they certainly are the talk of the town. They’d fetch quite the price.”

“My great-aunt was a Stover. That makes her someone to be respected, not gossiped about.”

It looked like the Phipps-Stovers were about to come to blows. Parris wished for the hundredth time that Jackie was there to help her. But no, Jackie had to go off and get married. Granted, Jackie deserved a happy life, but still, couldn’t it have waited until after the auction was over?

“I’m sure we can work it—” Parris began.

Brian got to his feet. “I’m through with this. Forget the whole thing.”

“Please stay. I’m sure we can—”

Joyce rose as well. “I’m not staying, either. In fact, I’m not even staying on the island.”

“Good. There’ll be more room on the beach, considering all you do is take up sand and bake yourself to a crisp.”

Joyce let out an indignant gasp. “I do not!”

“Before you know it, you’ll look as old and wrinkled as that sculpture your grandmother dumped on us.”

Joyce put a hand over her gaping mouth. “I cannot believe you said that. That marble bust of Great-Grandfather Phipps is an heirloom. A piece of history.”

“It’s a piece of—”

“There’s an easy way to settle this,” said a male voice Parris had hoped she wouldn’t hear again.

She spun around and found Brad Smith standing a few feet away, a small bag in one hand. He was freshly showered and in a different T-shirt, but he still looked more like a California college student than a grown-up.

Both the Phipps-Stovers had stopped arguing, though. Either they were waiting with bated breath for Brad’s solution or they’d been stunned into silence by the appearance of a beach bum in The Banyan Room.

Brad dug into his pocket and tossed a quarter at them. Brian caught it in his right hand. “There’s your solution,” Brad said.

“Flip a coin?” Joyce looked horrified.

“It’s a true fifty-fifty chance. And the best way to end a battle between two people who both want to be right.”

“We’re not battling…exactly.” Joyce said.

“We’re newlyweds,” Brian added.

“That explains everything,” Brad said with a smile. “Try it. You don’t really want to fight, do you?”

Joyce looked at Brian. Brian looked at Joyce. Then he shrugged. “Why not? I’m a betting man.” He jiggled the coin in his hand. “Call it, babycakes.”

She pursed her lips, let out a sigh. “Heads.”

Brian tossed the quarter into the air, caught it and slapped it onto the back of his hand. Before revealing the coin’s position, he paused. “Whatever this is, we abide by it. I don’t want to fight with you anymore, honeybunny.”

“Oh, me either.” Joyce nodded.

Brian lifted his right palm. “You win.”

“No, we both win, sweetums.” Joyce grasped his arm and gave her husband a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek.

And just like that, the storm between the Phipps-Stovers had passed. “We’ll donate the painting,” Brian said. “Someone else will surely love it as much as I do.”

“And then we’ll go shopping for something together. Something that’s just us,” Joyce said.

“Oh, truffle lips, you’re so perfect.”

Happiness had been restored. Within a few minutes, the Phipps-Stovers had completed the paperwork for their donation and had left the restaurant, snuggled once again in newlywed bliss. Brad and Parris wandered out of The Banyan Room and onto the veranda.

“Now you owe me twice,” Brad said, smiling at her. “Actually, three times.” He handed her the bag.

When he smiled, his eyes lit up and something traveled between them, like a connection of energy. How could that be? She’d known the man, what, forty minutes, and spent most of that time dripping wet and mad as hell at him.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Your glass slipper, Cinderella. You left it in my boat.”

She felt her face flush. For the briefest of seconds, she had felt like she was in a fairy tale. Who was she kidding? She was an heiress and he was a squid hunter. That was fairy-tale hell. “Thanks,” she said. “Again.”

“I want more than a little gratitude.”

“What…money? Are you some mercenary rescuer who goes looking for damsels in distress?”

He cocked his head, considering that for a minute. “If I could find a way to make it lucrative, I might. Make my time on the ocean a little more productive.”