Stealing Phin Read online

  Stealing Phin

  Book One in The Phinegan Swift Adventures in Life and Love Series

  By: Avery Hale

  Copyright 2013 Avery Hale

  Smashwords Edition

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  DEDICATION

  For my family and friends.

  And for all you hopeless romantics out there.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 -- Arrivals

  Chapter 2 -- The Volcano Villas

  Chapter 3 -- Canyoneering

  Chapter 4 -- The Lava Lounge

  Chapter 5 -- Swimming in a Storm

  Chapter 6 -- The Morning After

  Chapter 7 -- Conscience Clearing

  Chapter 8 -- Confessions

  Chapter 9 -- On the Road to Papagayo

  Chapter 10 -- Chasing Phantoms

  Chapter 11 -- Aqua Disco

  Chapter 12 -- Awakenings

  Chapter 13 -- Unearthing Secrets

  Chapter 14 -- La Policía

  Chapter 15 -- Caro Caro

  Chapter 16 -- Redemption

  Chapter 17 -- Departures

  Note from the Author

  How to Connect with Avery Hale

  About Avery Hale

  Chapter 1

  ARRIVALS

  “Where the hell are our bags?” My best friend, Dez, craned her neck, as if it would enable her to see around the bend of the baggage carousel. Patience was not one of her virtues—something I learned very quickly when we were roommates at Iowa State.

  I should’ve joined in on the neck craning. After all, we’d just traveled over two thousand miles from Chicago, where we lived since graduating college a year ago, to Costa Rica. This was my first time traveling outside the United States, and I imagined that being in a foreign country without your baggage warranted concern.

  But to be honest, after what happened to me yesterday, I simply couldn’t get myself to give a shit about going a week without clean underwear.

  I knew my apathy didn’t make much sense. I had saved up for over a year for this vacation. Lived on ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for most of that time to stretch my paltry salary as a legal assistant to make ends meet as I religiously added to my “Costa Rica-Or-Bust” fund every week.

  As a kid, I’d always dreamed of traveling to exotic places and living the life of an adventurer like Carmen Sandiego. My dad used to say that nothing mattered more in life than chasing your dreams, and that if I wanted something badly enough, I should find a way to get it.

  Funny how the things that used to matter became mere background noise when you were suffering a broken heart.

  What my dad had failed to tell me was that some of the dreams you chased could look really different once you caught them. I used to dream about the man I would love—the one I was going to share my happily-ever-after life with.

  Funny how dreams had a way of turning into nightmares without even the courtesy of a warning.

  Oh God. There was that feeling again—the ache which started in the pit of my stomach and rose up my core like lava in a volcano. Soon, when it reached my chest, the feeling would erupt, melting my heart from the inside out, turning it into ash. You’d think, then, that that would be the end of it—the end of my heart…and the end of me. Ending this misery of mine would be an act of mercy. But no. My stubborn, stupid heart would pick up its beat again and come back to life, only to suffer the same cycle again and again.

  I dropped my purse and sat on the floor. Hugging my arms around my legs, I rested my chin on my knees. The movement caught Dez’s attention.

  “Don’t you shut down on me again, Phinegan Swift.” Dez put her hands on her curvy hips like my mom used to do when she scolded me. She tapped her platform Jimmy Choos, which must be killing her feet by now. In contrast to my tank top, jeans, and flip flops, which were the staples of my woefully practical wardrobe, Dez looked glamorous in her leopard-patterned leggings and halter top. “Tell me the rules.”

  “Gimme a break, Dez, I don’t feel like—”

  “Recite the rules right now or else I’m going to pull a P.D.E.”

  Shit. Not the Public-Display-of-Embarrassment card. Knowing Dez, this could mean anything from shouting “penis” as loudly as she could in as many languages as she knew the equivalent word (twenty-seven, to be exact) to flashing the nearest unsuspecting bystander her double-Ds, which she’d nicknamed “Laverne” and “Shirley.” The latter was her favorite P.D.E. by far. On one occasion, her drive-by boobing victims included a thirty-man crew at a construction site in the Chicago Loop and a Catholic nun who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Spotting a group of teenage boys nearby and foreseeing a terrible death-by-stampede for myself if Dez’s bared boobs unleashed the horny beasts inside them, I reluctantly stood up and recited the rules for our trip.

  “Rule number one: Thou shalt not be sad in Costa Rica. Rule number two: Thou shalt not shed another tear over Douglas—”

  “Eh, eh, eh,” Dez interrupted by shaking her head and tsking disapprovingly.

  “Sorry,” I said, “but I can’t call him He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. He’s not Voldemort.”

  “Fine. You may substitute with a moniker of your liking. How does ‘The Asshole Cheater’ sound?”

  I sighed. “Tragically accurate.”

  “Good,” Dez said with resolute cheerfulness, “let’s go with that. And the final, but most important rule?”

  “Rule number three: Thou shalt not behave in such a way as to inhibit your fellow traveler from having the most fun possible on this trip.”

  “And the most fun thing we could, or in your case should, do on this trip is…?”

  “Zip-lining through the rainforest?” I said, despite know what answer Dez actually had in mind.

  “Getting laid.” Dez corrected, licking her bee-stung lips. Her green eyes shined as she smiled devilishly. She had the look of a single, sexy, horny woman on a mission. “Hurricane Dez has arrived,” she announced to no one in particular and to the entire county in general, “and by the time I leave, Costa Rica isn’t going to know what hit it.”

  It was times like these that reminded me of why Dez was my best friend. Her raw enthusiasm and no-holds-barred approach to life and all its pleasures were some of the things I loved most about her. Partly because I tended to take a more cautious approach…at least when it came to sex.

  Not wanting to ruin Dez’s vacation, I tried my best to smile, but there was no feeling behind it. I was like one of those plastic dolls with painted faces and hollow insides. Maybe the reason the dolls could wear permanent smiles was because they had nothing inside them. No hearts that could bleed.

  Lucky them.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” said a deep voice, “but I think I may have grabbed one of your suitcases by mistake.”

  Dez and I both looked at the man who stood a few feet away, holding my suitcase. My peripheral vision caught Dez’s jaw drop open and her tongue rolling out of her mouth and onto the floor. Who could blame her? The guy was a te
n on the Richter scale, a ten million on the Scoville scale, and the top of whatever other kind of scale there was.

  He lifted the suitcase so that we could see it better. I don’t doubt that Dez noticed as much as I did how easily he handled the nearly fifty pound bag with one hand. As he did, the pink ribbon that I’d tied to the handle to easily identify it from other similar black suitcases fluttered.

  The ribbon waved like a warning flag. Suddenly remembering that we were in a foreign country and should, therefore, keep our guards up, I narrowed my eyes at the handsome stranger.

  “Why would you think this bag was yours?” I hardly masked my suspicion.

  The guy seemed taken aback. “Pardon me?”

  “Did you not see the pink ribbon, or does your suitcase happen to have a pink ribbon tied to it, too?” I realized I sounded a little like a jerk, but having just been screwed over by a man, I wasn’t above taking it out on his entire gender. Not while the pain was still so raw. Besides, I didn’t buy this guy’s story. Not for a second.

  Dez shot me a look. Then, she turned to The Hottie and laughed pleasantly. “She’s just joking. We’re both exhausted from the flight. Right, Phin?” Dez shot me another look, but this one was different. With one eyebrow raised, Dez silently asked me a question that was a mere formality of Girl Code at this point. This scale-topper was not only much more up her ally than mine, he set off my “player” alert. And I had no interest in being played. On the other hand, Dez, who was a player and a man-eater to the tenth degree, was game.

  “Yeah, sure.” I shrugged as I walked toward the guy to claim my bag. He set it down lightly and pulled the handle out for me.

  Hmph. At least he had some manners.

  Refusing to look at him or say thanks, since I was pretty sure he’d used my luggage as an excuse to hit on Dez, I took the handle and briskly wheeled the suitcase away. “I’m going to the currency exchange,” I tossed over my shoulder. He’s all yours, Dezzy.

  I didn’t have to turn around to know that as soon as I gave Dez the go-ahead, she pursed her lips into a perfect pout, drew back her shoulders to showcase her impressive rack, and tilted one side of her hip in a way that made her thin waist look even thinner and her curves even curvier. The girl deserved a PhD in the science of attraction.

  Although most girls were jealous of Dez for her looks, I wasn’t one of them. I’d never be able to deal with all the pressure and attention that came with sex appeal like hers. Not that I was Quasimoto or anything. People often described me as “the girl next door” type. I never really understood exactly what that meant. Maybe it was because I played sports in school. Or maybe it was that my style and attitude were more on the casual, down-to-earth side. In the end, I figured that from a guy’s perspective, it meant if a decent-looking girl with chestnut brown hair and eyes was your neighbor, you’d invite her over for barbeques. But if a honey-blond bombshell with legs that never ended moved in next door, it might redefine the term “Neighborhood Watch.”

  My lack-of-bombshell nature was one of the reasons I’d always felt lucky to land a guy like Douglas. He was so handsome, he could have any girl he wanted, yet he chose me. I found myself wondering a lot during our relationship what exactly he thought was special about me. Sadly, I couldn’t come up with much. Maybe that was why things ended the way they did.

  After I got some Costa Rican colones from the currency exchange, I found a seat some ten or so yards from where Dez was working The Hottie and tried my hardest not to think of Douglas.

  But it was impossible.

  Even the fact that I was in Costa Rica had become about him. The only reason I came on this trip was to try to forget about Douglas. Everything about Chicago reminded me of him. I couldn’t walk down a street without passing some restaurant, bar, or park that I associated with a moment I shared with him. The city was the backdrop of our entire relationship. If I was going to get over him, I was going to need a drastic change of scenery.

  But now that I was several countries away from him, I realized the distance between us was only geography. He was still very much with me.

  Did I really think the solution would be as simple as exercising my passport? Who was I kidding?

  Douglas had been the focal point of my life ever since I began working at Schiller, Moore, & Kirkwood, LLP a year ago. He was a partner in the real estate group—the youngest to make partner in the firm’s history. He was everything I’d wanted in a man—smart, ambitious, handsome, and charming. The very first time I met him, I knew I was in danger of falling in love with him…and, oh was I right. I fell fast, and I fell hard.

  “Rule number two, rule number two, rule number two,” I murmured to myself as I felt the threat of the tears I’d promised not to shed sting my eyes.

  Desperately searching for a distraction and failing to find anything or anyone suitable for the job in this tired looking terminal, my eyes landed back on The Hottie.

  “The best way to fill your heart,” I said, quoting Dez, “is to feast with your eyes.”

  Ever the multi-tasker, I decided to distract myself by putting on my friend-hat and doing what girlfriends do best for each other—evaluate the men in their lives.

  Dez’s back was to me while she chatted up The Hottie, which meant he was facing me—a strategy we’d come up with in college. I had clear view to give The Hottie the thrice over and quickly come up with a thumbnail analysis. And I’m proud to say that ninety-nine percent of the time, I managed to peg a guy on the first try.

  It only took me three seconds to take stock of this guy’s assets.

  Body: Well-toned arms and shoulders, broad chest, square jaw. Probably a former frat boy jock from a Big Ten school. Vanity motivated him to maintain his physique through a regular gym and protein shake regimen.

  Clothes: Gray t-shirt and designer jeans that probably cost more than a month’s rent for my shabby one-bedroom apartment. The guy clearly valued quality, but not at the cost of comfort.

  Hair: Tall forehead crowned by thick brown hair with natural touches of gold highlights, slightly longer on top and styled skillfully with restrained use of expensive hair wax into an effortless-looking tousle. He’s intelligent and probably used his smarts to make good money, which he then used to indulge in the finer things in life.

  Eyes…hm. That’s funny. Usually, I could tell the most about a guy’s character by his eyes. Granted, this guy’s eyes were beautiful—a hazel composed of a unique blend of brown, gold, and green I’d never seen before. I had a weakness for hazel eyes. I loved the way they shifted colors in different lights.

  But his eyes wouldn’t speak to me. I searched them for a few more moments, but they stubbornly refused to reveal their owner’s secrets. And then I became aware that they were returning my stare. Even worse, as his eyes traveled the length of me, I realized he seemed to be engaging in an analysis of his own—of me.

  I quickly averted my eyes, but it was too late. Moments later, he ended his conversation with Dez with a handshake. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he headed toward a shuttle that said Hertz on the side. He must be renting a car like we were. I could’ve sworn I saw him eyeball me again right before he exited the airport…carrying a large black duffle bag and no suitcase, I noted wryly.

  “Well?” I asked as Dez approached.

  “Waste of time.” She rolled her pink suitcase next to mine and plopped onto a seat with a slightly annoyed air. Her cheeks were almost as pink as her suitcase—a sign that she was flustered.

  “Jerk-off?” I asked.

  “No, worse—gay. Should’ve known. The hot ones always are.” She clucked her tongue. “Such a shame. And such a waste of a perfect ass.” She pulled her long blond hair into a ponytail. “God, it’s so hot in this country! Can we get going already? I need to be somewhere with better air conditioning.”

  Dez had a simple policy when it came to men: keep it in the present tense. As soon as you start thinking about a man in the past or future tense, she’d alway
s told me, you’re asking to get hurt.

  Consequently, Dez was never one to dwell on any man for any reason, good or bad, and I could tell she had already moved on from this one.

  Unfortunately, for some unexplainable reason, I couldn’t quite say the same for me.

  “What makes you think he’s gay?” I prodded, as we headed toward the Adobe car rental shuttle that pulled up outside the terminal. That a man was gay was the conclusion Dez automatically came to about any man who could resist her sex appeal. Considering how hot she was, it actually made for a pretty accurate gay-dar. But I wasn’t one-hundred percent convinced, and I was curious to learn what else her conversation with The Hottie revealed.

  “He said he came here to look for flowers.” Dez gave her suitcase to the shuttle driver who put it into the back.

  “Flowers?” I wiped the sweat from my forehead. This climate was going to take some getting used to.

  “Exactly,” Dez rolled her eyes. “Mentioned one specifically. It had a funny name. Gwar-something.”

  “Guaria morada.” My heart skipped a beat as I hopped into the shuttle after Dez and buckled my seat belt.

  “Yeah—how did you know?”

  “It’s the national flower of Costa Rica. A really rare orchid. It also happens to be my favorite flower.”

  “Huh.” Dez shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe if we run into him again, he can dust the pollen off your flower.” My friend gave me a salacious wink. Good old Dez. If her mind wasn’t in the gutter at any given moment, you could bet it’d be there in the next.

  “It hasn’t been that long since I last had sex.”

  Three months, eight days, and twenty-one hours. But who’s counting? I thought bitterly.

  I hadn’t told Dez exactly how long it’d been since Douglas last made love to me. For one thing, Dez considered three weeks a slump. If I told her about my three-month-long dry spell, she’d probably usher me to the OBGYN to make sure my parts hadn’t shriveled up and fallen off from disuse.