Sugar Sands

"Open an artists’ colony on a beautiful coastal island," they said. "It’ll be fun," they said. They haven’t met Sawyer Hendricks, the gorgeous, growly celebrity chef who claims he owns the dream hotel that I just inherited. They haven’t been terrorized by a flock of foul-mouthed feral parrots. They haven’t run smack up against a cranky gang of geriatric islanders who will stop at nothing to ensure that life on Rocky Shoals never changes. They haven't surprised Sawyer in his birthday suit in the foyer of what should be an empty mansion.

When it comes to sexy oil baron Grant Kingsley, you can leave out the drilling jokes—I’ve heard them all before. The question is, how did I, mayor of a tiny island on the Forgotten Coast of Florida, end up working directly under him? And why does my mind go to the most inappropriate places every time I ask myself that question? And what would he look like without that custom-tailored wool suit and expression of insufferable arrogance?