Stranded in Paradise by Lori Copeland

happy employees equaled productive employees and that meant money in Connor.com ’s pocket. She was the backbone of the systems, which were the backbone of the company. Logic said Len needed her, that Connor.com needed her.
    Logic.

    Carter shoved his room keys into his pocket as he let himself into his room. He slid the window open to welcome a breeze and automatically turned on the TV. The cheeseburger he’d eaten fought with the double-dip Häagen-Dazs coconut pineapple cone he’d bought on the walk back to the hotel.
    Sitting down in a chair, he propped his feet on the bed and adjusted the sound on the TV as his eyes scanned the stack of coupon books he’d acquired.
    â€œ. . . tropical storm . . . better watch this one, folks, could be upgraded to hurricane status before the night’s over . . .”
    Spotting a coupon for “Mexican Madness Night” at Moose McGillicuddy’s restaurant, he leaned over and carefully creased the paper then tore it out. $16.95 for two. He shrugged. Not bad—he was a “one” but he’d eat what he could and leave the rest.
    Adjacent to the Madness coupon was one for a free coffee mug at Hilo Hattie’s, with a twenty-five-dollar purchase. The binoculars and puka beads had already cost him fifty, but he might find something else he liked— maybe take Carl back one of those hula skirts. He snickered when he tried to imagine what the macho supervisor would do with two half coconut shells and a grass skirt. The coupon joined the others on the nightstand.
    He stretched out to relax and let the cheeseburger settle. Carl had been smart to make him take a vacation. He’d needed the time away to refocus and relax.
    Thanks for calling my limitations to my attention, he thought. Help me to lean more fully on You.
    Clicking off the TV, Carter lay in the darkness, doing what he’d come to do in Hawaii: spend time with his Best Friend.
    Lord, You know my heart. Let me do more thanking and less complaining. Grant me patience to wait on You. I recognize my need for Your assurances, for Your strength for Your hand on my life. I stand guilty: guilty of weak faith and the if-I-can’t-fix-it-by-Friday-I’ll-turn-it-over-to-God thinking . Thank You for reminding me that it is You I need, not You who need me.

8
    Startled from a sound sleep, Tess sat bolt upright in bed. Shouts—someone pounding on her door.
    Fighting off the dregs of deep sleep, she shook her head and tried to focus on the lighted numbers on the travel alarm on the nightstand. Six A.M.? What was going on now? Deciding the racket wasn’t going to stop, she grabbed her robe and stuffed her arms into it, then rammed her left foot in a loafer. Failing to find the other, she dropped to her knees to search under the chair.
    Someone pounded on the door again, then a man’s voice yelled out, “Open up!”
    She found the missing shoe as the hammering persisted. Springing to her feet, she banged her lip on the edge of the bed frame.
    â€œOuch!” The tip of her tongue worried the swelling knot as she grabbed the shoe and stuffed it onto her right foot. “Ouch!” She’d forgotten the sore ankle. Fire alarms were shrilling in the hallway.
    Her tongue was still exploring her bleeding lip as she reached the door and jerked it open to find a fireman in full gear standing in front of her, ax in hand, his face blackened with soot. Two air tanks were strapped to the man’s back
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œWe’re evacuating the building.”
    She caught the scent of smoke. This wasn’t a drill; it was the real thing. Panic swelled in her throat.
    â€œWe need you to leave the hotel immediately.”
    â€œAh . . . yeah. I just need to—”
    â€œLeave everything. Get out of the building.” The fireman moved on.
    â€œTake the stairs at the end of the hall. Don’t use the elevator,” the man turned to warn