NOT a death sentence
Checking into the resort, the girls and I couldn’t wait to let our hair down.
‘What shall I wear tonight?’ I asked after I’d unpacked my suitcase.
In September 2007, my girlfriends and I had booked a week-long trip to Jamaica.
At 25-years-old, it was our third trip to the country and we always had such a good time.
Within a few days, we became well acquainted with the area.
We got to know the staff at the hotel and one member of the team had caught my eye.
He was a handsome guy – who lived locally – and he would spend his evenings mingling with guests.
‘He’s coming over,’ my friend smirked, giving me a nudge.
As a guest entertainer, he was
