Back Where I Belong: A Wonderfully Witty and Completely Absorbing Love Story (Susan Wade Series Book 3)

by Virginia Gray

  “This is where the caves end and the cenotes spill into the ocean. Once you finish eating, you can snorkel in this special ceremonial water.”

  Without the forest’s protection, it was scorching hot, and I felt my skin searing. Ready to eat the lid itself, I opened the lunchbox to discover a warm ham sandwich, chips, and a gooey cookie. I regarded the sandwich skeptically. The limp lunch meat, soggy bread, and single wilted lettuce leaf had clearly been incubating in the smoldering van for hours. Looking at Pete, I raised my eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure this is going to kill us,” I whispered, noticing the guide and crew weren’t eating.

  He shrugged and ripped off a large bite. “Probably, but we’ll surely die of starvation otherwise. We’ll down shots of tequila when we get back. That stuff’ll kill anything.”

  After my last experience, I’d vowed never to drink straight tequila again. I still remembered the night—well, sort of remembered it—when I’d returned from Philadelphia, beaten and broken, and had drunk myself into a mindless stupor. Eventually, I’d been thrown over someone’s shoulder and hauled out of the bar, kicking and screaming. I smiled to myself, thinking of my failed attempt at seducing the beautiful blond-headed man now seated beside me. That seemed both ages ago and only yesterday. “I’ll stick with rum, thanks.”

  Entering the cloudy water, we were strongly cautioned to take care, as the openings were tight and the current strong. Our guide then launched into a sad story about the man who’d once owned this property. Forsaken by a heartless woman, the forlorn lover had swum into one of the small caves, never to return—or some such garbage. When he mentioned ghosts, I stuck my head underwater and looked for my own cave.

  “Last stop, amigos,” the man exuberantly announced. “The sacrificial cliffs!”

  Pete raised a taunting brow, his toothy smile nearly splitting his face.

  “Not doing it,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “I’ll pay ya.”

  We parked in front of a nearly hidden path, and after a short walk through the dense forest, discovered another cenote. This one was not nearly as clear, and only vague sunlight dappled its surface through the foliage. We swam around for a bit, working up our courage—well, they worked theirs up. I wasn’t stupid enough to hurl my body off a cliff.

  Pete pulled me into his arms, his need echoing mine. With his deliciously tanned skin, richer by the day, his rock hard body—and I do mean all of it—rubbing against mine, and the hungry look in his eyes, I became fairly dizzy with desire.

  “Best sex of your life, if ya jump,” he whispered, nibbling my ear while pressing his pelvis into mine.

  I sank my teeth into his lower lip in threat. “No.”

  “You can pick the position.” He ran his thumb across my bikini top, discreetly grazing my oversensitive nipples. I gasped. “Any way ya want,” he continued.

  “No,” I said weakly.

  “I’ll be your slave.”

  “No,” I whimpered as his hand traveled south.

  “Are ya absolutely sure?” he said, before kissing me so deeply and so thoroughly that I forgot I was even in Mexico. I looked into eyes that burned, wanting him like the shimmering air.

  “Just so you know, I hate you,” I said.

  His lips curled up into a Grinch’s smile, and he towed me to the dirt shore, grasping a large tree root to pull us out.

  “We are ready!” Pete announced to the cheering group already lined up to jump.

  “Death is coming for us,” I muttered.

  After watching five people take the plunge, it was our turn. I stood at the cliff’s edge, realizing it was very much higher than it had looked from the murky water. “What if there are rocks?” I asked, burying my face in Pete’s chest.

  “They wouldn’t bring us somewhere where we could get hurt,” he replied.

  “Did you not see lunch? I doubt they care whether we live or die.”

  Pete snorted. “Enough stallin’, Susie-Q. Are ya goin’ of your own will, or am I tossin’ ya over?”

  “What? No! I’m, I’m not doing it.”

  “You promised.”

  “‘I hate you’ is not a promise. It’s a factual statement.”

  “For better or for worse,” Pete said.

  “Until death do us part,” I retorted.

  “We’ll go together.”

  “I need you to know that I’m divorcing you if we live.”

  He grabbed my hand, counted to three very quickly, and then I was screaming my bloody head off. The splash was epic. When we surfaced—still alive and everything—my smile was irrepressible.

  “Again?” he asked, eyes twinkling with anticipation.

  I snorted. “I still hate you.”

  After seven more jumps, the group leader called us down, and we grudgingly clamored back into the van. The return trip was fairly quick, and Pete’s head was between my legs twenty minutes later.

  “Oh, don’t stop—ever!” I moaned, promptly seizing up in a shattering orgasm.

  After we caught our breaths, Pete looked up at me and said, “Again?”

  “I still hate you,” I replied, grinning.

  30

  Retched Honeymoon

  The next morning, I awoke and promptly vomited.

  “Y’alright?” Pete asked, poking his head around the bathroom door.

  “Stupid ham sandwich,” I muttered.

  After a few sips of water and a handful of Pepto-Bismol chewables, I felt every bit myself again.

  “Let’s try and get a little breakfast in you.”

  Though my hunger threatened to overcome me, I nibbled cautiously while grumpily watching Pete devour an entire feast. We then raced to claim beach chairs, our morning ritual. I felt immensely better after my first banana mama, and was able to eat lunch without any gastric consequences—food poisoning averted.

  “Sweet Home Alabama, again?” I crinkled my nose as the song blasted through the poolside speakers. Every American’s ear perked up, and there was a collective “Turn it up!” at just the right place. “They play this song every single flippin’ day.”

  “Must be time for water aerobics,” Pete replied.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s the staff’s cue. The songs tell ’em when to start the next activity. ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ means water aerobics.”

  Sure enough, as soon as the song ended, a man dressed in white pants and a flowered shirt picked up the microphone and said, “Alright everybodyyyyy. Water aerobics. Whoop whoop!”

  I stared at Pete, unblinking. He shrugged. “I pay attention.” Then he grinned. “I’ve also noticed how especially fine you look in that bikini top—all your tops.”

  “You think so?” I said, grinning.

  “Uh huh. Full and round. Gorgeous.” He leaned across the chair and kissed my cheek. Then he fake-yawned. “Boy, all this sun bathin’ has worn me out. I could sure use a nap. I bet you could, too.” I made a scoffing sound, and he raised a rogue’s brow. “Women have needs,” he said, echoing a long-ago conversation. “You, especially.”

  ♥

  “I’ve never seen so many shades of blue in my life,” I remarked, leaning over the catamaran’s netting. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was casting beams that reached to the depths of the ocean floor.

  “Careful ya don’t fall in,” Pete said, wiggling even farther over the edge. “I think my favorite is that one.” He pointed to a shade I’d only ever seen in a Crayola sixty-four pack. “Or maybe that one!” We whooshed over a motley scheme of ever-changing depths, yielding one hue after another.

  “This is so awesome,” I yelled into the strong breeze quickly ushering us down the shoreline.

  “I can’t believe we’re goin’ home tomorrow.”

  “Me either. It’s been amazing.”

  “Best honeymoon we’ve ever had,” he said, nudging me with his shoulder. “Are ya feelin’ alright?” he asked a few moments later, his face the very picture of concern.

  “Yes. I told you,
I’m totally fine.”

  I’d thrown up at least twice a day since eating that damned sandwich. I didn’t feel ill; I’d throw up, chew on some Pepto-Bismol, then I was good to go.

  “This is startin’ to worry me.”

  “Look! A dolphin?” I exclaimed, pointing in some random direction to break his train of thought.

  After rinsing in the restaurant’s bathroom that evening, I wiped my mouth with a wet paper towel and returned to the table. I’d made it through a whopping two bites of manicotti.

  “Did it again, didn’t ya?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “I’m fine,” I snapped.

  “You’re pale as a ghost.” He touched my forehead with the back of his hand. “Clammy, too. You’re seein’ a doctor as soon as we get home.”

  Scuffing my sandals on the walkway leading to our room, I sighed mightily.

  Packed before dawn, we set our suitcases outside the door for pick-up and took our last stroll on the beach. Mounting a lumpy coral outcropping the size of a two-story building, we settled ourselves on a smooth place and listened to the waves tumbling over one another. I lay my head on Pete’s shoulder as we watched the sun conquer the horizon. “I don’t want to go home.”

  Turning to me, his expressive eyes shone with unfettered emotion. “You are my home now. Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be.” He lifted my hand and kissed it tenderly.

  Grudgingly, we returned to the resort. I stuck my nose in a yellow vining flower and inhaled its honeyed fragrance before entering the bustling restaurant. The beauty of this place was surreal—like it couldn’t truly exist in our realm. And though I’d never deny North Carolina’s majestic glory, this was simply other. Pete took my hand and smiled in clear understanding.

  “We’ll come back next year for our anniversary. And the year after that.” He smiled sweetly. “It’ll be our special place. Yours and mine alone.”

  The bus ride back took exactly as long as it had coming. The only difference? This time, Pete was wide awake. “I don’t remember this part. Did we stop here before?” He repeated this same phrase at least once every ten minutes.

  I rolled my eyes and pulled my brimmed hat over my face.

  31

  Typhoid Mary

  “I’m carryin’ ya over the threshold properly, or we’re not goin’ in.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” After an exhausting day of travel—not in first class this time—all I wanted was a quick shower and, say, twenty-four hours of sleep.

  Setting me down at the entrance to our bedroom, he said, “I’ll get our luggage. Be right back.”

  Crunching dried rose petals like autumn leaves, I padded to the bathroom, retched, and then squirted a giant glob of toothpaste on my brush. Feeling much better with clean teeth, I yawned cavernously and then screamed bloody murder.

  Pete tumbled into the room, thoroughly alarmed. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?!”

  “Ook ah ma hongue,” I garbled, pulling out my tongue with fingertips. “Iths ack!”

  “What?”

  “Ack! Ook a ih.” I crossed my eyes, trying to see without the mirror.

  “I don’t understand.”

  I let go of my tongue and screeched, “My fucking tongue is black. It’s black! I’ve caught a disease in the bloody third world. It was that ham sandwich. What was the name of that tour company? I’m suing them before I die!”

  Pete disappeared, returning quickly with a flashlight. “Let me see.” He shone a light down my throat. “Yep, it’s definitely black.”

  “That’s frigging helpful. Call 911! Tell them to wear hazmat suits. Oh, Pete,” I said, tearing up, “we’ll be quarantined. Show me your tongue.” It was perfectly pink. “I don’t understand. You ate one, too.”

  He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. Rapidly scanning as he scrolled, his frown slowly melted into a smile. Suddenly, he burst out laughing.

  I stamped my foot. “This is life or death. What’s so damn funny?” His face was red, and he seemed unable to speak. “Peter Everett Walsh!” I yelled, kicking at him.

  “It appears ya have a case of the Pepto-Bismol blues—or blacks, in your case.” He snorted out another laugh. “According to physicians.com, for some people, namely you, the bismuth deposits on your tongue and turns it black. It says it’s common.” I snatched the phone and scanned the article.

  “Well, I threw up again, too. So ha, I am dying!” His mirth fled, soberness backfilling it.

  “I’m callin’ the doctor first thing in the morning.”

  ♥

  I stretched languorously. “Mm, it feels good waking up in our own bed.”

  “Yeah, it does.” He rolled on his side and wrapped his arms around me.

  I glanced at the bedside clock. “Ugh. Honeymoon’s over. I’ve got to hit the office and embrace the nightmares that await.”

  Gorgeous with bed hair and golden stubble, as he pulled me against his chest, my internal temperature rose ten degrees. He smiled in a way that said I will have you now. Just as our lips touched, my stomach lurched. I raced to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Other than some nasty tasting bile, nothing came up. I swallowed two capfuls of mouthwash and checked my tongue.

  Pete knocked then entered. After an accusing look, he said, “Your face is pale. Why don’t you head back to bed for a little while? Work can wait.”

  “I feel perfectly fine, barring my stupid tongue. This is just gross.”

  He sighed and left me to my toothbrush.

  “Does it look any better now?” I asked, walking back into the bedroom.

  I heard Pete say, “Okay, thanks much,” and then to me, “what’d you say, sweetheart?”

  I stuck out my tongue. “Does it look better now?” He engulfed me in his arms and kissed me, running his tongue over mine in a sensual caress. I pushed him away. “Ew! Stop it. I’m disgusting.”

  Laughing, he tried to kiss me again. “I like your tongue, no matter what color it is.”

  “Freak.”

  “How’s the stomach?”

  “Just dandy. Now let me get dressed.”

  He had dry toast and a poached egg waiting for me when I entered the kitchen. “You need to eat a little something before ya go.”

  I rolled my eyes. “My diet starts today. My skirt is actually tight.”

  He walked around me, leisurely running his hand across the contour of my butt. “It looks perfect to me.”

  “You’re blind.” I quickly ate, kissed him goodbye—lips only, and grabbed my keys.

  “Oh, Susie-Q,” Pete said, his voice following me down the stairs, “your doctor’s appointment is at one o’clock. Do you want me to come?”

  “Of course, not. I’m perfectly fine,” I lied. “And I can make my own damn appointments, thank you.”

  ♥

  “Susan Wade?”

  Grabbing hold of the nurse’s arm, I dragged her back through the door. “Listen, I caught something on my honeymoon, and it won’t go away. I have a disease! I want tests!” She shook her head and led me to the scale. When it displayed a number six pounds too high, I gasped. “That can’t be right! Your scale is broken.”

  “Scale’s just fine, honey,” she said with a snort. “Sit down here on the table, and let me take your blood pressure.” She cuffed my arm and stuck a thermometer in my mouth. “Well, you don’t have a fever.”

  “And my tongue is black!” I quipped indignantly.

  “Open,” she said, jamming a tongue depressor in my mouth. “Why Lordy, it’s black as night. What’ve you been eatin’, child?”

  “I told you, I have a disease!”

  “Doctor’ll be in shortly.” Stepping out, she left me alone with my rather impressive imagination.

  Other than an insurance mandated wellness check and a prescription refill, I’d had little reason to see a doctor since my return to North Carolina. After a light knock, a rather handsome man strolled into the room. “I’m Doctor Jordon. It’s nice to meet you
…” He glanced at the chart, “Miss Wade.”

  “It’s Mrs. Walsh, now. I just got married.”

  “Well, congratulations.” He offered a genuine smile, and then tapped his chin. “Walsh. Where do I know that name?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Seriously? Probably a third of your patients are Walshes. They’re everywhere!”

  He laughed. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m new to the area. I’ve only recently joined the practice.”

  “Oh? Where are you from?” I asked in pure North Carolina fashion.

  “Massachusetts, originally, but here via Emory.”

  I snorted. “At least Atlanta’s broken you in a bit. Still, you have some surprises waiting for you.”

  “So I’m learning.” He grimaced slightly, but then quickly put his happy doctor face back on.

  Emory had an impressive medical school. “Were you last in your class or something?” I said, eying him dubiously.

  “Third, actually. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re in nowhere, North Carolina”—silent on the Duh—“Is this some kind of scholarship fulfillment deal?”

  He barked out a laugh. “No, my wife’s from the area.”

  “Oh. Well, she’s probably related to my husband then.”

  “I’ll ask. Now, what brings you in today?” He flipped through the scant paperwork.

  “I caught a disease in Mexico and I’m dying,” I said flatly.

  “Dying, huh?”

  “Yes. See?” I stuck out my hideously black tongue.

  “Hmm.” He stuck another nasty-tasting tongue depressor in my mouth and flashed his light-thingy down my throat.

  “Sthee!”

  He chuckled. “Somebody’s been chewing Pepto-Bismol tablets. This reaction is really quite common.” I narrowed my eyes and scowled at him. “I see you’re also complaining of nausea.”