Honeymoon For One

by Chris Keniston

  “Would you like one?” the waiter asked, holding a tray filled with colorful stemmed shot glasses.

  “Are they all the same?” As if she would know the difference anyhow. Some of the glasses were red, some blue, and others green. They’d make great souvenirs. Maybe she could ask for an empty one?

  Before she could open her mouth, the little shopgirl who’d spent the day arguing with the angel, once again whispered in her ear, “For heaven’s sake. You’re here to live and let live. You don’t have to drive home. Pick one and drink it. Heck, drink ’em all.”

  All might be a bit much, but the voice was right. Adventurous women didn’t ask for empty shot glasses. “I’ll try the blue, please.”

  “One Italian Stallion.”

  Michelle felt the blush rise up her neck.

  Apparently, Kirk didn’t have a low embarrassment threshold or a good angel on his shoulder. Not only had he ordered one of each for himself but he had the waiter set a red and green shot glass in front of her. Oh, boy.

  Live and let live, she reminded herself. Plastering on a cheerful smile, she lifted the pretty blue glass, “Cheers!” and gulped it down in one swallow. “Mm. What did he say was in this?”

  “Amaretto, Baileys, and Tia Maria.”

  “Ah, no wonder. I like Baileys.”

  Kirk took a small sip from his blue glass. “Baileys Banana Colada.”

  The fact he knew her preferred drink shouldn’t have made a difference, but it did. She felt like a bubbling schoolgirl, effervescing with joy and ready to sing to the crowds, Mr. Sexy noticed my favorite drink!

  She picked up the pretty red hourglass-shaped shot glass. “What’s this one called?”

  “French Kiss.”

  Didn’t she wish! Good heavens, what was she thinking? The little shopgirl on her shoulder grinned knowingly. The overwhelmed angel cringed. Oh, yeah, the shopgirl definitely had the right idea.

  “You should like that one, too.” Kirk pointed with his chin at the glass in her hand.

  “Baileys?”

  He nodded.

  This time she took a small sip. “You seem to know an awful lot about mixed drinks.”

  “Bartended to help pay for school.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “It paid the bills.” He lifted his shoulder in a casual shrug, but somehow the gesture didn’t seem casual at all.

  The waiter appeared with their dinner, and she wondered if it had been the job, the money, or school in general that had posed a problem for her adventurous companion. “What did you study?”

  “Business Administration.” He cut into his steak, holding the morsel momentarily in midair. “This is one of the things I love about this line. They know what to do with their meats.”

  “Have you been on a lot of different cruise lines?”

  He nodded and cut another piece. “All of them.”

  “All of them?” To keep her mouth from gaping open like a landed trout, Michelle shoved a forkful of salad into her mouth.

  “Pretty much, yeah. I told you. Work hard, play hard.”

  “But how do you find the time to travel so much?”

  “I’m self-employed. I take on a contract, and when it’s over, I take off. I decide when it’s time to work again. No one else.”

  “Surely, you must stay home once in a while? I mean, spend time with friends, family? Get the mail, do laundry, clean the house?” As much as she was enjoying herself playing the free spirit, she couldn’t imagine being away from her sister all the time. For the last seven years, it had been just the two of them.

  “Don’t have any family. Most of my mail is just junk. I do all my banking and bill paying online. As long as the housekeeper keeps the toilets clean”—he shot her a lopsided grin—“there’s nothing to stop me from taking off for the next place on my list.”

  “Your list?”

  “Right now I’m working on all the places in the song ‘Kokomo.’”

  “Kokomo? The Beach Boys’ ‘Kokomo’?”

  “Think about it. If you love the water, ‘Kokomo’ is a great Caribbean guide. From Key Largo in Florida, to Montego Bay in Jamaica, Aruba, Bermuda, Bahamas. This trip I get to cross Martinique off my list. Next time I’m shooting for Montserrat.”

  “You mean there really is such a place?”

  “Southeast of Puerto Rico. Half the island was buried under a volcano back in the nineties, so it’s not a popular tourist place. But they say it’s pristine in its beauty.”

  “And the friend who was supposed to take this trip with you, what was his name?”

  “Dave.”

  “Right. Dave. Does he go off with you on all these adventures?”

  “No, his wife would kill him.” Kirk waved his steak knife in the air for emphasis. “After his first year of law school, his parents gave him an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe. That was the first time we took off together.”

  She stabbed at her salad. “Sounds expensive.”

  “Would have been, the way Dave’s family had planned it out. Dave cashed in his business-class ticket for coach and dragged me along.”

  “Dragged you? To Europe?” She laughed out loud. “Like there’s anyone in the world who wouldn’t go running at an opportunity like that.”

  “Would you have?”

  “Of course.” Or maybe not. She’d dropped out of college to take a full-time job at the newspaper. The day her parents had died, she’d left frat parties, keggers, football games, and any girlish dreams behind. By the time her old friends were graduating, she’d built a busy new life raising her little sister and trying her best to fill her mom’s shoes. There was no way she would have left Corrie to gallivant across the globe. They’d have had to drag her away from home kicking and screaming.

  “Hey.” Kirk waved a fork. “I lost you.”

  “Oh, sorry. My mind wandered.”

  “Am I that boring?”

  “No. Not at all. Tell me more about the trip.”

  “It was great. Every kid grows up knowing there’s more to the world than your own backyard. But it’s different when you find yourself standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower, the foot of Buckingham Palace, in the ruins of Pompeii. That’s when I decided never to settle.”

  “Settle for what?”

  “The ordinary. The bill of goods.”

  “Bill of goods?”

  “I guess most people would call it the American dream. House with a picket fence, spouse, two-point-five children, and of course, a dog. A man who falls for that trap finds himself tied to a forty-hour-a-week job that turns into eighty so he can pay for the children, the house. And keep in mind, whatever time he's not working to pay for the house is spent fixing the house. I won’t even get into what a wife costs a man.”

  “Ooh, a cynic.”

  “No, practical. I don’t want to wind up like an old rock-and-roll song.”

  “Rock-and-roll song?”

  “You know. The one about the high school sweethearts whose life goes on even after the thrill of living is gone. I plan to enjoy the thrill of living until the day I die.”

  Kirk centered his knife and fork on the plate, and waved for the waiter.

  A thin man, probably in his mid-fifties, the waiter scurried across the crowded floor. “Are you ready for dessert?”

  The standard reply, No, thank you. I don’t eat sweets, sprang to mind, but she managed to smother the words before they tumbled forth. “Anything with lots of chocolate.”

  The waiter turned to Kirk.

  “I’ll have the same, only with ice cream.”

  “Excellent.” As quickly as he’d arrived, the waiter disappeared across the room.

  “Where were we?” Kirk asked.

  “The thrill of living. And your friend feels the same way?”

  “He did until he fell into the trap.”

  “Ah, a house with two-point-five children?”

  “A condo in San Francisco. No kids yet, but they’ve got the dog. I t
hink Deb is letting Dave practice on the puppy before she entrusts him to fatherhood.”

  Now that made Michelle laugh. “But he still travels with you every year. Well, except this year.”

  “Deb’s a good sport, for a wife. I get him two weeks a year, she gets him the other fifty, but enough on that. What will it be tonight? The casino? A show? Dancing?”

  She didn’t need an angel on her shoulder to know she should tell him No, thank you. After all, as a woman who looked both ways, twice, before crossing the street, she would have never wasted her time on a man who considered family a trap and believed playing hard the only way to live.

  That’s why the last seven years of her life had been spent with Steven, a steady, responsible, respected citizen. Then again, look where that got her.

  In the two days spent with Kirk, she’d smiled, giggled, and laughed more than she had in the five years she’d been engaged to Steven. In eight more days she would be back in Bluffview, responsible for a home, a teenager, and setting a good example. Her skirts would be long enough to cover her knees, her heels low and comfortable, her drinks nonalcoholic, and her life safe and sensible.

  A monochromatic picture of her as an old woman sprang to mind. Rocking alone on the front porch, in a polyester polka- dot dress with sensible shoes, petting a sleeping cat, the poor old spinster left at the altar fifty years ago.

  By golly, if only for ten days of her long sensible, comfortable life, she would know the thrill of living. “I vote for dancing!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The morning sun winked at Michelle through the sliver of space between the drawn curtains. Snuggled comfortably in the warmth of her cabin, she burrowed deeper under the covers, and mumbled into her pillow, “Five more minutes.”

  “Mm,” a baritone voice agreed as a heavy arm circled her middle and pulled her close against a strong hard body. The fuzzy patch of hair on his bare chest tickled the skin of her naked back.

  Naked? Michelle’s eyes flew open. The brazen sunlight shot painful daggers through her temple. She slammed her eyes shut, chasing away the shooting pain in her head, only to discover a simmering heat blooming in her gut.

  Naked. She was naked...in bed...with a man. A naked man. And his naked fingers were exploring her naked flesh. Good grief, what had she done?

  “Mornin’,” the deep voice murmured in her ear.

  “Mm,” she mumbled back.

  Roaming fingers pulled sweet sensations from the recesses of her mind. Last night was all coming back to her. Kirk, the drinks, the laughter, the dancing. Oh, the dancing.

  They’d done the two-step, the jive, an embarrassing rendition of the jitterbug, and a slow easy sway that couldn’t truly be classified as dancing. With her cheek against his shoulder, and her body tucked against his, molded to him like a second skin, it wasn’t any wonder they’d eased out of the disco, down the hall, and into the elevator without allowing an inch of space to grow between them. The moment the metallic doors closed behind them, his mouth had found hers. Heat on heat, the combustion had been instantaneous.

  Entwined like a pair of tropical vines, they'd stumbled their way to her cabin. Once inside urgency had ruled. Buttons popped, seams tore, and fabric flew. He’d taken her fast and hard and sent her body into frenzied spasms of pleasure she hadn’t believed possible. By the time they drifted off to sleep, she’d understood what her coworker Pam had been raving about all these years.

  Now, heaven help her, she wanted to do it all over again. But the angel on her shoulder, shocked to find Michelle in bed with a virtual stranger, chastised her for being so reckless. The voice of reason urged her to find her clothes, pack her bags, get off at the next port, escape temptation, and return as fast as she could to her orderly sensible life.

  Just as reason began to take hold, as duty pushed passed desire, Kirk’s warm mouth nibbled on her neck, sending shivers down her very tense spine.

  “Delicious. Micki mine,” he whispered against her burning skin.

  Oh, yeah. His hungry mouth worked a path of hot, moist, and nerve-tingling kisses down her neck and across her shoulder.

  Like the tide pulled by the moon, her body shifted, turned in his arms, and bowed against him. Hard meeting soft, velvet and silk, heat to heat.

  To hell with reason.

  ***

  Maybe she’d gone too far this time. Her legs ached, and if she shifted the wrong way, she would get the mother of all wedgies, again.

  Why did people think this was fun? Every touch was like gripping paint-covered sandpaper, not really smooth, not really rough. All for what? To reach the heights and ring the dang bell.

  When Michelle saw one of the rock climbers get a shock from touching the metal screws on the next grip and come sliding back down, she almost handed over her harness and walked away. Then a kid half her size rang the bell, glided to the bottom, landed with a spring to his step, and her fears seemed grossly out of place.

  Now, halfway up the wall, she was rethinking her strategy. Would she really look that foolish if she just gave up and slid down? Then again, if what goes up must come down, she might as well come down from the top. It was that kind of crazy thinking that had gotten her here in the first place, letting the idea of Micki Bradford, adventurous fun-loving woman, get the better of her. No matter what nickname Kirk called her by, deep inside she was still boring, sensible Michelle, who had to be out of her mind to climb halfway up a fake mountain.

  One step at a time. She blew out a resigned breath and pushed with her legs. She could do this. Fighting the urge to look down, she reached for the next groove in the wall and the next. Eyes upward, the insurmountable distance to the top had shrunk to just one more reach. Stretching, careful not to swing away from the wall, arm extended, she pulled on the string.

  The bell clanged and something inside her soared. She’d done it! She’d actually done it. She’d climbed a forty-foot wall. Conquered the wedgies, the sore fingers, and tired legs, and rung the bell. Careful not to touch the rope on the ride down, she landed on her feet and spun around to find Kirk.

  “Race you to the top!”

  ***

  There was an excitement about Micki that Kirk couldn’t ignore. A contagious energy. With her the same old, same old, seemed fresh and new. Again today, at the last port of call, walking the crowded tourist market, a place like every other open-air market on every other island he’d ever been, he was sucked in by her enthusiasm, searching for the next great bargain.

  “How much is this?” She wore a floppy hat, a thin green strand of straw delicately woven along the brim.

  “For you, pretty lady, only twenty-five dollars.”

  Kirk swallowed the urge to laugh out loud. This poor island woman had no idea what she was in for. His Micki might look like an ordinary tourist but lurking inside was a shrewd woman who could put Donald Trump’s famed negotiating skills to shame. Kirk had been watching her all morning. If she wanted that hat, and he’d come to recognize the glint in her eye when she found something she absolutely wanted, she would get it and not for twenty-five dollars.

  “Thank you, no.” She bit back a smile and handed over the hat. She’d done this on every island port. She either had a family the size of the Osmonds or enough friends to fill a town. Either way, he loved watching her shop.

  “This is handmade, not machine made. Normally I sell these for thirty dollars. Today you can have it for only twenty.”

  “Ten.”

  “No, miss. Look at the quality. Eighteen.”

  Micki shook her head, and took only one step before the woman countered, “Fifteen.”

  “Ten,” Micki repeated.

  The woman hesitated a second. “Twelve. I can do no better than that.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not willing to pay more than ten.” On that, she turned on her heel, had taken two steps when the woman shoved the hat in her hand.

  “Ten dollars for the pretty miss.”

  It was all he could do to stop himse
lf from kissing the big grin off her face. If he told Dave how much fun he’d had walking every aisle of the market, his friend would have him undergoing a full medical exam, maybe even psychiatric testing.

  For the umpteenth time today, Kirk had almost broken his steadfast rule and asked Micki for her phone number. So far, she’d been the perfect shipboard companion. Together, they'd laughed hard and played hard. Nothing existed outside the here and now. She knew the rules of the game as well as he did.

  With the exception of their first dinner where he’d talked about his first trip with Dave, neither had divulged anything personal. For all he knew, she had a husband and two-point-five children at home waiting for her. Though he doubted it.

  So many times over the last nine days he’d wondered, What was her story? Why was she here on a ship alone? For most women traveling solitaire, the answer was easy—men and sex. Except from day one, he knew she was different. Still, he’d held fast to the unspoken rules of a shipboard liaison—don’t ask, don’t tell.

  Besides, he also knew, back in the real world, there was no such thing as different. All women were the same. The American dream was nothing more than a well-marketed trap, and he wanted no part of it. Next trip there’d be another woman to liaise with. There’d always be more women, but he knew they’d be like all the women before Micki. Same old, same old.

  Stopping short in front of him, that now familiar twinkle in her eye, she seemed to have zeroed in on one of the gold charms in the window.

  “Shall we go inside?” he asked. The question must have been more difficult than he realized. She nibbled on her bottom lip as though debating the solution to world peace. “Micki?”

  “Um, sure.”

  A middle-aged man with a slight British accent in a crisp white suit approached. “May I help you?”