Rum to the Reggae : A Caribbean Island romantic comedy

Chapter 1

The blue boat rises and falls before smacking into a wave. Salty water dashes across the bow and drenches me with rainbow-colored drops.

“Is it supposed to do that?” I shout over the sound of the engine.

Keston Kips grins widely. “If we want to win, yes. It does that and more.”

As if testing out the “more,” he pushes the throttle forward and the boat skips over the waves like a dancing porpoise.

“We might die before we win,” I grumble.

He shakes his head. “We haven’t died yet.”

“Exactly. No need to test fate.”

But he doesn’t hear me because another boat plows through the sea next to us, sending up a giant wave of water.

“Damn you, Starr,” Keston shouts at the giant fisherman in his mid-thirties, whose dark muscles upon muscles make him look like a Black Thor. His boat, Ghost Rider, roars off, leaving a wake of white water.

The wave would swamp us if not for Keston’s quick sideways maneuver that throws me off balance and into his solid, muscled chest.

He holds the steering wheel with one hand, the throttle with the other, and still manages to bend down and kiss me on my lips.

“You okay, baby? I’m sorry. They came out of nowhere.”

“Thank God I’m wearing a life jacket. The only one in this madcap scavenger hunt to be doing so.”

“The fishermen of St. Nicholas believe they’re invincible. Probably from years of doing a hazardous job.”

“You guys are nuts,” I shout into the wind. “I can’t believe you do this ‘Pirate Regatta’ every year.” I hold up the laminated list of items we’re in a race to collect from all over the island by boat only.

We’re supposed to beg, borrow, steal, or kidnap the items in honor of the pirate theme. No legitimate buying is allowed.

I wouldn’t know where to purchase the tail feather of a frigate bird or a shell from the bottom of Mermaid Pool, even if we could buy them.

“Aren’t you glad you’re here for this?” Keston beams so brightly that I can’t throw cold water on his enthusiasm. Even though we’re getting sloshed by gallons of saltwater as a fisherman with an apparent death wish spins 360s in Call Me Crazy at high speed.

Fear charges through me from head to toe. He could easily hit our boat.

“This is so dangerous. Am I the only person who thinks we should have some basic rules for this competition?”

“Rules?” Keston says as if he had never heard the word before.

“Like not endangering lives. That could be Rule No. 1.”

He chuckles, “Wait until you see the cliff divers.”

I blink. “Cliff divers?” I eye the emerald-green hills. Shadowy rocks demarcate the bottoms of the cliffs like a Bob Ross painting.

I shudder. “I can’t wait for that.”

He grins at me like a little kid with a new toy. His blue powerboat is that toy.

Keston worked hard all month to get it ready for today.

Ever since I arrived on St. Nicholas to reunite with the man I realized I was in love with, Keston has started working on “projects,” as he calls them.

It was like he got a new lease on life when I showed up.

I’m happy to inspire and motivate, but I never imagined the old dirty shell of a boat sitting upside down in his beach backyard would look like this flying blue bird.

With newly upholstered side-by-side console seats cushioned in marine stripes, a giant, noisy engine he and a mechanic tinkered with for one whole week, to the point where I almost offered to buy him a new engine (but now am glad I didn’t), and a steering wheel as big as the one in my Mom’s Tahoe back in upstate New York.

Keston did a whole Grease Lightning transformation on this vessel.

All he’d talked about was how much I’d love the “Pirate Regatta.”

But now that I’m here, risking my life and spitting out mouthfuls of seawater, I’m having second thoughts. His idea of fun and mine are totally different.

I’d be happy lounging under a coconut tree with a good book. Not galloping wildly over waves and dodging kamikaze boats.

“What’s the prize again?” I ask, squinting through the spray of water hosing our boat. What he told me last week doesn’t seem like it’s worth all this trouble.

“A bottle of rum.”

“That’s it?”

“An old bottle of rum.”

“What’s so great about that?”

He gives me a side-eye. “Aged rums have more character. They’re complex. Served great neat, on the rocks, and in cocktails.”

“How old are we talking?”

“The older the better.” He pops a kiss on my forehead. “Like you.”

I swat his arm. “Rude!”

He laughs, turning the steering wheel on our power boat hard to the left to navigate what looks like an underwater shelf of rocks.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll hit a rock or something?” I ask.

He shakes his head confidently. His dark, curly hair is held back off his face by a bandana in rasta colors. His curls shimmer with drops of seawater.

With broad shoulders that easily carry two full buckets of water from the spring near his beach house, sparkling brown eyes that look at me as if I’m the only woman in the world, a toothpaste white smile, and an optimistic attitude that rivals a giant purple dinosaur’s, Keston Kips is not exactly the type of man I imagined I’d fall for.

But he’s everything I want and need.

Which makes him perfect for me.

A thought that usually has me smiling inside and out.

Except for times like now. When I worry if our incredibly different lifestyles will wreak havoc on our relationship. Maybe even be a deal breaker.

I’m a New York lawyer who loves her daily planners, her daily structure, and having brunch with my girlfriends at new restaurants on the weekends.

As unromantic as that sounds, it’s how I was raised; it’s who I am.

Keston is the opposite of me. He’s an island man who catches, cleans, and cooks his own food. Most of his time is spent outside, and other than his job as a mixologist at Cocoa Reef Resort, he has no planned activities.

He lives for today. Let tomorrow take care of itself. That’s his motto.

Living on this gorgeous island should be easy, except I’m struggling with the see-what-happens attitude.

When I returned to St. Nicholas with a six-week plan to see if I could live here with Keston, I didn’t expect to confront so many lifestyle changes.

“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?” Keston nudges my leg with his.

His skin is hot. It reminds me of the heat he brings under the sheets.

When I don’t answer right away, he frowns, looking sincerely worried. “Are you feeling seasick? Should we stop?”

The fact that he’d give up his fun and games in a second for me silences any relationship doubts.

What am I thinking? Keston Kips loves me to the moon and back. I am a very lucky woman.

“Nothing’s wrong, my love. Let’s win this thing.”

The smile that splits his face is entirely for me. A thank you, and I love you wrapped up in one.

How could I ever believe we might end?