Chapter 23
Ipedal furiously across the black asphalt toward the Cocoa Reef Resort. Keston is on his second shift, so he’ll still be there.
I can take a shower, change, hang out at the bar with him, and then spend the night curled up with the diary, deciphering old English and pirate treasure clues despite not knowing who Charlotte Campbell was.
I breathe a sigh of relief upon entering the luxurious villa. Shame seeps through my pores, though, because I feel guilty. I’m excited to be in this palace with marble floors and gilt-edged faucets, thick creamy rugs, and a bed as large as Keston’s entire home.
This right here, I spin around like Cinderella entering the castle, is my escape.
My villa looks exactly like how I left it two days ago. Spotlessly clean, its marble floors a sharp contrast to Keston’s wooden plank floor. The duvet on the king size bed is plump and snowy white like a cloud or a marshmallow I can’t wait to dive on.
Outside, the coconut trees flanking the porch wave breezily back at me.
Can’t I have both? Luxury and simplicity. Some days it’s great to be pampered. Other days . . . okay, I always want to be pampered. But I’m willing to compromise between super pampered and regular pampered.
After a long hot shower under the rain shower head built for two, I wrap up in a thick towel and make a cup of tea from the sideboard filled with goodies.
My backpack sits like a sentinel on the edge of the bed waiting to be unpacked. The diary is safely tucked away inside, wrapped in several layers of plastic to protect it. My plan had been to copy it at the library so I could put the original back in the chest.
Duh! I smack my forehead.
Of course.
I unwrap the diary and open it up on the white duvet. Using my iPhone’s camera, I begin snapping photos of the pages. It takes a long time to turn each one carefully then center it and snap a good photo.
By the time I’m done, it’s after eight. My stomach growls like a demon. I’ve ignored several text messages from Keston. It’s time to go find him and explain.
When I zoom up to the beach bar in the villa’s private golf cart, Bob Marley’s song, Jammin’, is playing over invisible speakers tucked into the surrounding flowering trees and bushes. Guests swarm the bar like happy hour at spring break.
“What’s going on?” I ask Dex, Keston’s assistant, as he hurries by with a tray of drinks for a table in a private gazebo.
He grins at me. “Keston is a genius. He’s making brand-new cocktails. And getting people to vote on them. Grab your card.” Dex points to a table where a woman is handing out clipboards and pens.
“Oh.” I tiptoe to peek over the shoulders and head blocking the bar. “Cool.”
It feels weird to be so close to Keston and not hug or kiss him after being apart all day. But he’s surrounded by fifty people all shouting his name and raising glasses and singing his praises. No way he’ll see me in the back of the crowd.
But then the crowd parts. I have a direct line of sight to the wooden tiki bar with its fresh limes in the hanging baskets.
Keston’s handsome face appears between the opening in the crowd. He’s tall enough to tower over most of the people there. His curls are sticking up, a bandana tied around them making him look like a pirate, or maybe I just have pirates on the brain.
“He’s so good at what he does,” a woman sighs.
“And so gorgeous. I could eat him for breakfast,” another woman laughs.
Whoa!
“If looks could kill I’d skewer his hot girlfriend right now,” a third woman in the crew remarks. All three stare longingly in Keston’s direction.
What the fuck?I’m his girlfriend. Me!
But no one is looking at me. They’re all staring at a bar stool, where lo and behold sits a woman, whose bare back I do not recognize.
Well, I recognize it isn’t mine!
And what is my so-called boyfriend doing?
My Keston is leaning across the bar talking to the sexy usurper of boyfriends. His white-toothed smile gleams like a crescent moon. The same way he smiles at me.
A knife twists inside my gut. Is this what happens when I’m not around?
Of course, dummy. He’s a hot bartender . . . I mean, mixologist at a resort. His job is literally to entertain and make people happy. He told me once he has a “bartender” spiel.
It sure is working. Ms. Sexy Back is ready to fall in his lap. Her body language is obvious.
Watching how easy it is for Keston to flirt with another woman makes the smug super confidence I’ve been feeling about us vanish like a genie into thin air.
All this time I’ve been weighing whether I should stay in St. Nicholas and whether I should build a life with Keston, and he’s been lining up options?
But can I blame him? Every day I’m examining my options. It’s no secret I may not be staying here permanently.
When he asks me to move in, I balk. When he tries to make plans, I hesitate.
All to give myself space. Mental space. Because the decision to move to a different country with a different culture and beliefs, history and lifestyle is scary.
And as an excuse, I tell him I need more than what he can give me.
Lord, I feel like such a fool. At how shallow and narrow-minded I’ve been, telling him I need more space in his house. I can’t live without a washer/dryer. I’d like a cappuccino machine and a SUV.
When the only thing I really want, and need, is him. Now, it may be too late.