Somewhere on St. Thomas: A Somewhere Series Romance (19 page)

“It must be love if you’re that miserable, Sam, and I’m sorry. Because I think you’re right. I have made my choice,” I whispered to the taillights of the sports car.

Chapter 16

Back in the dorm, I went to the RA’s office.

“Hey.”

Kenny was a tall, geeky guy with the kind of patchy beard that should be dealt with some other way than being allowed to grow. He was packing up his office, a tiny closet at the end of the hall on the first floor.

“Hey, Ruby. Saw the play. You were awesome.”

“Thanks. Listen, I’m wondering how long I get to be in the room before the building shuts down.”

“Well, till the end of the week.”

Today was Sunday.

“You mean next Friday?”

“Yeah.”

He must have seen my expression because he said, “You got somewhere to go?”

“I’m sure I do,” I said. “I’m just not sure where.”

“Hey, did Rafe find you? The sailor guy?”

I felt an immediate heat in my cheeks. “He did, thanks. Did he say where his boat is berthed?”

Kenny straightened up, eyes twinkling. “You should see if they need another deckhand or something. That’s what I’d do.” I belatedly remembered Kenny was gay, and I grinned back at him.

“Not a bad idea.”

“Well, he said they were anchored at the South Boston Yacht Club. I asked him some questions, you know, to make sure I wasn’t siccing some psycho on one of our students.”

“I’ll bet.” My cheeks were fiery now, but I winked back at him. “I think I might just do that. I’ll be out by the end of the week.” I waved goodbye and headed down the hall.

I didn’t have time to wait around until Rafe decided to get in touch. I had to find somewhere to be by the end of the week, and I needed to talk to him first.

* * *

There are a lot of places to park a yacht in and around Boston, a fact that made me very glad to at least have the correct name of where the
Creamy Maid
was berthed.

It wasn’t nearby.

I had to take the subway and two buses before I ended up at the waterfront where the large, intimidating structure of the South Boston Yacht Club building fronted the sparkling ocean.

I’d worn a hat because the sun was high and bright. I tried to walk around the building confidently and like I knew where I was going. The wind off the bay kept yanking at the hat, a straw boater style Shellie had given me that was more cute than functional. I had decided the look for a yacht club should be preppy, so I’d worn a kelly-green polo shirt, denim shorts, and leather boat shoes, but the same wind that yanked at my hat made me realize a parka might have been a good idea.

There were very few boats moored at the main dock, and I saw with a sinking heart that most of the bigger yachts were anchored far out in the bay. It was going to be a much bigger production to find and reach the
Creamy Maid
than it had been in San Francisco.

I finally worked up my nerve to approach a grizzled-looking older guy scrubbing the deck of one of the boats tied up at the dock.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for the
Creamy Maid
. Can you tell me how to find her?” It sounded funny to talk about the boat like that, but I was pretty sure that’s how people discussed boats.

Like they were women.

“Ask at the yacht club information desk,” the salty dog said, pointing, eyeballing me up and down.

“Thanks.”

I felt more comfortable inside the venerable building than I had expected. It had the kind of old-world, shabby charm evident in a lot of the buildings on Saint Thomas, and I felt a pang of homesickness.

I approached the well-groomed blond teenager at the information desk. “Hi. I’m trying to get hold of someone on the
Creamy Maid
. Can you tell me how to do that?”

The teenager looked me up and down, much as the salty dog had, and clearly my preppy outfit was the wrong color or style or something. “We have a ship-to-shore phone directory,” the kid said, pushing an old-fashioned logbook over. “You can call from that phone.” He pointed a finger.

“Thanks.” I looked through the book, which was simple. Recent entries were listed with a number beside them by the order they’d arrived. A date was entered when the boat left, and the number was reassigned. I steeled myself to speak to male strangers and explain my embarrassing mission to find Rafe. I felt like a hooker or a groupie, invading this male sanctuary.

Finally, I found the number and, copying it on a scrap of paper, saluted the teen. “Thanks.”

He bobbed his head, going back to the Rubik’s Cube he was working as I walked across the battered, luxurious Persian carpet of the main room. I dialed the old-fashioned rotary phone, my fingers trembling.

“
Creamy Maid
,” came a brisk voice, and in surprise, I recognized it.

“Rafe?”

“Ruby?” He sounded astonished. “Where are you?”

“In the lobby of the yacht club.” I put my hand on my throat to keep my voice from trembling. “Can we talk?”

A long pause. I looked out the bank of windows at the sparkling green water of the bay peppered with yachts, wondering which one was the
Maid
.

“I’m just thinking the best way to go about this,” he said.

“I’m sorry to bug you at work. It’s just that I had no way to contact you, and I have to be out of the dorms by the end of the week, and I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing,” I said in a rush, putting my hand up against my flushed cheek. “I wanted to—I don’t know. I need to figure out what to do. So I wanted to talk.”

“I understand.” His voice was brisk, still in work mode. “I should have left you a number. I didn’t realize you were on such a tight schedule. I’ll be over shortly.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, but I was speaking to a dial tone.

I hung the phone up and went to one of the comfy, saggy old velvet chairs clustered in groups around low tables filled with sailing magazines and newspapers.

I watched the boats through the window. I considered going outside, but I could see tiny whitecaps, and I knew I’d be standing on the dock, holding my stupid hat on my head, feeling and looking awkward.

A small white Zodiac appeared, bobbing over the whitecaps, and I recognized the shoulders and the whipping long hair.

Rafe.

I took the hat off as I walked out of the lobby, and my hair promptly whirled around my head like a dervish as Rafe drew the tender up to the dock and cut the engine. He hopped up onto the dock and tied the little boat off.

He walked toward me with that graceful stalking stride, wearing cutoff jeans and a black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off.

He looked dangerous and poor.

I remembered thinking that when I first met him, and finding it scary.

But I discovered, my heart thundering as he approached me, that I didn’t care about that anymore. I was more of a dreamer than I’d known. Because I wanted him anyway.

I wanted to be with him. Even if it meant we spent long times apart while he worked on yachts and sailed the world. I wanted to be with him, even if I had to keep working at jobs like the student cafeteria for the rest of my life.

I wanted Rafe, to be his and for him to be mine.

I wished there had been some easier way to come to this conclusion.

Two more long strides and he stood looming over me, just a little too close. I could smell sunshine, sweat, and salt on him. His eyes were a piercing nautical blue under his dark brows. He still intimidated me, but I knew now that I was as strong as he was, in my own way. I straightened my spine and looked him in the eye.

“Yes,” I said.

“What?”

“Yes. That’s it. No seat belts. I’ll take my chances.” He’d said I’d have to ride with him that way back on our first date.

He threw his head back and laughed. He was gorgeous and mesmerizing as he did so. And then he crushed me in a bone-cracking hug, lifted me so our crotches were aligned, and kissed me silly.

“Everybody’s looking,” I muttered. “I feel like a groupie, coming here.”

“That’s ’cause only groupies, sailors, and boat owners come here. But you’re my groupie, so it’s okay. Come inside. We have to talk.” He took my hand, and we went into the yacht club building.

“Hey, Captain McCallum,” said the teenager respectfully, looking at me with new eyes.

“Hey,” he said, tugging me past as we headed toward the dining room. “You hungry? We can get some lunch.”

I tried to tug my hand out of his. “Captain? I thought you were a deckhand.”

“How do you think I got to bring the
Maid
all the way from San Francisco to Boston?”

I opened and shut my mouth a couple of times as we reached the dining room, thinking of all the millions of questions I’d never asked and he’d never told me. I felt very young and stupid all of a sudden. Self-absorbed, too.

To be fair, he’d never volunteered much either, even in all those letters.

The dining room was another place that reminded me of the gently worn, gracious old-gentry enclaves of Saint Thomas. We got a window seat, and I held my slightly greasy, laminated menu, staring at it without seeing.

It appeared my seat-belt-free, taking-chances ride had already begun. What did I really know about Rafe McCallum?

Rafe pushed down the menu to see my face. “You look pale.”

“I feel a little sick. I can’t believe I just told you I’d marry you.”

Now he paled a bit. “Is that what that was? I thought—never mind.”

“What? The offer was off the table?” I dropped the menu, scrambling to get up and flee.

“No, no, no.” He grabbed my hand, tugged me to sit back down. “This is classic. I just thought you’d decided to ditch Sam and pick me. I can’t believe you’re ready to jump all the way into the deep end of the pool.”

“I thought that was the only option you were giving me,” I said. My eyes felt too wide, my lips were numb, and it was hard to speak. A waitress approached, but Rafe waved her away, keeping a hard grip on my hand as he gazed into my eyes with his deep-sea ones.

“Come to think of it, I guess it was,” he whispered. “Will you marry me, Ruby Day Michaels?”

“Yes, I will, God help me,” I said. I was terrified and excited and felt the color flame back into my face.

“Holy crap.” He tugged my hand and pulled me from my chair around to his side and onto his lap.

We kissed for a good long time that way, and I felt the rightness of it all the way down to my bones.

Yeah, dangerous and poor he was. And now there would be two of us.

The waitress had returned, and she cleared her throat. “Did you want to order something?”

I made to get up, but Rafe kept me unapologetically clamped in place on his lap. “Yes. We’ll both have burgers and Cokes. We just got engaged, so we’re a little happy over here.”

“Oh, congratulations!” the waitress exclaimed. “Well, carry on, then.”

So we did.

Chapter 17

Much later we walked along the dock. I was in a state of euphoria so extreme it actually reminded me of the misery of leaving him in San Francisco. My feet felt too far away and I felt untethered, as if I would float away and be lost somewhere over the Atlantic—but as long as Rafe was with me, it didn’t matter.

“Practical concerns,” Rafe said, swinging one hand as I held the ridiculous hat on with the other. “I’m not gonna lie—this is a little unexpected. So I’m adjusting the sails, so to speak. I have to call your dad, ask permission to marry you. Then I think we can do something quick on board the
Maid
with one of my captain friends.”

I stopped, turned to face him. “But I think my family will want to be there!”

“Do you really want to wait until we can sail to Saint Thomas for a proper ceremony?” He lifted my hand, nibbled on the tips of my fingers. “Because I don’t think either of us can wait that long. We’ll go there for a honeymoon and redo the ceremony at your church.”

“You’re being silly. The actual wedding’s a technicality,” I argued, even as pleasure sizzled down my nerve endings to melt my resistance. “I said I’d marry you. Let’s just go—to bed.” I knew my priorities.

“Yes, let’s. As soon as we get married. I’ll get you back to the dorm and you can pack your things.” He turned me around and we walked briskly back to the yacht club building. I felt almost delirious, like I was going to wake up from a bizarre and fast-moving dream any minute, but Rafe was still talking in that unfamiliar brisk work mode. “I need to get on the phone, take care of some business.”

* * *

That’s how I came to be standing in the middle of my room in something of a daze as two sturdy sailors from the
Maid
threw my paltry possessions into boxes, hauled my meager furniture to the corner for campus recycling, and then set about cleaning and scrubbing with the same uncomplaining energy they’d already impressed me with.

I got back to the docks in short order after checking out of the dorm, escorted by the two sailors in the yacht club’s truck with all my stuff. Not that there was much of it. What I had fit into a storage locker assigned to the
Maid
.