Captain Dreamboat (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 7)

by Tawna Fenske

“I love you, too,” she murmurs. “Ja vas kohaju.”

  “Your accent’s a lot better than mine.”

  She laughs again, and this time I slip out of her body. “Thanks,” she says as I reach down as discreetly as I can to get rid of the condom. “I’ve been practicing.”

  So have I. Everything I’ve done in life has been leading me to this moment, right here, right now, with Blanka.

  I just never knew it.

  As I kiss her again, I say a silent prayer I’ll find a way to hold onto it. That I don’t screw this up somehow.

  Sometime in the night, I wake to the weirdest sound I’ve ever heard. At first, I think something’s wrong with Blanka, and I bolt upright in bed.

  But she’s fast asleep beside me, one fist curled against her cheek and her hair fanned softly across the pillow.

  The sounds are definitely coming from down the hall.

  Throwing off the covers, I fumble in the darkness for a pair of sweatpants. Blanka comes to as I’m pulling on a T-shirt, and she rolls with the sheets clutched to her breasts.

  “What is it?” Her voice is sleep-husky, which sounds a lot like sex-husky. It takes superhuman strength not to crawl back in bed and make love to her again. Superhuman strength and another guttural yowl from down the hall.

  “I think it’s Jessica,” I tell her. “Something’s wrong.”

  That’s all the explanation she needs. Blanka leaps out of bed, not bothering to locate her own clothes. She grabs my robe off the back of the door and pulls it around herself as we hurry down the hall to the closed office door.

  “That sound,” Blanka whispers. “It’s like a horse choking on an apple.”

  “You’re familiar with the sound of a horse choking on an apple?”

  “I volunteered at an equine rehab center in grade school,” she says as I reach for the doorknob. “I also watched YouTube videos of cats delivering babies, and it sounds the same.”

  We push through the door together, and my eyes adjust slowly to the dimness. Over in the corner is the glowing green nightlight I plugged in last week, and beside it is Jessica. She’s sprawled at the edge of her refrigerator box maternity ward looking like an angry, beached walrus.

  “Brrrrow,” she growls as her sides heave. “Brrrrrrrrrrrow.”

  “That one had more syllables than normal.” Blanka drops to her knees beside the box. “She might be close.”

  “How do you—oh my God.”

  I blink as a wet, furry potato emerges from Jessica’s back end. The potato wiggles, freeing four tiny paws and a gray golf ball head with the smallest ears I’ve ever seen.

  “Your first kitten,” Blanka coos. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” I’m surprised by the tightness in my chest.

  “Not you, Jessica.”

  Jessica’s not thrilled as her sides heave again. She muscles through another contraction, then curls in on herself to clean the little fur blob.

  “Oh!” Blanka draws her hands to her mouth and bounces back on her heels. “Have you ever seen anything so precious?”

  Precious is not the word I’d use to describe the gooey, alienlike hairball wriggling on the pile of clean towels, but I nod anyway. “Precious,” I repeat for lack of a better word.

  “Look!” Blanka points to a second fur potato moving around on the gray towel beside Jessica. “There’s another kitten. She must have had one before we got here.”

  “Brrrrow,” says Jessica, signaling us there’s a third one coming.

  We watch in wonder as the miracle of birth unfolds in all its technicolor glory. All its messy, slimy, oh-my-God-what-is-that glory.

  Blanka leans in and strokes Jessica’s side, palm soothing the ripple of muscle moving down her abdomen. “Jade mentioned that might help with contractions.”

  “You’re doing good,” I tell them both, wishing I’d watched the YouTube videos or maybe studied up on Lamaze. “Breathe or push or—whatever you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Brrrrow,” Jessica grumbles, and gives another mighty heave.

  “Four,” Blanka whispers triumphantly, giving a silent clap. Her eyes sparkle in the green glow of the nightlight as Jessica leans down to tend her newest crotch fruit.

  We wait in silence for more kittens to appear, or for Jessica’s head to spin around. It’s the first time I’ve witnessed feline birth, and it’s not unlike an exorcism.

  But also magical. When I glance at Blanka again, my heart does a little shiver of wonder.

  “Pretty cool,” I admit, sliding around her and kissing the side of her head.

  “That was amazing.” Blanka breathes the words like a prayer. “Good job, mama.”

  The cat ignores her, intent on cleaning the tiny, alien creatures clawing at her side. There’s a gray one, two tiger stiped kittens, and one in mottled shades of orangey-tan. Their eyes scrunch tightly closed as they make their way to the dinner nozzles jutting from their mother’s side.

  A soft, low purr fills the space around us, and it takes me a moment to recognize it as Jessica and not my heart rumbling its contentment.

  This.

  This is what I want.

  This right here, Blanka curled against me in the warm little room that smells like cedar shavings and wet fur. The patter of rain against the skylight, the softness of Blanka’s hair tickling my chin.

  I’ve spent a lifetime doing meaningful work, but none of it has felt as meaningful as this moment, this magic, right here. I could be happy with this.

  In that moment, I totally believe it.

  Chapter 12

  Blanka

  Jon and I name the kittens together that night, laughing like kids at a slumber party. We’re radiant with the intimacy of what we’ve witnessed and the glow of what came before that.

  And what came an hour later. And twice more before I left at dawn the next morning, just as the sun was creeping up over the juniper-lined horizon.

  “So, we’re in agreement,” Jon says as we kiss goodbye for the hundredth time. “Sinbad, Eloise, Raisin, and Zinnia.”

  “You know Eloise might turn out to be a boy,” I point out, pulling my car keys from the pocket of my fleece jacket. “Or Sinbad. What makes you think he’s male?”

  Jonathan just shrugs. “We’ll figure it out.” He plants one more kiss on the side of my head. “I don’t just mean the kittens.”

  Something flutters in my belly. “What else?”

  “Us.” He laces his fingers through mine. “I know it’s complicated, and it’s way too soon to start making plans. And I know you hate the idea of traditional relationships for all kinds of totally valid reasons. But—”

  “Okay.”

  He blinks, then smiles slowly. “What?”

  “I’m sorry, I should let you finish.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure you’d complete my thoughts better than I could.”

  “No, go ahead.” God, I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I let the poor man finish? “Please.”

  Still grinning, he squeezes my hands. “I want to be with you. Whether that means putting down roots here or some other solution we work out between us. Bottom line, I’m not letting you go.”

  I stand frozen in that moment, heart thudding in my ears as my brain replays those words again and again. I’m not letting you go. They’re exactly what I’ve wished for. Deep down, despite all my protests to the contrary, this is what I’ve wanted. To be claimed. To matter this much to another human.

  Never before have I laid that desire out for myself or anyone else, but there it is, naked on the sun-dappled lawn.

  Jon’s face twists in an exaggerated grimace, and it occurs to me I haven’t said anything out loud for a long time. “Did I sound like a stalker?” he asks. “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s great.” I laugh and squeeze his fingers. “I want that, too.”

  “Thank God.” He kisses me again, soft and sweet and tasting of relief. “I love you so much.”

 
“I love you, too.”

  His grin lights up the whole porch. “So, we’re on the same page. “

  “Sounds like it.”

  “I’m glad.” Releasing my hands, he takes a step back. “Okay, so now I really will let you go, but only so you can get home. Can I see you again tonight?”

  I can’t hold back the foolish grin spreading over my face. “I think we can make that work.”

  All of it, not just the date. Right then, I’m convinced we’ll make it all work somehow. It’s thrilling and terrifying and all the things I never expected to feel for anyone.

  This is love. Not my parents’ brand of it. It’s the kind I’ve read about in romance novels. The kind I’ve caught glimpses of between Jon’s parents.

  I never thought I’d have it for myself. Now that I do, I can’t stop smiling.

  The thrill of it keeps me going as my parents’ visit draws nearer. I clean like a mad woman, scouring my house from top to bottom. I put fresh sheets on the guest bed and bake a batch of my mother’s favorite medianyky honey cookies.

  The morning my parents arrive, I’m racing through the grocery store like a finalist in a speed shopping competition. I’m in sweatpants with my hair in a frizzy bun, and I’m throwing things in my cart at random when my phone rings. I slip it out of my purse, and a smile dissolves the tension in my jaw. It’s Jon’s name on the readout.

  “Hey there.” I grab a bag of kale, then put it back, remembering the time my dad chided me for buying pre-cut veggies in plastic instead of organic stuff from a farmers’ market.

  “Hey yourself,” Jon says on the other end of the line. “Miss you already.”

  I laugh and wheel my cart around the corner, thrilled to have a guy missing me mere hours after we last saw each other. Even more thrilled that guy is Jonathan.

  I toss a carton of eggs in my cart, wincing when I remember tossing isn’t the right move with eggs. “I miss you, too.”

  Peeling open the cardboard carton, I’m relieved to see all twelve shells intact. I swear I’d buy them anyway. I know better than to be wasteful with food.

  “What are you up to this evening?” Jon asks in his usual jovial tone.

  “Er, picking my parents up at the airport?” Surely he hasn’t forgotten.

  “I know that, but did you have plans with them? Dinner, I mean.”

  “I was going to make Chicken Kiev, but I got a late start and now I’m wondering if they’ll kill me if I take them out for burgers or something.”

  That’s American, right? I can claim it’s an attempt to show them traditional American food, rather than a sign I’m lazy and unwelcoming. I peer at the label on a package of gluten-free pancake mix. Another smile tugs the edges of my mouth as I remember lunch with Archie and his family.

  Was that just two weeks ago? It feels like a lifetime since Jon and I became a couple. We’ve spent nearly every night together, making dinners and watching the kittens and snuggling on the sofa having sex.

  Making love.

  It really does feel like that.

  “Don’t bother.”

  Jon’s voice jars me back to the phone call, and it takes me a moment to figure out what he’s talking about. “Don’t bother with burgers, you mean?”

  “Right,” he says. “My brother, Sean, has this friend in town from culinary school. She’s visiting from the South somewhere.”

  “I think Amber mentioned it.”

  “Right, so they’re testing out this gastronomic fusion thing. Some kind of mashup between Sean’s Pacific Northwest stuff and her spin on Southern food.”

  “Sounds amazing.” I can’t actually imagine what that would be like, but my stomach growls anyway. I’m a sucker for culinary shows, especially the ones that geek out on the science behind the recipes.

  “You’re invited,” Jon says. “You and your parents. They want to test it out before they launch the guest chef series, so Sean asked us to round up some guinea pigs.”

  “Er, they’re not actually serving guinea pig, right?” I’m pretty sure that’s a delicacy in Peru, but probably not the South he means.

  He laughs, a sound that travels through the phone line and spears the center of my chest. “No rodents of any kind,” he assures me. “Athena—that’s the other chef—she’s Michelin star famous, too. Even has her own cooking show.”

  “Athena Reynolds?” I ask. “From Misfit Kitchen?”

  “You’ve heard of her?”

  “I love her show.” Damn, now I’m really excited.

  And my dad will love her take on sustainable farming practices. That’s a big thing with Sean, too, the whole farm-to-table movement and knowing where food comes from.

  “We’ll be there,” I tell him. “Thank you. What time?”

  “The dinner starts at seven, but there’s a cocktail hour before,” he says. “Show up any time between six and six-thirty. Are you okay with this?”

  “Am I okay with having two famous chefs relieve me of the burden of preparing dinner for my parents? Let me think about that.”

  He laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. “Having me meet your parents, I mean,” he says. “I know it’s kind of soon, but—”

  “I love you,” I blurt, amazed at how easily those words come to me now. “And they’ll love you, too. It’s going to be great.”

  There’s a long pause, then a low whistle from Jon’s end of the line. “Damn,” he says, drawing the word out dramatically. “How did I get so lucky?”

  “You picked me up at your sister’s wedding,” I point out, smiling at the mom coming down the aisle with an overflowing cart. She’s got a toddler in the basket and an infant strapped in a carrier against her chest. Her husband walks up and drops a kiss on her cheek before setting a gallon of milk in the cart and rumpling the toddler’s hair.

  I want that.

  Where on earth did that come from? Six weeks ago, I was staunchly in the never-ever camp of matrimony. Now I’m ogling happy families like they’re my personal porn?

  But I can’t ignore the twist in my chest, the fact that my brain is loping down a path of wonder. What would it be like to have that? The doting husband, the kids, the happy marriage. I’ve never allowed myself to consider it.

  “So I’ll see you around six,” Jon says in my ear. “And Blanka?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you, too.”

  I’m still glowing from those words as I drive home and unpack the groceries. The glow carries me all the way to the airport where I park the car and race to the entrance, a bouquet of fall flowers clutched in one hand.

  If I’ve timed this right, I’ll catch my parents as they come off the plane. Relief washes through me as I catch sight of them shuffling through the revolving doors. There’s my father striding forward with his battered carry-on, his face tan and authoritative. My mom is two paces behind him, tired but relaxed.

  Her face lights up when she sees me. “Blanka! Moya prekrasna divchynka!”

  Even now, at nearly thirty years old, I’m her beautiful baby girl.

  My mom and I crash together in a hug that’s warm and smells like roses, and I’m reminded again of the face cream. Of the memories that draw us back to childhood. No matter how old you are, a mother’s hug always feels like home.

  “Blanka.” My father clears his throat behind us, and I break away from my mom and turn to face him. “Good to see you again.”

  “You, too.” I consider hugging him, but he makes no move to embrace me. I settle for stretching out a hand to shake his, but he mistakes it as a grab for his suitcase.

  “I can get my own bag,” he says, Ukrainian accent thicker than I remembered. “I hope you didn’t buy those at a store.”

  “What? Oh, the flowers?” I look down at the bouquet in my hands. “I didn’t, actually. I picked them at the resort where we’re having dinner tonight.”

  “We’re having dinner at a resort?” My mother’s face turns up in a smile, the wattage cranking higher as I hand her t
he bouquet. “Oh, thank you, dear. They’re beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you like them,” I tell her. “We can put them in a vase when we get to my house.”

  “Hmm,” my father says as the three of us fall into step together. “You’re still in that place that’s big enough to provide shelter for four families?”

  My home is barely twelve-hundred square feet and perfectly modest, but I nod and smile and lead them to the door. “It’s a good investment.”

  We chatter easily enough on the drive to my house, alternating between English and Ukrainian. My mother and I do most of the talking, but my dad chimes in occasionally about wrapping up the orphanage project in Nairobi and what’s next on the horizon.

  “We’re starting a new program in Dovlano,” he says proudly as I hit my blinker to take the Empire exit off the parkway. “That’s a tiny nation in Southern Europe. The wealthiest of the wealthy and the poorest of the poor, all in one minuscule landmass.”

  “Isabella’s home country,” I say with a start.

  “What?” my father asks. Apparently not caring very much about the answer, he continues with his announcement. “We haven’t launched the project publicly yet. You’re one of the first to know.”

  “Dovlano,” I say out loud, glancing at my mother. She’s staring straight ahead, her blank face giving no indication how she feels about another major move. “That’s a long ways away.”

  My father frowns. “Your English is atrocious. What kind of slang is that? Long ways away? This is what happens when you live in America too long.”

  I sigh and turn the car onto the narrow street that leads to my little rambler. “No need to get bent into shape,” I mutter.

  Wait. That wasn’t right. “Out of.”

  My father frowns. “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  For some reason, screwing up an idiom reminds me of Jonathan. Of the fact that he finds my mistakes charming instead of irritating. I can’t wait to see him again. Can’t wait for my parents to meet him, to know I’ve found a guy who’s smart and accomplished and—

  “What’s this about dinner at a resort?” my father asks as I unlock my front door and usher them inside. “You know I don’t approve of spending absurd sums on gourmet dining when there are starving people in—”