Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two

by Stephanie Taylor

  “I forgot about Madonkey!” Holly cries with relief, bending at the waist as she approaches. “Hi there, sweet girl,” she coos, holding out the top of her hand for the donkey to sniff. “Will she bite?” She pauses and looks up at Jerrod.

  “No idea,” Jerrod admits. “She seems pretty shy, so I doubt it.”

  “Come here, girl,” Holly says, making kissing noises at the donkey.

  “I wish you’d make this much of a fuss to get me off the boat,” comes a voice from behind Jerrod. It’s River, and he’s holding a duffel bag over one shoulder, his wheat-colored hair tousled by the wind on the water, the grizzle of a gold five o’clock shadow on his smooth cheeks.

  Holly had expected to shout, “GET OVER HERE!” or to say something incredibly witty when she saw River for the first time since August, but now that he’s standing before her in a pair of jeans and a red sweatshirt, lips pulled into a sexy grin, all she can do is smile. He steps down from the boat and walks over to her, dropping his duffel bag on the ground and opening his arms.

  As soon as she gets her wits about her, Holly takes the few steps that remain between them and vaults into his arms.

  “Whoa!” River laughs, the force of Holly’s full weight causing him to take a step back. She wraps her arms around his strong neck and winds her bare legs around his waist, locking them tightly. “Hi, yourself,” he says into her hair, holding her close.

  After what feels like a full minute, Holly loosens her grip on his neck and leans back so that she can look into his eyes. “Hi,” she says. They stare at each other, re-learning the topography of one another’s faces. “You look good.”

  “No, you look incredible.” River smiles widely so all of his straight, white teeth are on display.

  Jerrod clears his throat. “Not to interrupt here,” he says, “but The Material Donkey is feeling a little left out.”

  River sets Holly on the ground reluctantly, but pulls her close by keeping one arm around her shoulders. “The Material Donkey?” he asks, amused.

  “Her name is Madonna,” Holly explains.

  “Oh. Of course.” River makes a face like, duh, I should have known.

  “You need to take the delivery,” Jerrod says, offering Holly the rope.

  “Oh my stars in heaven! She’s here! She’s here! She’s here!” They turn to see Ellen running toward them as Carrie-Anne watches from the front door of Mistletoe Morning Brew, smiling and waving.

  “Hey, Ellen.” Holly steps aside and pulls River with her. Ellen crouches in front of Madonkey, holding out a fistful of what looks like hay. The donkey sniffs it. “Where did you find hay?” Holly asks.

  “It’s barley straw,” Ellen says, smiling happily as Madonkey nudges her outstretched palm and licks at the treat.

  “Oh. Of course.” It’s Holly’s turn to make the I should have known face.

  “Anyway,” Jerrod says, tapping his finger against his clipboard as he runs down the list of items, “we’ve delivered the food and supplies, two gigantic, house-sized boxes, our lone passenger, and a donkey named after the Queen of Pop. Guess it’s time for us to shove off.”

  “Thanks, Jerrod,” Holly says, waving as she wedges herself in more firmly under River’s shoulder. “See you on Friday.”

  The ferryman gives a wave from behind the wheel, and within two minutes, Jerrod has them untied and ready to shove off.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Ellen asks them. She’s kneeling in the sand, keeping herself at eye-level with Madonkey.

  “Adorable,” Holly says, placing a hand on River’s chest as she moves in closer to him. “Did you get her all set up with a new place to live?”

  “Yep, she’s got a pen just a few feet away from the turkeys. We didn’t want her to get lonely,” Ellen explains, handing bits of barley straw to the donkey. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she says softly to the timid animal. Late afternoon sunlight plays off the gold rings on her fingers as she pets the donkey.

  “Should we head back to my place?” Holly asks, looking up at River. His eyes spark in response to her question, and her body thrums with an electric current of desire. “We’ll see you later, Ellen,” Holly says, unable to tear her eyes from River’s face. She lets go of him reluctantly so he can fetch the duffel bag he’d tossed aside carelessly. He slings it over his shoulder and offers Holly his hand as they stroll up Main Street together.

  “Nice hat, Clark Griswold,” River says casually, reaching up to tap the bill of the Mets cap he’d sent her after his summer visit. Their entwined hands swing between them, and Holly feels like they’re walking down the halls of a high school in between classes. In fact, she feels almost as nervous as a high school girl now that he’s finally back on Christmas Key.

  “Thanks.” Holly looks at him from beneath the brim of the hat. “Hey,” she says as off-handedly as possible. “I was noticing…”

  “Yeah?” River’s footsteps are in sync with her own as they approach the B&B on their right.

  “I was noticing that you hadn’t exactly kissed me yet.”

  River stops walking. “I was a little distracted,” he says, eyes dancing.

  “By what?”

  “By the giant boxes, the food, and the donkey I was sharing a ferry with. It felt like the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ come to life. I was waiting for the seven swans a-swimming and the six geese a-laying to crawl out of the life jacket boxes. Were you hiding any piping pipers below deck?” he teases, hooking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the dock.

  “I forgot to tell you about the donkey,” she says. “But then I forgot she was coming on the ferry today anyway. I was a little distracted myself.”

  “By what?” River asks, setting his duffel bag down on the sidewalk and putting his hands on Holly’s waist as they stand in front of the fence that surrounds the pool deck of the B&B. The fence is almost as tall as River, and the Christmas lights hanging from the wooden slats are just inches from their shoulders.

  “By the fact that the hottest ex-baseball player on the planet was coming to the island today,” she says. The feeling of his hands on her hips is sending waves of heat through her body. She takes a step closer to him so that their chests are nearly touching.

  “Wait, Derek Jeter is coming to Christmas Key?” River’s face is incredulous. As he talks, his lips are getting closer and closer to Holly’s. She’s starting to feel dizzy again.

  “I’m more of an A-Rod girl…” she jokes, taking off her baseball cap so it won’t get in his way. “But you must have me confused with someone else, because I’m a diehard Mets fan.”

  River laughs throatily before putting his warm lips on hers, and Holly holds her hat behind her back, one foot lifting off of the ground as she melts into River’s kiss.

  The butter from the lobster is running down River’s arm and dripping from his elbow as he tries to pull off the claws and separate the meat from the legs. Holly is amused watching him wrestle with the cooked crustacean.

  “Need a bib?” She’s holding her own lobster leg daintily between both hands as they sit on her lanai.

  River is trying to eat the lobster without letting it slip from his greasy hands, so Holly sets her lobster down and hurries into the kitchen to find a dishtowel. When she returns, River is holding his oily fingers in the air triumphantly, the empty lobster leg discarded on his plate. Holly tucks the dishtowel into the neck of his shirt with a smile. Having him here again has already softened the rough edges of the stress she’s been under.

  After leaving the B&B that afternoon, Holly had run River back to her place so he could shower after the long cross-country trip. While he changed and unpacked, she’d driven over to the Jingle Bell Bistro to pick up the dinner she’d ordered from Iris and Jimmy, and now the table between them is covered with a mushroom risotto, biscuits, corn on the cob, lobster, and the bottle of Champagne Collet.

  “That was delicious,” River says after they’ve devoured the lobster. He wipes his hands on the di
shtowel bib and reaches for his champagne flute. “I can’t believe you ordered all of this for just the two of us.”

  Holly sinks back in her chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “I wanted it to be a memorable first meal.”

  “It will be—when we’re awake all night with stomach pains.” He sips his champagne. “And did you say there was dessert, too?”

  “Just fresh passionfruit and guava—and we can eat that later.”

  “Later…hmmm. But what should we do in the meantime?” River looks at her over the candlelight that flickers from the hurricane lamps on the center of the table.

  Holly tries to laugh, but it hurts too much. “Owww,” she moans, holding her stomach with one hand.

  “I guess that answers my question.” River sets his champagne flute on the glass tabletop. “In the meantime we’ll be digesting dinner.”

  River has changed into a navy blue pullover sweater and cargo pants, and his blonde hair is mussed after his shower. Holly got a whiff of his aftershave as she tucked the towel into his collar, and she’s already imagined herself wearing his sweater to bed that night, River’s scent wrapping around her comfortingly while she sleeps next to him. She’s not sure if it’s the champagne or just the fact that he looks incredibly good, but the desire to be in his arms is almost overwhelming.

  “So, hey. I’m kind of stuck on something, and I need a little advice,” she says, changing gears. Holly knows how the evening is going to end, but she’d rather linger over dinner for a few more minutes to avoid the very unsexy feeling of being overly full.

  River rests his head against the chair as he looks at the shell wall behind Holly. “I didn’t know you were going to drag me all the way across country to stuff me with lobster and talk shop, but okay, Mayor. Whaddya got?”

  Holly puts her bare feet on the empty chair next to her. “Okay, so you know the situation with Jake, right?”

  River inhales through his nose and exhales loudly before answering. “Yep. Game show. Hot chick. Love match. You don’t approve.”

  “Reality show,” Holly corrects. “And it’s not that I don’t approve of him making a love match. What I don’t like is the way the producers are using him.”

  River stays silent.

  “We had all sorts of ideas about how we could intervene and stop them from forcing Jake to propose—”

  “‘We’ as in you and Fiona and Bonnie?” River lowers his chin and looks at her with a furrowed brow.

  “Not just us—the whole island. We had an emergency village council meeting.”

  “Is this where you’re asking me for advice?”

  “Kind of.”

  “On Jake.” He pauses. When she doesn’t say anything, he sighs audibly. “Well, it seems to me that you invited the show here, and if you mess with their production now, then you might end up with a product you don’t like later.” River picks up the champagne bottle; he holds it up in question and Holly nods. “I think you have to trust the network,” he says, pouring a few inches of the sparkling, bubbly liquid into both of their glasses, “and you have to trust that Jake has decent judgment. I mean, after all, he liked you.” River sets the bottle down and leans back, glass in hand.

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You’re a control freak when it comes to this island, but if you’re really into this expansion thing for the long haul, then you have to pick and choose your battles. What’s important to you here? What do you want to take away from this experience?”

  The darkness beyond Holly’s lanai rustles with unseen wildlife. Pucci is nestled under Holly’s chair, and his head perks up at the sound of a possible animal close by.

  “I think I ate too much to answer that,” she says, dodging the conversation. “But I do have one other issue that I need help with.”

  River stares at her across the table for a long minute, the dance of the candles’ flames touching both of their faces. His eyes shine. “I’m all ears,” he says.

  Holly absentmindedly taps the flat side of her knife against the stem of her champagne glass three times, and the chime rings out in the dusky night as she formulates her thoughts. “I found out something about Cap that I think could be helpful to me when it comes to shutting him down in the election.”

  “I can’t imagine you’ll really need to ‘shut him down’—is anyone even taking him seriously?”

  “I think more people are on his side than I’d like. It’s because of Wild Tropics—they thought they were going to be on the show, and now they’re mad at the way it’s going. Some of them are kind of upset with me.”

  “But that’s not your fault.”

  “Tell that to Mrs. Agnelli. She was ready to be a real-life Sophia Petrillo, and now apparently I’ve killed that dream.”

  “All right, let’s talk politics. What kind of dirt do you have on Cap?”

  “I don’t know if it’s really dirt, but Heddie told me something about his past and I’m trying to decide how to use it.” Holly sets her knife on her plate and pushes the plate aside. It only takes her a few minutes to give him the rundown on what she knows about Cap and his alter ego, Caspar Braun.

  River gives a low whistle. “Damn,” he says. “I would have never guessed he was German.”

  “I know,” Holly says, pounding her fist against the table for emphasis. “No accent…”

  “Not particularly punctual or precise?” River ventures.

  Holly shakes her head. “Nope. No lederhosen…No Heineken.”

  “Heineken is Dutch.”

  “Oh, right. I guess it would help if I were better acquainted with the beers of the world,” she says. River laughs.

  “The beers of the world aren’t that exciting. Now, what do you have on Caspar Braun so far?”

  “I looked, but I couldn’t find anything online. I don’t even know if I’m looking in the right places.”

  “Have you tried running any international background checks?” he asks.

  “Based on what? He’s not a criminal, and I don’t think I have any German contacts to lean on.”

  “How about based on the fact that he’s running for public office in a country where he may or may not even be a citizen,” River says, leaning back in his chair triumphantly. “You might be able to disqualify him on that alone.”

  “Wow,” Holly says quietly. She watches as a drip of candle wax makes its slow descent down the taper. “Clearly I couldn’t come up with that myself because it was too obvious. So who do we call?”

  River looks at his watch. “Well, it’s nine o’clock here, which means it’s about…three a.m. in Germany. We’re going to have to give them a few hours before we start banging on their doors.”

  A sense of relief floods through Holly’s veins—she finally has something. A possibility. A way to easily stop the freight train that’s coming her way as she’s tied to the tracks. These weeks of juggling the reality show, the mayoral race, the normal running of the B&B, and her mother have left her feeling like she’s in the middle of the ocean on a beat-up raft, searching the horizon for a life boat.

  “So what should do for the next six hours?” she asks innocently.

  “I have a couple of ideas,” River says. He stands up and offers her a hand.

  “I bet you do.” Holly blows out the candles.

  Chapter 23

  Holly is up early the next morning. Because River is still on west coast time, her seven o'clock is his four a.m. She watches him for a minute or two in the dim morning light, admiring the way his blonde eyelashes brush the skin under his eyes as he sleeps. He’s on his side, facing Holly, and she has to resist the strong urge to run her fingers through his sandy hair. Instead, she pulls the blanket over his bare shoulder and he rolls over as she slips from the bed.

  Holly tiptoes through the cool darkness of the curtained house. In the small laundry room off the kitchen, she digs through the clean clothes in the dryer and finds a pair of sweat pants and a hoodie to throw on. The house has gone chilly overnigh
t, and the early morning light spilling through the tiny window over the kitchen sink has a thin, weightless, winter feel. Holly rubs her hands together to warm herself, watching a cardinal as it sits inside the fan of a Florida Silver Palm outside her window. It preens in the muted sunlight.

  The warmth of Buckhunter's bright kitchen beckons to her across the lawn between their bungalows. Holly can see him moving around in there, filling his coffee pot in the sink and rummaging through his refrigerator. Before she can think of a good reason not to, she slips out into the cool morning wearing the flip-flops she always leaves by the front door.

  "Hey, neighbor." Buckhunter opens his door with a surprised smile. "Come to borrow a cup of sugar?"

  “Nah, I’m sweet enough already. But I was hoping I could steal a cup of coffee." Holly peers around him into the front room of his house. “Am I catching you at a bad time?" She searches for signs that Fiona might still be asleep or otherwise in the house.

  “I'm alone. Come on in.” Buckhunter steps aside. “I assume your fisherman is still passed out at this early hour?”

  “Yeah, he's out cold,” Holly admits. Buckhunter closes the door behind her and leads the way into his kitchen. Her grandparents had built the house on the same property where they'd built their own so they would have ample space for family to stay together on the island. When Holly’s grandmother passed away, her grandpa had moved Buckhunter into the guest bungalow as a “renter”—something that had always annoyed Holly. She couldn’t imagine why this stranger was allowed to share the land she'd inherited, and their salty relationship had further antagonized her, though she didn’t like to admit that his ribbing and teasing sometimes stuck in her craw.

  “Let me pour you a cuppa, milady,” Buckhunter offers, pulling a chipped mug from his cupboard and setting it on the counter. He lifts his coffee pot and tips it over the mug, steam rising from the dark liquid as it fills her cup. Holly pulls out a dark-stained wood chair and sits down at the kitchen table.