Find Her, Keep Her (Book 1: A Steamy Martha’s Vineyard Island Romance)

Steamy billionaire island romance! A betrayed heroine, a magnetic hero, and sizzling passion on Martha’s Vineyard. First in the Steamy Destinations series.

My eyes ache.
Ever since Wednesday of last week, they’ve been stuck in two modes: weeping or sleeping.
The reason why?
Well, my best friend became engaged to my boyfriend.
Apparently it happened while he and I were on a break. But it doesn’t stop there. I heard about the blissful event through Maya’s, the best friend in the equation, Facebook status update. As soon as I fully absorbed the news, I typed, “You snake,” cursed new technology, and slammed my laptop shut. I climbed into bed, and that’s when the waterworks began.
It’s a blur how I got from there to here, a quiet table for one at the Day Harbor Café in Edgartown, Massachusetts, on the island of Martha’s Vineyard.
Let’s see…
Early yesterday morning, I rolled out of bed and slogged to my home office. After sleeping away seven consecutive days, it was time to at least check email. I wasn’t recovered enough to check my voicemail and hear any voice besides the one in my head constantly moaning, why me?
Each message was more of the same.
I heard…
Call me.
What a bitch...
What a dick...
Are you alive? I’m coming over.
Your phone is off. Turn it on, and call me back.
I knocked. No answer. Are you in town?
And then there was one from the perpetrator herself. Daisy, I’m sorry you had to find out this way. We should talk, don’t you think?
I deleted that one.
I decided to not open another email. I couldn’t take all the “poor you” sympathy. I skimmed the senders and subjects of the remaining four hundred until I landed on one from Dusty Burrows of Golden Destinations magazine. It was a reply to an article I’d pitched over a year ago. Part of me was afraid to open it because I didn’t want to suffer another rejection. But then I thought, At least it isn’t pity. So I clicked on it. There, in black and white, was my justification for escaping.
I’m a travel writer, and Martha’s Vineyard was one of the few islands in the United States I had never visited–for pleasure or business. It wasn’t because I lacked the urge to jet out and explore it. Another island or city or majestic countryside always took precedence. Funny, I had been thinking about contacting Golden Destinations to follow up on my query before all hell broke loose. That message from Dusty Burrows was a gift from God.

Dear Daisy,
I apologize for the tardiness of my reply.
We are fans of your “Stumble Through In a Taxi” series and would like to host an article of yours in next year’s spring issue.
We would like to offer you the feature story. Please respond ASAP so that we can discuss this further.
Regards,
DB

Needless to say, I accepted the offer, even if I felt a certain way about it. I had pitched the idea to them before finding a tiny amount of acclaim. I really needed the money back then. Politely declining their offer would’ve been nice, since they only wanted to capitalize off my budding popularity. However, I let my instincts convince me that Martha’s Vineyard was where I’m supposed to be. Preliminary research revealed that the island had plenty of beaches, some with high cliffs—just in case I wanted to jump off one—and early November is still a good time of the year to visit weather-wise. The temperature is nice and warm, and the ocean still offers a pleasant swim.
So now I’m sitting in front of a blank screen, alone at a table in a classic New England-style café. The moment the ferry docked, I wiped away my tears, put on my work cap, and decided to block the image my brain had conjured of Maya and Adrian going at it like dogs in heat. I made a vow to stop trying to figure out how in the world they had time to stab me in the back and then fall deeply enough in love to become engaged. Adrian and I broke up only three months ago! And it wasn’t a real breakup. We had dinner. As usual, Adrian indirectly complained that I travel too much for my job, and then he said we needed to take some time apart for a while.
Three months ago!
“You’re going to stab that fork clean through the table.”
I jump in my seat and look up to see who said that. He’s a guy, but my eyes can hardly focus on him, especially since I’m pissed off at the opposite sex.
“Right,” I say and drop my fork. It clinks and bounces on the white marble.
“You came into town yesterday, didn’t you?” he asks.
“What?” I’m frowning and quite irritated he’s speaking to me so casually. Can’t he see my broken heart through my chest?
“You came in yesterday on the four o’clock ferry. You were rolling a red suitcase. That’s why I noticed you. My brother has one like it. I always tease him about it because he’s a man, but I wouldn’t tease you–you being a woman and all.” He’s smiling.
I’m really trying to focus on the stranger, but I can’t really see or hear him. There’s too much clutter in my brain.
“Hey, so, I have a birthday party tonight…” He slides a business card out the pocket of his navy-blue sweatpants. There’s a class ring on his finger. The stone is red. The card is gray. It’s in my hand. “Feel free to stop by. It’s a good way to start a vacation. Are you here visiting friends or family?”
I think his eyes are hazel. I notice them only because the color is rare.
“I’m sorry?” I already forgot everything he just said, or did I ever hear him?
“Are you here visiting friends? Family? Late vacation?”
“Work,” I reply dully.
His hazel eyes examine me. “Oh, what do you do?”
Suddenly, I remember how awful I look. As soon as I picked up a rental car at the shop across the street from the Steamship Authority, I drove to the gray-shingled Colonial-style house I’m renting in Edgartown. I climbed into bed, swaddled myself in blankets, and continued sleeping, as I’d done for seven days at home, on the airplane from LAX to Boston Logan, in the taxi to Woods Hole—which costs an arm, a leg, and my firstborn son—and then across the Sound on the ferry. If it weren’t for the birds whistling and clucking in the trees outside my bedroom window this morning, then I think I would’ve slept in today too. I didn’t find their noises aggravating. On the contrary, their smooth songs reminded me I’m not at home, and I have work to do. I forced myself to rise and shine, shower, and finally wash my hair. After drying off, I slipped into an ankle-length, snug sweatshirt dress. At least it’s red.
At the moment, my naturally wavy hair is all over the place. Normally, I straighten it with a flatiron, but I lack the stamina to stand in front of a mirror for an hour to do it. My face is makeup-less, and my eyes are red and puffy. Yet even in my unsightly condition, it’s clear that the stranger is getting fresh with me.
I’m finally able to see him. He’s well put together. His navy-blue muscle shirt shows off his sculpted shoulders and biceps. He’s not bulky but very fit. His light, ash-brown hair is tousled like one of those wannabe movie stars who sit outside of the Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard on Friday nights or Urth Café on Beverly Drive on Sunday mornings. He’s very good-looking and seems to know it. I’m certainly not his type. One look at him reveals that he’s into girls with high heels, short skirts, tight jeans, and hair extensions. That girl would be Maya, the ex-best friend who stole my loser ex-boyfriend.