Page 18 of No Time Off

“Well, it was lucky that guy saved you,” he said, pointing at Slash.

“Thatguyis my husband,” I said.

“Well, he was certainly in the right place at the right time.”

“He usually is.” I glanced over at Slash and saw his lips twitch into a smile.

“You know, young man, I can’t tell you how amazing that rescue was.” He snatched Slash’s hand off the table and enthusiastically pumped it. “You came out of nowhere to stop that pig. You’re a true, blue, pig-wrangling Hawaiian hero. Can I take a selfie with you two?”

“I’d rather no—” Slash started, but the man had already snapped two or three photos of them together and then rushed back to a group that was waving excitedly at him.

I sighed. “So much for a quiet evening. Looks like our honeymoon is ruined. We’re probably already social media celebrities.”

Slash took my hand and raised it to his lips. “Au contraire. We’re good. Nothing,especiallyour honeymoon, is ruined.”

“How can you say that? That woman has probably already uploaded her video to every known social media platform in the universe, and he will probably post those awful selfies all over the place.” I let my gaze drift to where the man was talking to his family and friends.

Slash brushed a fingertip across my cheek. “Trust me. At this point, the woman is probably wondering what she screwed up, since she can’t find her video or the picture of us. And that man will be terribly disappointed with his photo.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You deleted their photos and video?”

“The woman’s,si. Why do you think I let her take a picture of us in exchange for getting her phone to see the video?”

“Oh, Slash, that’s brilliant. What about the guy who just took those selfies?”

“He forgot to switch around his camera. He got a great shot of the rest of the luau.” He cupped my cheeks in his hand. “So, now, dear wife, what do I get for saving your bacon?”

“Oh, no.” I smacked him on the arm. “You didnotjust say that.”

“Ah, but I did.” He grinned, looking way too pleased with himself. “I think I’m really getting the hang of American colloquial phrases, as odd as they may be.”

We both laughed as the music resumed and free drinks were handed out. After the villagers reset the venue and reorganized what was left of the stage, the evening returned to its regularly scheduled program, minus the hula performances.

After dinner and a few Polynesian dance numbers, I began to relax. It may have been the alcohol or the different kind of beauty nighttime in Hawaii provided. The air cooled slightly, carrying the fresh, clean scent of the ocean and the subtle fragrance of night-blooming flowers. The current dancers swayed and wove gracefully across the stage under the flickering tiki lights, spinning tales of ancient history, conflict, and love. They twirled, tossed torches, and waved spears while the Hawaiian drums and music offered a crescendo of excitement. I glanced up, amazed at how a clear sea of stars sparkled brightly, free from the interference of city lights here on the east coast of Oahu.

Eventually, we were all invited to dance with the villagers. The setting was so enchanting that I took Slash’s hand without hesitation when he offered it, even though I didn’t really like dancing. We found a spot on the beach where we kicked off our sandals and swayed barefoot, our toes gripping the sand. Under a canopy of diamond stars, we danced until we were breathless as the drums, chanting, and laughter blended into the night.

It was the first and best night of our honeymoon.

TWELVE

Slash

Our plane landed smoothly on the tarmac of Rarotonga International Airport after a six-and-a-half-hour flight, bringing us to our final honeymoon destination, the Cook Islands. The airport was a long concrete strip running parallel to the water.

Lexi and I stepped out into the humid air, holding our carry-ons and looking around. The airport was quaint, almost charming, with vibrant floral decorations and welcoming smiles from the locals. The airport consisted of two main buildings, a control tower with an operations center and a passenger terminal. A quick view of the landscape showed green turtleback mountains rising two thousand feet above the airport against the backdrop of a deep blue sky.

Our exclusive resort was on the opposite side of the island from the airport, though that was only about a twenty-minute drive. Truthfully, everything was within a short drive, as the island was only twenty-six miles around. On the map, Rarotonga was shaped like a kidney—about eight miles at its widest. A reef surrounded the island with the water inside the coral a gorgeous turquoise blue.

We passed east, clockwise, through Avarua, the capital, on the island’s primary road called Ara Tapu, or “sacred path” in Maori. The two-lane road completely encircled the island, and almost all other roads connected to it. Avarua was more of a town than a city, with a population of only five thousand people. It was easy to see why nothing happened here. It seemed Avarua was the capital mainly because of the airport, which was critical to the economic viability of the island.

As our taxi wound around the narrow, hedge-lined streets, our driver, Jared, pointed and commented on sites as we drove along. “That’s Avatiu Harbour out there to the left. That pier area is the Cook Islands’ only real port.”

“With all the islands in the country, why is this is the only port?” Lexi asked.

“Our islands are either extinct volcanoes surrounded by coral reefs or atolls,” Jared explained. “Either way, the reefs make shallow lagoons around the islands that are great for beaches, but lousy for shipping. In the 1980s, we started dredging a channel through the reef to create a port here. Took us years to dredge and build the infrastructure. But now, larger ships can dock. It’s been a real boost to the economy.”

To our right, we glimpsed mountain slopes smothered in dense jungle vegetation that included towering coconut palms and banana trees.

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