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“Then we wouldn’t have an excuse to go to these tropical beaches,” he says as he puts his arms around my waist.
“True,” I agree, feeling more than content in his arms with the light breeze blowing off the water.
“Ready?” he asks, nipping my ear.
“Whenever you are,” I answer. “Where to now?” I ask Drake.
Drake takes us to a few more places on the island, each one more interesting than the last, and we get back to the scooter rental a little after three.
“So much for lunch,” I mutter.
“So, we make it an early dinner. Stop worrying,” Chase says, kissing me on the temple.
“Okay. Where should we eat?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one with the map,” he teases.
“Alright, let me look,” I say, shoving him. “What about Da Conch Shack?” I ask, reading over the dining options on the back.
“That works out perfectly,” Chase says over my shoulder. “It’s right near the airport. Da Conch Shack it is,” he announces. Folding my map, I follow Chase to the car.
After driving for about twenty minutes, we arrive at Da Conch Shack. Walking up to the hostess, we are immediately seated at a picnic table right on the beach, the beautiful water creating the perfect ambiance. If we had restaurants like this closer to home, I would never eat anywhere else.
A waiter greets us and asks what we would like to drink. Perusing the menu, I see it’s ‘Da Conch Shack and Rhum Bar’.
“What are you drinking?” Chase asks me.
“I think I might have to try their infamous rum punch.”
“Sounds good.” He turns his attention to our waiter. “Can we get a pitcher of that?”
“No problem,” he answers and walks away.
“A pitcher?” I ask.
“Sure, why not?” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “When in Rome.”
The waiter brings back a multi-colored pitcher and places two plastic cups down on the table. After pouring our cocktails, he places the pitcher in the center and stands over the table. “Have you decided?” I ask Chase.
“Not really, what do you feel like?”
“I think I’m getting the fish tacos.”
“Sounds good.” He turns to the waiter. “She’ll have the fish tacos, and I’ll have the cracked conch.” Nodding, he walks away.
“Did you have a good time this weekend?” he asks.
“Fantastic time,” I answer, sipping my drink.
“I would do this ever
y weekend if you let me.”
“No. I can’t do this every weekend. What I would love is some quality time at home. Lounging on the couch watching a movie, eating popcorn while snuggled up next to you. That’s all I want.”
“That can be arranged,” he says, smiling.
Sunday afternoon, we boarded Chase’s private jet and flew back to reality. Monday morning came fast and it was back to work. I barely had time to unpack from my crazy trip. Needing to make up hours from my extended stay, I didn’t get home until late, and I was exhausted. Tuesday, was much of the same. I’d spoken to Chase, but we haven’t seen each other since Sunday; this past weekend took a toll on his schedule as well, and he’s had to work late every night.
