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By renowned local Romance Novelist Jacqueline DeGroot

Want a great romance read for your days at the beach? Here’s an excerpt:

Chapter One
Forelock Warlock?

I was up with the sun as usual, bending and stretching my body in a series of movements long since memorized. Yoga, a savior of sorts since my breast cancer days, kept me centered, focused on keeping my body in shape, and gave me a good feeling about myself. I could see that we were coming into port and as I used the banister of my balcony to stretch my calves, my eye was drawn to a small military-styled boat bearing down on us. It had a large P painted on the cabin in the center. I was on a huge cruise ship so it didn’t so much unnerve as intrigue me to watch the boat gather speed and barrel toward us.

It was not until it swept out in a huge arc and circled back that I realized what it was about. Of course, that was the pilot boat. My dinner companions had told me just last night that as we reached each island, a launch was sent out with a harbor pilot aboard who would transfer to our ship to guide us in. I hadn’t thought much about it, but now as I saw that the boat was slowing down, I hesitated and held my pose. The marine gray boat came alongside, and looking down, I could see a man in white uniform pants standing and removing his navy blue jacket. He was tall and tanned with dramatic black hair streaked with white, the collar length hair was whipping around his head; he looked like fury personified.

Under his jacket was a short-sleeved white shirt with dark slashes on the shoulders. And although it was tucked into a narrow waistband, the breeze billowed through the starched material determined to free it. I admired how he was able to stand, legs spread, hands on his hips, gripping the jacket while the boat bounced over the waves. Then before I knew what was up, he had thrown the windbreaker to the floor of the boat, stepped out onto a small platform and leapt onto our ship! I had never seen anything like it. He had literally flown from his boat to ours and as I leaned over the rail I was just in time to see him cling to a ladder, hold for a moment as if to get his bearings, and then masterfully climb up the side of the ship and into a recessed opening.

Jeez! Was that the harbor pilot? His uniform was the nautical type—long, creased white pants, man, he was tall, and a short sleeved white shirt with what appeared to have been epaulets on the shoulders, both separated by a white canvas belt. That was my impression anyway. It had all happened so fast that my brain had only registered, Officer and a Gentleman without the hat. An older version for sure, from the shock of white hair mingled with the black.

I took one final pose, stretching my arms high over my head before reaching back and grabbing my instep. Sometimes even I was amazed at how limber I had become. I leaned over the rail to see if I could get one more glimpse of that amazing man who had climbed up the side of our ship with all the agility of a monkey climbing a palm tree. Nope, no sign of him. But I felt the ship doing strange things and making new noises. I actually quivered to think of that man at the controls guiding this monstrous ship into the port of St. Thomas and the harbor of Charlotte Amalie. I would have always given that type of man a second look, but now I doubted that he’d return the favor. It was deflating getting old.

I reflected back on this past year and all the changes it had wrought. Watching Cat and Matt fall madly in love had brought me out of my own mourning and then ultimately forced me to take a good, assessing look at myself. During the years spent grieving for Tom, my body had secretly slid past middle age and began the downhill decline toward the senior generation waiting for me at the bottom. Things had shifted, faint crinkles had blossomed and my joints no longer allowed even a modicum of abuse. The use-it-or-lose-it age was clearly upon me and I was being reminded of that on a daily basis. And as there were certain things I definitely did not want to put to pasture yet, I had to face it, it was time to get out and circulate.

After much thought, and enough hemming and hawing to drive Tessa and Cat crazy, I finally decided to augment my hair color to keep my youthful blonde halo. I ended up having reverse highlights put in to give it more life and definition and to hide the gray that was steadily creeping in. Due to breast cancer I was no novice to plastic surgery, I’d seen the wonders it could do, so I’d been vain enough to have some skin brought up and the scars tucked behind my ears. No hint of jowls for me, just smooth firm skin. Then Cat talked me into having my lips plumped and permanently colored by Johnnie McCarty at Permanent Makeup in Calabash for that voluptuous, pouty look men seem to be going ga ga for. Yoga kept me limber and toned, and at five foot eight, I was fortunate that I carried my weight well. I had never had to diet. I knew what looked good on me so I was able to maximize my looks with the right kind of clothing—it was a knack I’d had from the cradle. A spray tan finished everything off, giving me a subtle glow and erasing the imperfections of age spots and freckles. I was a fifty-four-year-old who often couldn’t convince anyone to give me the over-fifty senior discount. I counted myself lucky, except for the fact that I’d lost my husband years before I should have.

I grabbed my water bottle off the little lounge table and went into my stateroom to shower for my day in St. Thomas. I could hardly wait for the ship to dock. But first, I would enjoy a scrumptious and bountiful breakfast. I turned on the shower to warm the water, thinking about a waffle, each tiny hole filled with butter and syrup, and a huge pile of strawberries to go with it. It wasn’t my usual fare, but I was on vacation, and I was sure to walk it off traipsing all over the island of St. Thomas.

The tiny room was steamy as I stripped off my yoga togs. I like how a blurred mirror improves my looks. Thanks to my mother’s great genes, I am still quite attractive, but I do have some quirky things going on. One of them is breasts like a twenty year-old—ironic, now that I didn’t have anyone to appreciate them.

My husband Tom died just over four years ago. He drowned rescuing a shipmate when their sailboat capsized in Winyah Bay. Just a few days earlier I’d finally had my breast reconstruction surgery done and I was home recuperating. We were planning on having the “unveiling” on our anniversary. Instead, I attended the funeral with a chest so sore that I thought my broken heart would shatter inside me and I’d bleed from all the fresh wounds. I loved him so much. I still wear his surgical scrubs as pajamas, disgustingly grubby because I refuse to wash them. His scent is all I have left. I can’t remember his smile or hear his voice anymore and that bothers me more than I can say.

I enjoy the hot water running down my body and despite concerns for water conservation, I stay many minutes longer than I should. I justify it by calling to mind all the hours I’ve spent volunteering for the lowly oyster recycling campaign back home in Brunswick County. Each one of those suckers can filter fifty gallons a day! Amazing!
My gel-coated hands slide easily over my body as I have very little body hair. This is by choice as I had it lasered off when it started growing back after the chemo treatments. I had missed the smooth, slick feel of my hairless skin. I told you I had some quirks.

Stepping out into my room, wrapped in a fluffy towel, I make my way over to the balcony and to the rail while crimping my hair into floppy spirals with tight fists. I step back a foot from the rail when I realize that we have docked and many people are out on their balconies now. The partitions between the balconies shield me from the passengers on either side while allowing me to enjoy the straight-on view. I look down and see him, the tall, virile-looking man with the distinctive head of black hair that seems to have been shocked white in a thick stripe just to the left of a prominent widow’s peak. Ummm, very sexy. He is standing with three other men. I am just about to turn and go back into my room when he looks up and our eyes meet. I stand rooted to the spot peering down from thirty feet up. Even from this height I can feel the intensity of his eyes, they are a searing gray-green and as they travel down my body, I feel as if he can see right through the towel with the big X logo of Celebrity Cruises on the front, either that or up and under it.

It’s covering me from my boobs to just above my knees but I feel as if it’s not there at all. And his eyes are widening in such a way that I am convinced I have dropped it. I look down to see if my hand is still holding the knot above my breasts and let out a sigh of relief. When I look back at him, he has turned to talk to another man, the Captain, if I’m not mistaken. They shake hands and then the nautical dreamboat in his pristine white uniform turns his broad shoulders away from the ship and makes his way down the cement pier leading into St. Thomas.

I watch as he is swallowed up by the throng of people leaving the ships. Twice, he turns to look back at the ship. I can’t seem to move from the spot. I drink in every movement he makes as he walks away—the sway of his slender hips in his precisely pressed pants, his thick hair as it lifts in the ocean breeze, the progression of his wide shoulders delineated by the dark line of his epaulets on each as he moves through the crowd. His distinctive hair draws the eye so completely that I am able to pick him out until he turns to the right and takes a side street. I think of Lillian of the old Munsters TV show and her prominent white forelock. I know it’s a phenomena called poliosis because my friend Viv has it, but there’s just something mysterious and commanding about it. I sigh heavily as I turn to go back inside, acknowledging to myself that our harbor pilot has to be just about the sexiest man I have ever seen.