Honeymoon in High Heels

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There are three things in this world that I would apply the word “love” to when describing my feelings. 

Number one: Shoes.  I have always had a love for fashion, one that only grew as I got older and my heels got higher.  I spent years as a struggling fashion designer, mostly making a living designing children's shoes in the form of sparkly Dora the Explorer flip-flops and light-up Transformers sneakers, before I was able to design my own couture collection.  And I was happy to report that I had finally made it to the point where grown women - with credit cards, no less - bought my creations in fashionable boutiques everywhere.  In fact, I was wearing a pair from my own High Heels Seduction line right now - black, strappy slingbacks with tiny Swarovski crystals scattered over the toes.  Très chic, even if I did say so myself.

The number two thing that I loved, was my friends and family.  I guess technically that's two things, but I’m lumping them all together because I honestly think of my friends as an extension of my family.  After my best laid wedding plans were recently ruined, my friends and family all traipsed across the desert with me to elope to Las Vegas.  My fiancé and I had exchanged vows amidst sniffles, sighs, and congrats.  I could not ask for a more supportive group, and I felt incredibly fortun
at
e to have them.

And the last but certainly not least thing I loved most in this world was my new husband.  Just the word - husband - gave me a giddy little thrill every time I heard it.  I glanced to my right where the man in question sat, dozing in his seat.  His eyes were closed, stubble-dusted jaw slack, a slight sound between a sigh and a snore coming from between his parted lips.  He looked so peaceful, so handsome.  And so very mine.

I did a contented sigh and leaned back in my own seat, peeking out the small window to my left.  We were currently thirty-five thousand miles above the Pacific Ocean on our way to our honeymoon destination on the tropical island of Tahiti.  Below me, miles of brilliant blue stretched, broken up only by the occasional white cloud floating between us.  It was the same scenery that had greeted me ever since we’d left California behind, but I still smiled at the sight.  Not only was this our honeymoon, but it was the first real vacation Ramirez and I had taken together.  Real, as in he had actually taken vacation days and assigned all of his open cases to someone else.

My husband (there went that giddy feeling again!) was Detective Jack Ramirez, LAPD homicide.  Which might have sounded like a super cool, kick ass job, but the reality was I hardly ever saw him.  Murderers didn’t exactly keep 9-to-5 hours, so consequently neither did Ramirez.  It was a rare night when his cell didn’t go off at three in the morning, his captain informing him of a homicide somewhere that required his immediate attention.  But Ramirez was good at his job, and I did get a little surge of pride when I thought of him clearing the mean streets of L.A. of bad guys.  So mostly I didn't mind his work.  Mostly.  But I had done a totally girly squeal thing and jumped up and down like a kindergartener staring at a bag of lollipops when he’d told me he was leaving his cell behind and not even checking in with his captain for ten whole days.  Ten days of Ramirez to myself was even more of miracle than the brilliant blue waters rushing past my window.

Ramirez stirred in his seat beside me, the snoring slash breathing stopping for a moment, his eyes fluttering open.

“Did I fall asleep?” he asked, his voice low, groggy, and super sexy.

I nodded.  “Just a little.”

“Sorry.  What did I miss?”

I smiled at him.  “Not much.  More water.  Sodas and some bags of peanuts made the rounds.”

He nodded, then took my hand in his across the shared armrest.  “Then wake me up when we get there,” he said
,
a slow smile snaking across his face.  “I want to be well rested to start this honeymoon.”

My insides fluttered in a way that normally only happened on first dates.  I hoped it lasted forever as I felt his hand squeeze mine, his eyes closing again.

I had a hot guy who was legally and bindingly mine, I was on my way to tropical paradise, and Ramirez’s captain did not exist for the next ten days.  I sighed and leaned my head back against the seat again.  Could life get any better than this?

*  *  *

Four hours later we had landed at the airport near Pape'ete, driven a rental car to our resort on the northern coast, and been checked into our suite at the Island Paradise Village by a chubby cheeked desk clerk who looked like he’d rather be doing anything other than repeating the same “ia orana, maeva" (or "hello, welcome", as he translated for us) over and over to tired tourists.  Especially when we requested an extra private room facing the beach.  Though the clerk's less-than-jovial mood was well worth it when I stepped into our honeymoon suite.   It was decorated in cool blues and soft greens, mimicking the hues of the ocean, which was just steps away fr
o
m ou
r
own private lanai.  A king sized bed took up most of the room, while a jetted hot tub sat next to a big, picture window  in the bathroom.  And I couldn't help but notice there was room for two in that tub.   

The first thing we did, however, was shower, change and dress for the nightly luau dinner show in the restaurant by the beach.   The Island Paradise Village was a fully contained resort, with a restaurant, bar area, spa, pool, and just about any other amenity that you could think of to prevent you from leaving.  Not that we were going anywhere.  In fact, if I had my way, we'd spend the rest of the honeymoon in our room.

I chose a long, flowing maxi dress with a halter top in a soft blue floral print, paired with white espadrilles with a wedge heel.  Ramirez went with a standard jeans and T-shirt, though as a concession to the locale, he went with flip flops instead of his normal work boots.  He looked laid back, relaxed, and I couldn’t wait to get him back to the room and alone.

He lightly took hold of my hand as we walked along the pathway by the beach to the restaurant, sunset falling just behind us, casting a warm, amber colored glow along the water.  This was as close to perfect as I could imagine being. 

As soon as we got to the luau, we were seated at a table for two near the stage, and two Mai Tais arrived at our table.  No sooner had we started sipping, than the lights dimmed, and loud drum music filled the room.   

A moment later three guys in tiny loincloths carrying huge batons filled the stage.  They stomped to the rhythm of the drums then, to my surprise, lit the ends of their sticks on fire, swirling them around in the air in a brilliantly dangerous light show.  

I sipped my drink.  “Hot,” I muttered.  Then giggled.  “No pun intended.”

“You’re ogling the fire dancers, aren't you?” Ramirez teased.

I gave him an innocent stare.  “Who me?”

He shook his head.  “Only hours into our marriage, and you're checking out other guys?”  He made a tsking sound with his teeth. 

I swatted him on the arm.  “Hey, I'm still allowed to look.  I just only touch you.”

He sent me a look that was filled with more heat than the fire dancers' stage.  “That’s the part I’m looking forward to.”

I grinned.  Me too.

I sipped at my Mai Tai again, watching as the three guys swirled their sticks in the air, coming close to hitting the colorful, woven tarps draped on the walls behind them.  The crowd, oohed, aahed, and gasped as the fire swirled around their near naked bodies.  I'll admit, as my second Mai Tai came, I gasped right along with them, clapping as loudly as anyone when the show ended, and the guys bowed deeply, putting out their fire sticks.

As soon as they vacated the stage, servers appeared at the table, depositing our first course.  It was soft, mushy and grey.  I sniffed it.  I nibbled it.  It was okay  Tasted a bit like coconut really, so I dug in as the next group of dancers took to the stage.

This time it was three girls - all of them young, slim, and dressed in traditional grass skirts and strategically placed coconut bras.  They held flower leis in their hands, and as the drum music started up again, they began shaking their hips at a rate that would have Shakira jealous.  I watched, mesmerized by the shake-shake-shake as the music escalated in intensity, pumping in through hidden speakers.  

I turned to my right.  Ramirez was a little mesmerized too.

The girls stepped down off the stage and started shimmying through the crowd as our next course arrived.  Pork this time.  (I could tell because the pig head was still attached to the serving platter.  Ew.)   A girl with long, silky black hair and big brown eyes shimmied over to our table, moving her hips within a breath of Ramirez.

His eyes glazed over.

I swatted him on the arm

He gave me an innocent stare.  “What?  I’m just looking, not touching.”