The Slow Burn in Polynesia (EBOOK)

A social media star learns to trust herself again when a quiet, shy fan meets her in this swoony, slow burn romantic comedy.

Am I famous? No.

But the gorgeous guy anchored next to me has seen all of the videos on my very niche sailing channel and he is star-struck.

I’m nursing my wounds from a bad divorce while sailing in the South Pacific. Jonas’s insistence that I join in his fun reignites my love for the islands and this wild, crazy life.

Between swimming with sharks and star-filled skies, attraction grows. And when a crisis happens, Jonas is calm and collected–nothing like my ex.

A sizzling kiss sparks two blissful weeks of passion, but he’s heading to New Zealand, and my little sailboat has to stay in the gentle waters of Tahiti.

Jonas asks me for a commitment I’m not ready to make. I have to decide: am I ready to trust myself?

My life could have been a bad motivational poster.
Paradise or purgatory? It all depends on your attitude.
Right now my attitude sucked. I paced inside my boat in the late morning, trying to pick something to do, but nothing sounded good to me: snorkeling, walking on the beach, reading. Can you burn out doing relaxing things?
The most I can stand my own company is four weeks and two days, apparently. At least Liam wasn’t here with me. My teeth ground just thinking about what my ex-husband would say.
But why do I need an ex-husband here to tell me these things? Liam had worked his way so far under my skin that I could hear his voice regardless: You’ll never be able to do this on your own.
What an idiot I was. People are the worst.
Except for my brother James. He was the best. Speaking of which . . .
I grabbed my satellite device, a small rectangle that connected to my phone and allowed me a bare minimum of communication—because people suck, right?—and turned it on.
It took forever to boot up and get a signal, but I typed out a message to my little brother.
Hello from paradise.
James was most likely at work, so I didn’t expect a response right away. But only a few moments later my phone pinged with a new message.
Hallelujah, she lives. I was going to send you a message soon to check to make sure you were alive. I was writing your obituary. Mia Walsh: great sailor, until she fell off the face of the earth AND NEVER CALLED HER FAMILY.
I rolled my eyes. I’m alive. How are you?
Same old, same old. I noticed your dot hasn’t moved in a while.
James was referring to the GPS tracker I had on board that uploaded my location.
That’s because I haven’t moved in a while.
What’s so interesting that’s kept you there for so long?
Looking out my window, I wondered the same thing. My boat lolled at anchor in an atoll named Kauehi, in French Polynesia. Under my keel was crystal-clear blue water and in front of me, a sandy beach with palm trees and coconuts. There were no real buildings, no people living here, no one around for miles.
Off to my starboard side lay large columns of coral, which I’d snorkeled countless times. I knew the grooves of the brain coral better than the back of my own hand, the docile black-tipped sharks had been named, and I knew which coconut trees had the sweetest nuts.
It is really beautiful.
Riiiiight. Every place you visit is really beautiful. Why are you there in that one particular harbor?
I didn’t want to tell James that this was the site of one of the biggest fights that Liam and I had ever had. I had sailed here thinking that I could erase a bad memory and make myself magically better, but so far I just felt lonely.
It didn’t help that the other boats that came through here were all couples. Happy couples, sailing from island to island together, popping in to say hi to poor little ole me. I couldn’t deal with it and was now actively trying to avoid people.
James got impatient when I took too long to answer, and my phone chimed again.
Is there anyone else there?
A few boats have come and gone, but it’s still early in the season. So, no, mostly I’m all by myself.
I worry about you all alone.
I’m fine, really.
But are you happy?
I should be happy, right? I thought. I was in a beautiful place, doing exactly what I wanted to be doing. It was just me and my sailboat, Welina, setting off to explore the world.
My phone pinged again.
It’s okay if you aren’t happy. You can sell Welina and come home.
Don’t say things like that! You’ll hurt her feelings!
Hers or yours?
Ouch.
Tough love, Miamati.
Miamati was the nickname Dad had given me because I was a high-energy tomboy, always running around like a Maserati. James slipped into using my nickname when he worried too much about me.
I’m fine, I swear. It’s an adjustment period. Don’t you have work to be doing?
Right, I’M the family slacker. ;)
That’s me, professional bum.
You’re only a professional if you are earning money. When are you going to post another video?
Geez, this is why I never message you! All it is is work work work.
It comes from a place of love. And don’t think I missed you avoiding my questions. But you are saved by the bell—I have to run to a meeting. I’ll give the ’rents a hug from you. Love you!
Love you too, Sir James.
Just to spite my brother, I stripped off my clothes and leaped into the water next to my boat. I’ll show you fun.
* * *
It wasn’t that I didn’t have things to do. There was always work to be done on a boat: small repairs that needed to be made and regular maintenance to keep her in good condition.
There was also a big decision that I was putting off: money.
My divorce had left me with meager savings, Welina, and the only remaining revenue stream in my failed marriage: a moderately successful sailing vlog.
Liam had easily turned the vlog over to me. He had hated it toward the end, but I thought he would fight for it, just to be contentious.
Welina, I had to fight for, which made my blood pressure rise just thinking about it. I was the sailor, not Liam. This whole trip had been my idea. I doubted he would ever set foot on a sailboat again.
The solution to my money woes should have been easy: publish a new video. It was not so simple.
Last week I’d motored over to the closest village, ten miles across the lagoon as the crow flies. Man could not live on bread alone, but a diet of nothing but coconuts wasn’t going to work either, and the little village was my best choice.
Watching myself on camera used to be so much easier. I pulled up a clip I’d filmed during the trip and hit play.
My long red hair was up in a ponytail, and the wind caused it to whip around behind me like a whirlwind. I stood at the helm, the island a narrow strip of land behind me.
“I’ve just left Tiera . . . Teava . . .”
On-camera me took a deep breath and started again.
“I’ve just left Tearavero, the village on the atoll of Kauehi. You can see it behind me.” I held up a finger and pointed over my shoulder. “I’ve gotten some provisions, but there’s not much. I was able to trade for some fish, which was nice. Since it’s just me”—my voice wobbled here—“and there are tons of sharks in the Tuamotus, spearfishing is definitely not a good idea, so I, ah, need to rely on trading with fishermen or canned food for protein.”
I hit the pause button and closed my eyes. It didn’t feel like me anymore. I looked uncomfortable, and it wasn’t just the missing dynamic of a second person. The feeling weighed on me all the time, this lingering idea that Liam had ingrained in me that I wasn’t good enough.
Double-clicking on another video, I watched myself again.
“It’s a real privilege to be spending all this time in Kauehi. There have been other boats passing through while I’ve been here. Right now I’m all alone.” I panned around behind me, showing the empty waters around the boat.
“Sailboats coming through the South Pacific tend to stop for a few nights because it’s so beautiful. But most sailors are on a timeline to get through the islands before cyclone season starts, and since I’m going to store Welina in Apataki again, I don’t have far to go. So my neighbors usually move on after a few nights.”
The clip ended on my face and God, I looked haggard. I didn’t want to use any of this footage. How was I going to keep myself afloat without my videos?
* * *
Later, I pored over a cookbook, trying to find some inspiration for cooking with the meager supplies I had. It might be time to go into town again.
My thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar sound.
Living on a boat, I tried to attune myself to unusual noises. An unfamiliar banging of my sails? Might be chafing. Engine making a racket? Might have a blockage.
Blinking, I wiped the sweat off my brow and tilted my head, trying to listen for the noise again.
Clang clang clang . . .
I sat bolt upright.
“Are you fudging kidding me?” I said to Welina. “Square miles of beautiful water and someone is anchoring right next to us?”
I scanned the view around me and located the offender. Okay, they weren’t anchoring that close to me, but I was still irritated anyway.
My new neighbor was big and beautiful. At least, bigger than my home, Welina, the forty-five-foot Morgan sailboat. I recognized the lines: she was an Oyster, maybe fifty-five feet long. A young woman stood at the bow while the anchor chain clanged against the roller, dropping the anchor to the sand beneath the boat’s keel.
A man walked along the deck on the port side, hands passing from one part of the rigging to another as he weaved his way aft toward the cockpit. He was young too: tanned and shirtless, looking a bit scruffy, as cruisers were wont to do.
When he reached the woman on the bow, he slid behind her and gripped her hips affectionately. Together, they bent down and mussed with the anchor chain.
I bit my lip. Were they the owners or crew? It was rare to see young people cruising. I was thirty-five and I hardly ever met people my own age. Most cruisers were older: retired, or in early retirement. The quality of the boat made the crew category more probable; I’d met a few Oysters, and they almost always had crew.
The boat drifted back as her anchor dropped, her bow swinging to port, making it hard for me to see the cockpit. As the weight of the boat fell back onto the anchor, she aligned more with the wind and came to sit parallel to me, about a hundred feet off Welina’s starboard side.
Now I could see the helmsman. He was also young and shirtless, with a shock of nearly white hair pulled back into a small ponytail. He stood at the center cockpit, his hands on the wheel, one foot on the seat next to him. A big Norwegian flag flew off the stern of the boat.
My eyes lingered on the guy at the helm for a moment. I liked the way he held himself. He was relaxed and calm, definitely confident in his boat, his crew, his skills. I wished for a little of that confidence for myself. I used to have it. How could I get it back?
“Oh, poor Welina. Beautiful new boat, gorgeous young people on board.” I patted the canvas Bimini over the cockpit. “We’re a little scruffier, but we’re made of tough stuff, right?”
While I watched, another head popped up from the companionway. A tanned dark-haired woman entered the cockpit and surveyed the landscape.
She took in one of my favorite views in the whole world, and I tried to look at it through her eyes and remember what it was like the first time I sailed here, the first time I dropped anchor with the beach a hundred yards off my bow, coconut trees thick from one side of the motu to the other.
All this was fresh and new to these sailors.
I focused back on my new neighbors and found them looking at me. I also realized I was sprouting bitch wings—hands on hips, elbows cocked out—while I watched them, which wasn’t the friendliest thing to do. My hands fell to my sides.
And of course, my new neighbors waved.
I gave them a stiff wave back and decided maybe if I made myself scarce, they’d get the idea that I wasn’t interested in being chatty. I ducked into the companionway of Welina and gave my idle hands some busywork.