Blurb; He’s emerged as a swanky, tuxedo-wearing, cruise-ship rock star. But will it be enough to win his girlfriend’s heart?Brian would walk the plank if it plucked Romina from her awful bottom-of-the-boat job. But knowing that their only way out of the hellish working conditions is to beat ships at their own game, he bids her adieu to learn the competitive trade of art auctioneering. And though he takes his fair share of hard knocks, he’s finally hitting the big time.
Becoming a master auctioneer, he lives like a cigar-smoking king aboard elite luxury liners with access to anything he wants. But when he returns victorious to whisk his love away to better things, Romina mysteriously refuses. And he worries that in chasing his ambitions, regardless of good intentions, he may have lost her forever…
Can Brian persuade Romina that the world is their oyster, or will she push his grand vision overboard?
Gone with the Waves is the dramatic conclusion to the Gone with the Waves romantic comedy series, entirely of real events in the author’s life. If you like charming humor, conflicted hearts, and more twists than a whirlpool, then you’ll adore Brian David Bruns’s sweeping odyssey.
JUNE 2, 2005
Sweat sheathed my body, slid down curves, dripped over edges. The hair on my chest swirled this way and that. The scratches down my back the same. I panted, was exhausted. I was dizzy.
I was not alone.
The room brightened as my lover pulled open the curtains. Revealed was she who had taken my breath, made me sweat, made me dizzy. She wore my shirt. It was large enough to hide if she wore anything else underneath. I knew she did not.
“Check you,” she said with a smirk. “You say you marathoner, babaloo.”
“That was longer than a marathon,” I noted wryly.
I slid into shorts, followed her out onto the balcony. It was on the third floor. The air was damp, cool, delicious to our fevered skin.
It was dawn.
The distant plains sloped up to a mountain range to the east. The ridge was dark but defined by a sharp, brilliant edge. Sunlight slid along its outline like molten iron flowing into a mold. And from behind the sun-rubbed ridge sunlight speared high into the sky, also defined by a sharp, brilliant edge.
It was no ordinary sunrise.
This was no ordinary valley.
The valley floor itself was forested with deciduous trees, soaking up a lush morning mist. From their midst rose a shocking series of rocky pinnacles. The fat stone fingers raked the sky, some slender, others fat, all hundreds of feet high.
Perhaps they were upthrusts of ancient granite, or hardened volcanic plugs. More likely they were sedimentary stones winnowed by deep time. A river meandered among them. Perhaps it had been the artist, now retired.
Certainly the most amazing aspect of the magnificent pinnacles was their caps. Ancient stone monasteries were neatly fitted atop, capped themselves by orange tiles. Some had towers that crawled down slopes, others graceful stone bridges arcing from rock tower to rock tower.
Romina trailed a fingertip along my shoulders as she passed by, leaned against the railing. She readied a cigarette, but did not light.