Rhys White a very shy and nerdy guy has just been dumped by his boyfriend of five years. If that wasn't enough he was let go from his job as a computer programmer. He has had enough of being a boring guy so he decided to buy a plane ticket for Peru for an adventure beyond his normal mundane life. Life in Peru is beautiful until disaster strikes and all of his belongings are stolen. He is in a strange country and thinking maybe he is not meant for this adventurous life style until a hot Brazilian named Rafael comes to his aid.
I quite enjoyed this finding-myself type story. I was so pulling for Rhys to take on this adventure against everything telling him that this is not for him. For someone so shy he does take chances in life and even though they aren't always working out, he is still living his life. He meets the very hot Brazilian, Rafael and things heat up beautifully. The author told their story so well in the short novel and she covered everything as I was not in need of any more additional background information. I truly enjoyed the writing style of this author and the pages flowed so beautifully together. Her characters were developed in such a brilliant and beautifully written way that I was completely pulled into their story. This was a very enjoyable short story by Louise Lyons called In Darkest Peru.
My writing spot is one end of the big, comfy old sofa in my living room. Most of my writing is done early in the morning, between 5 and 7am on week days, when the house is quiet and there are no interruptions. On weekends, I start a little later─maybe 7am─and write until 9 or 10, when I put the laptop away to go running.
Some people like to have music while they write, or even the TV in the background, but for me, silence works best. Well, it’s not complete silence. If I listen, the sounds of my house are there in the background, but I tune them out when I’m working.
The water heater roars in the kitchen, the filter on my aquarium hums, the clock ticks and my dog snorts and snuffles next to me. By the time I’ve been in the kitchen to make my first coffee of the day, I’ve woken him up and he’ll join me and sit at my feet while I work. My housemate doesn’t bother me as he’s a later riser than I am, so there’s no interruption there either.
Of course, I need coffee to get going although it’s not the caffeine I crave to give me a boost, because I drink decaf! It’s the taste I like─sharp, slightly bitter roast, made strong with plenty of milk. I drink my first mugful while I read through the last few paragraphs of what I wrote the previous day, to get me back into my character’s head, or into the scene I left off writing last time.
At that point, I interrupt myself to fetch a refill of coffee and a glass of water, and sip them as I start to write, often leaving the coffee so long that the last few mouthfuls are tepid and I have to grope for the mug blindly because I don’t want to take my eyes off the screen. I lose myself in the world I’m creating and time flies, often surprising me when I glance at the time in the bottom corner of my laptop and notice an hour or two have passed. On weekends, I can easily write for over three hours without noticing how long I sit pounding the keys, and eventually my dog pulls me back to reality with his insistence that it’s time for his walk.
Occasionally I’ll get so caught up in the story, that I’ll return to it later in the day if it’s a weekend, but usually I set it aside until the next morning when it’s time for the next cup of coffee and a new session of writing.
Beginning to panic, Rhys went outside again. He had no idea what to do. It occurred to him that he could probably ask a British tourist for help. He would certainly be willing to help someone in his own position if they asked. But after an hour searching the immediate area and asking one or two locals, it became clear that hikers set off very early from the town. He was unlikely to find any until the evening.
'What am I going to do? Oh, God, this is a nightmare. Someone has to help me.' Rhys made his way back to the spot where he had gotten off the bus, hoping that there might be another one coming in at some point during the day. He waited and waited and none came. He tried to remember what he’d read in the Rough Guide about arriving in Cuzco, but the only thing that came to mind was that the night-bus was the quickest transport.
Rhys was desperate for water and he decided to head back to the hotel where he’d used the phone and ask if they would let him have some. If not, he thought he could sneak back into the toilets and drink from the wash basin, although that certainly wouldn’t be ideal. He doubted washing water would be safe to drink.
He wandered across the street, wiping sweaty palms on the legs of his shorts. He was unaware of the car as he stepped into its path and he jumped as it honked loudly. He stumbled out of the way and his boot caught on an uneven patch in the tarmac. In the next second he found himself on his ass in the dust. The car stopped and the driver threw the door open. Rhys shuffled backward and looked up as the man climbed out of the vehicle and stared at him.
“Sorry,” Rhys mumbled. The man responded with a short phrase that included the word esta, which he thought was Spanish, but he couldn’t be sure. He shook his head slowly.
“Yes. Thanks. Sorry.” Rhys nodded to emphasize his reply. A large, caramel-colored hand reached out to him, its owner stooping slightly. Rhys stared at the hand, then let his eyes drift along a muscular but not enormous arm to the short sleeve of a blue T-shirt. Finally his gaze reached the stranger’s face and he took in chiseled features, high cheekbones, collar-length black hair and dark brown eyes. He didn’t look Peruvian. He was too tall and…he was gorgeous.
Rhys’s pulse quickened more and he gulped nervously. He remembered then that the man was offering his hand in assistance and he grasped it quickly. A strong pull and Rhys was back on his feet. He extricated his hand and brushed dust from his shorts.
“Thanks,” he said again.
“You American?” the hunk asked, his voice heavily accented.
“No, English,” said Rhys. “From England.”
The man grinned, flashing very white teeth. “Your name?”
“It’s Rhys,” he answered breathlessly.
“Rafael. From Brazil.” The name of the country sounded like Bra-zeel. Rhys realized the words he spoke before must have been Portuguese.