Craving Him
Billionaires of Driftwood Island, Book 1
By Sloane Meyers
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Similarities to actual people or events are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Sloane Meyers. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
More Books by Sloane Meyers
About the Author
Chapter One
* LOGAN *
I peered out the window of the small, single engine aircraft as it began its descent into Driftwood Island’s local airport. It had been ten years since I last made the journey to the island, but the view looked pretty much the same as it did a decade ago: miles of sandy beaches accented by turquoise waters, thick groves of palm trees, and a smattering of beach cottages and small local business that all looked like toy houses from up above. And then, smack dab in the middle of it all was the giant Evans Resort. I knew that the locals called the resort an eyesore, and while I thought the term “eyesore” was a bit dramatic, I had to admit that the giant hotel did look a bit out of place when compared to the rest of the island’s scenery.
The plane landed on the runway and skidded to a stop, then began its slow taxi back toward the small parking area where a few other private planes sat baking in the late afternoon sunlight. Those planes’ passengers had probably arrived early this morning, eager to take advantage of every minute of the long weekend and spend as much time on Driftwood Island’s beaches as possible.
I chewed my lower lip impatiently. I wasn’t here for pleasure, and I didn’t want to spend a single minute longer on this god-forsaken island than I had to. Usually, my twin brother Zach handled the on-site visits for our resorts. Zach was much more hands-on with our resort business than I was, and Zach actually seemed to enjoy making the regular rounds to visit our hundreds of properties. Not me. I found travel tedious, and preferred to stay in my New York office, where I had easy access to all my favorite restaurants and coffee shops. The coffee shops were the most important thing. I loved a good hot cup of coffee, and in my experience, tourist locations usually had nothing but overpriced, bitter brews to offer. Even the coffee at my own resorts didn’t satisfy me, but Zach always argued that it was good enough and that it didn’t make sense to waste money on better coffee when most of the vacationers who came to our resorts don’t care about the coffee anyway.
I disagreed, but I let Zach have his way without argument. I had long since grown bored with running our billion-dollar resort conglomerate. If it were up to me, I would have sold the whole thing and retired, even though I was only in my early thirties. But Zach loved the company like it was his baby, and he didn’t want to sell. He also didn’t want to buy out my half of the company. Zach wanted us to work on this project together, as brothers. Having a “family business” seemed to somehow make Zach feel better about the fact that the two of us didn’t have much in the way of family, since our parents had passed away years ago.
So I humored my twin brother, and tried to get away with as little travel as possible. But an unexpected problem at one of our resorts in Greece forced Zach to head to Europe this week, so I got stuck with this prescheduled, routine visit to Driftwood Island. Zach had promised me it would be fun, but I knew better.
Three days of shitty coffee and a bunch of employees falling all over themselves to “yes sir” and “no sir” me like a bunch of parrots.
I was still not used to being treated like some sort of celebrity, but anytime I visited one of our resorts, all of the employees rolled out the red carpet and acted like the pope himself just arrived. I just wanted to be left alone, and perhaps to have a chance to explore outside of the resorts’ walls, but my schedule was always so packed with pointless meetings that I rarely got the chance to see anything outside of a conference room.
“Thanks for the ride, Mitch,” I said as the pilot killed the engine.
“Anytime, Zach. Always a pleasure to fly you out.”
I didn’t bother correcting the pilot. I had a feeling that there would be a lot of people mistaking me for Zach over the next few days, and I didn’t care enough to start correcting everyone. In fact, it might be fun if people thought I was Zach. While Zach loved structure and routine, I was a free spirit who hated running on a schedule. If the hotel staff mistook me for Zach, they were going to wonder what the hell had happened to their normally buttoned-up boss.
I grabbed my own bag from the plane’s small cargo shelf while the pilot was staking down the wings. I hated being waited on, and didn’t need the pilot to fetch my bag for me. With a small wave and a “see you later” to the pilot, I headed out toward the front of the airport’s small pilot’s lounge. A black limousine was waiting to take me to the resort. I would have preferred a rental car that I could drive myself, but Zach had already arranged a driver and a car, and it had been more hassle than it was worth to switch things over.
“Mr. Evans, I presume?” the driver asked as I walked up to the car.
“That’s me. But please, call me Logan. And you’re Joe?”
The driver looked surprised. “I am. Most of the guys I drive around don’t bother asking for my name.”
I grinned. “I’m not most guys. And since I was nice to you, can I choose the music for the drive?”
It was a stupid question. I was the one paying for this ride, so I could listen to whatever music I wanted. But I still liked to go through the motions of asking, mostly so I could see the face of the driver when I made my music request.
“Of course Mr. Evans, er, I mean, Logan. Sir. What would you like to hear?”
“Got any Christmas tunes?”
“Um, sure. I can pull up whatever you want on my satellite radio. But you do realize it’s the middle of June?”
“Best time for Christmas music.”
“Um, okay. I mean, yes sir. Of course.”
The flustered driver took my bag and held the car door open for me. A minute later, he was fumbling with the satellite radio. After a quick search, the familiar melody of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” filled the limo, and the driver took off toward the resort. I managed to relax as the music reached my ears. Zach couldn’t stand my obsession with Christmas music, but I loved the happy memories and warm feelings the music brought to mind. If I had to be cooped up on this damn island, I was at least going to listen to music I liked.
After a few minutes of driving, the limo emerged from the palm grove surrounding the airport into the downtown area of Driftwood Island. The place looked almost exactly the same as the last time I’d seen it. There were a few local boutiques, boasting “the best island clothes in the Caribbean.” A couple seafood restaurants were scattered about, and an ice-cream parlor I’d visited a decade earlier was still there. I remembered the ice-cream at the place had been decent, but the coffee had been god-awful. A corner market that offered groceries and other essential supplies seemed to be the cornerstone of the downtown area.
Even on a warm holiday weekend, the li
ttle shopping district wasn’t very busy. Most of the island’s visitors chose to do their shopping in the resort’s shops. You could get everything you needed without ever leaving the premises of Evans Resort and Spa, so why bother leaving? Especially when the local businesses didn’t seem that interested in promoting themselves. I had always thought that the downtown area of Driftwood Island was a bit of a lost opportunity. If these store owners had attempted to actually have any sort of business and marketing plan, they probably could have raked in a fortune. But instead, they seemed content with barely getting by. At least that’s how it appeared to me. But I was just a man who’d built a billion dollar resort chain from scratch. What did I know about business?
The limo came to a halt at Driftwood Island’s only stoplight, and I sighed again with impatience. Of course the vehicle I’m riding in would have the bad luck to catch the one red light in town. I just wanted to get to the resort and order myself a giant cup of coffee, even if the coffee was subpar. After a long day of travel, I was craving some caffeine to perk me up. I’d started my morning in New York, taken a private jet down to Miami International Airport, and then been driven across town to catch my private flight to Driftwood Island. Now, sitting in the back of this limo, I had just about reached my limit on planes and cars for the day.
I glanced out the window to see an old lady walking a giant mutt across the crosswalk. She shuffled along for a moment at a decidedly unhurried pace, looking up and waving at a younger woman across the street who must have been an acquaintance of hers. For a brief moment, I felt a pang of insane jealousy. I envied that woman and her simple life. I knew if I ever complained out loud about my life, I’d be laughed off the island. But the truth was that I was so bored of goddamn business meetings and conference calls. Part of me wanted to just escape to a simpler life somewhere, where I could wake up whenever I felt like it every morning, and have no bigger responsibilities than taking my dog for a walk.
Of course, if I ever did escape, it would not be to Driftwood Island. This place might have gorgeous beaches, but it also had some serious problems. The first of which was that you couldn’t get a decent cup of coffee here no matter how much money you had.
As if Joe, the limo driver, had been reading my mind, he suddenly spoke up, pointing down the side street the old lady was now walking down.
“We got a new café in town,” he boasted. “The Conch Shell Café. See the giant seashell sign down there? That’s the place. I know you probably have everything you need in the resort, but still. You should check that place out. Its coffee is to die for. And I should know. I’m bartending when I’m not driving, so I’m up at all kinds of crazy hours. I know where to get the best caffeine in the morning.”
I glanced down the side street and spotted the seashell sign. It was a wooden sign, painted in shades of sand and aqua. The seashell on the sign was shaped roughly like a coffee mug, and appeared to have steam from a hot cup of java rising from its center. The words “Conch Shell Café” were painted in bright, scripted white letters. I thought the sign and the name were a bit cheesy, and I doubted that the coffee there would actually be as good as Joe said. But I was intrigued. I had to at least give it a shot.
“Wait!” I called out as Joe started pulling into the intersection. “Let’s make a pit stop at the coffee shop. I’m in desperate need of some caffeine.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Joe called back, sounding immensely pleased. He turned the limo to the right and brought it to a stop almost right in front of the café.
“No need to get my door for me,” I said as I hopped out. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Take your time,” Joe said, sounding so satisfied that I half-wondered if he got some sort of kickback from the owner when he brought customers to the shop. Oh well. I didn’t care. I just wanted to see if the coffee here was any better than at the resort. I didn’t have high hopes, but I had to at least try.
When I stepped inside, I was immediately greeted by the aroma of a smooth, rich brew. That was a good start. The coffee at least smelled good, even if it turned out not to taste so good. A pastry case near the front counter displayed a heavenly assortment of muffins, scones, and cupcakes, and I felt my mouth beginning to water. When was the last time I’d eaten something? I’d been so distracted by traveling all day that it had definitely been a while.
“Be right with you,” called the woman behind the counter. She had her back to me, which gave me free reign to admire her curves. Her apron strings were tied snugly around her perfect waist, with the excess string trailing down to draw attention to her perfectly rounded ass. Damn, this woman looked good from behind. Suddenly, the pastries weren’t the only thing making my mouth water. I wondered if it was possible that she looked good from the front, too. I didn’t dare hope for that much, did I?
She turned around, and I felt a surge of hot desire rushing through me, surging directly toward my cock and instantly causing it to stiffen. She was even better looking from the front than she was from the back. Her curly, deep red hair framed her face and perfectly accented her emerald green eyes. Her sun-kissed skin had an adorable smattering of freckles, and her full red lips seemed to beckon to me. Damn. I hadn’t expected to find a woman so attractive in the middle of a local coffee shop. I glanced at her left hand, relieved to see that there was no ring there.
“Hi,” I said brightly, flashing her my most charming smile. But the smile on her face froze the moment she saw me.
“Zach Evans,” she spat out. “What are you doing here?”
I let out a long sigh. Maybe being mistaken for my brother wasn’t going to be so much fun after all.
Chapter Two
* JULIA *
I wiped my hands on my apron and eyed the man in front of me warily.
“You look an awful lot like Zach,” I said. And it was true. Despite claiming to be Zach’s twin brother instead of Zach himself, the man in front of me looked like the spitting image of Zachary Evans. Well, he looked like the spitting image of all the photos of Zachary Evans that I had ever seen, I should say. I had never seen Zach in person, and up until now I’d had no desire to. But I had to admit that the man in front of me was a treat for the eyes. His dark brown hair was mussed up in an adorable way that looked quite different from the slicked back look Zach’s hair always had in official photographs. The steel blue eyes were the same as Zach’s but these eyes seemed to have more warmth in them than I was used to seeing in photos of Zach. Was it possible that this really was a different man than Zach? The differences were subtle, but there.
“What did you say your name was again?” I asked.
The man sighed, as though he was once again about to explain to a four-year-old why it was a bad idea to run across the street without looking. “I’m Logan Evans. Zach’s twin. Not identical twin, mind you. Although we apparently look enough alike for everyone to mistake us for each other.”
“Logan,” I repeated, trying the name out on my tongue. I liked the way it sounded more than I wanted to admit. Even if this man wasn’t Zach himself, he was still an Evans. And everyone on Driftwood Island knew that the Evans were nothing but trouble. The Evans resort had been trying for years to buy up more beachfront property and expand. Luckily, all of the townspeople thus far had resisted their efforts. The resort was nothing but an eyesore that drained money away from the local economy. Sure, it brought plenty of tourists in from the mainland. But those tourists rarely left the boundaries of the resort property. They never ventured out to the local businesses and restaurants, and as a result all of the local business owners struggled to get by. Including me. Sometimes I wondered why I had ever thought it was a good idea to try to open a little coffee shop here. I knew no tourists visited downtown. But somehow I thought my little café would be different.
Nope. I was struggling just as much as anyone else. Maybe more so, considering I needed money for surgery for my beloved Labrador and had no hope of getting enough anytime soon. My only chance was a bank lo
an, which was not likely to be granted. Not when everyone down at the bank knew as well as I did that my café was barely scraping by. The scowl on my face deepened. The last thing I needed right now was an Evans boy coming to gloat, regardless of whether his name was Zach or Logan or how handsome he might be.
Logan, as he claimed to be, acted oblivious to my glares. He had sauntered over to the pastry case now, and was squinting down at the goodies inside. For some reason, I felt nervous. I took a lot of pride in my work, and if he made fun of my adorably decorated cupcakes or cookies, it was going to crush me. I shouldn’t care what he thought, but for some reason I did. After all, he was a big, rich billionaire. He probably knew when a cupcake actually looked good or not. I chewed my lower lip as I watched him, trying not to notice how good his ass looked from the side. His jeans were obviously expensive, as was the t-shirt he wore. Everything just looked like it was a step above the sort of clothes my friends and I normally wore. Okay, maybe ten steps above. He was going to hate my cupcakes. I just knew it. They were too cutesy and “homemade” looking. I felt my cheeks heating red with embarrassment, and I wished that he would just leave my shop already.
“These are really something,” he said, cutting into my thoughts as he looked up from the case.
“Um, thanks. I think?” I wasn’t sure if he was complimenting me or making fun of me. He grinned at me, flashing the whitest, straightest teeth I had ever seen.
“Do they taste as good as they look?”
“Uh…” Why had I suddenly lost my ability to speak? “Sure. I guess. You’ll have to try one yourself to find out.”
Did I really just act all snarky to the richest man I’ve ever met? I should be encouraging him to buy up the whole pastry case instead of acting snide. But instead of apologizing or trying to gloss over my words, I just stood there staring at him like an idiot. He looked down at the pastry case again, then glanced up at me with a slightly amused expression on his face.
Craving Him: A Billionaire Beach Island Romance (Billionaires of Driftwood Island Book 1) Page 1