Reluctantly In Love (Emerald Cove Romance Book 1)

by Siân James

  Reluctantly In Love

  An Emerald Cove Romance

  Book 1

  Siân James

  Contents

  Title

  Contents

  Newsletter

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Newsletter signup

  Review Request

  Acknowledgements

  www.sianjames.com/newsletter/

  Copywrite

  First published in 2020 by Stiley Lifetstyle PTY LTD

  Copywrite © Siân James 2020

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic, mechanical or mind-melding means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All inquiries should be made to the author.

  Cover design by the very talented Okay Creations

  Editing by the very thorough Hannah Sullivan Editing

  For Sarah,

  who would no doubt be equal parts proud and horrified that I wrote such a book.

  Chapter 1

  I liked to think of myself as a nice person. Even-tempered and reasonable. In fact, I’m pretty sure if asked to list my best attributes, my friends would put “nice” or “friendly” right near the top. Alas, we all had our breaking points and a stressful week drove me to the brink of mine. Or rather, sent me hurtling towards—then over—the edge with a degree of personal disregard bordering on the spectacular.

  I could have handled things differently, but in the end, I got what I wanted. More or less …

  Jen leaned closer to the screen. “Sorry, Izzie; I didn’t catch that.” She cupped her ear.

  I smiled apologetically at my own screen. Jen couldn’t hear a word I said.

  “I'm so sorry; my upstairs neighbour is renovating, and I didn’t expect for him to be doing it on a Saturday afternoon. If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll just go speak—”

  She waved a hand at me. “No, don’t worry. Let's call it a day. Aside from the noise, I didn’t understand anything we discussed the last five minutes, anyway. Can we reschedule? Maybe one morning next week?”

  I scheduled her for an early morning slot and slammed my laptop shut in irritation.

  It would have been more satisfying if the resulting subtle click of the lid closing hadn’t been drowned out by the cacophony from upstairs.

  The incessant noise had been relentless for over a week. You name it, and I could hear it—banging, drilling, thumping and other sounds associated with wanton and careless destruction.

  What on earth was he doing?

  Okay, I knew what he was doing. He was renovating. When Number Six moved in, he sent around a letter informing the other five apartments (of which mine was Number Four) that he was excited to be renovating his new flat, and there might be a little noise for a few weeks, but he hoped we'd understand.

  At the time, I wasn't bothered. I had plenty of things on my plate, not the least of them my growing floral business or my freelance work for A Woman’s Touch Business Accounting Consultation. I figured I wouldn't be home when he was working.

  My assumption couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  I'd stopped Gladys (Number Five) in the stairwell to ask if she'd found the noise irritating. But she said, aside from a little banging earlier in the week, she hadn't really noticed, And he was such a lovely young man.

  Gladys was somewhere between seventy and one hundred and wore a hearing aid, so what did she know?

  A loud thud followed by an unnatural shuddering across my apartment was the last straw.

  “Oh, for the love of …” I trailed off, snatched my cup of tea and laptop from the table and stalked to the balcony. I loved my balcony. It was small, but I managed to fit Adirondack chairs, a small coffee table and a plethora of potted plants. I'd been nurturing them for years until some of them now draped over the railing. I could see them cascading from the street, and it made my little terrace look like it had been transported from somewhere on the Mediterranean.

  Folding myself into one of the chairs, I stuffed a pillow behind my back and tried to concentrate.

  At heart, I was a florist. My flower shop was called the Little Flower Shop. I loved flowers, I loved the creative outlet of making bouquets, and I loved sharing the joy they brought to my customers.

  Before I was a florist, however, I was an accountant. A short-lived career in some respects, but I'd found a niche in my consulting business. I consulted exclusively to women - except for my friends Andy and Luke - all across the country who were starting up their business and didn't want to have to deal with man-splaining. I thought it would be a fun side gig, but after beginning two years ago, my wait-list wasn’t growing so much as skyrocketing.

  Settling back, I took a sip of my fast-cooling tea and a deep breath of the salty sea air. Even several blocks back from the ocean, I could taste the tang of it on my tongue and hear the rush of waves greeting the shore. The sound eased the tension in my shoulders, and the smell eased the tension in my soul.

  I opened my laptop and clicked through to Andy and Luke’s account business account. I reviewed the number’s I'd added last night, then continued my calculations.

  After a few minutes, I realised the noise had stopped. Maybe he was done? He’d been working since I got home from the shop three hours ago.

  My shoulders inched away from my ears.

  The quiet of the afternoon stretched outwards.

  A magpie’s warbling soothed my strained nerves. I leaned back and—

  Suddenly, a teeth-grinding scrape followed by a series of violent bangs interrupted my reverie.

  “That. Is. It!”

  I slammed the tea cup down, sloshing liquid over the rim, leapt to my feet and swept through my lounge. Flinging the front door open, I paused, then stomped back and grabbed my keys—I'd locked myself out one too many times to make that mistake again—and raced out the door.

  I had no idea what I was going to say, but I did know when I was done, Number Six would have a very good idea of how irritating his renovations had become. And I'd have a very good idea about when he was going to be finished.

  Or else.

  The stairwell was darker than my apartment, and I had to give myself a minute for my eyes to adjust. Breeze blocks (originals from the seventies) broke the monotony of grey at the front and back of the building, letting in some of the late afternoon light and the warm sea breeze. Being cement, it was significantly cooler than my apartment.

  I stormed up two flights of stairs, doubling back so on the landing above, I was facing a door just like mine except it had the number six in gold just below the peephole.

  I knocked.

  The noises continued.

  I raised my fist and thumped.

  The banging stopped.

  After waiting a few more moments
, I raised my fist to knock again when the door swung open. I blinked as the light coming from behind the silhouette of a man left me momentarily blinded.

  “G’day,” said a deep voice. “Can I help you?”

  I blinked again, and my eyes struggling to adapt to the contrast between the dark landing and his well-lit apartment.

  There was a shuffling noise and his form move towards me as he pulled the door to behind him, invading my space and I caught the heady scent of an expensive cologne combined with paint stripper.

  Don’t judge me, but it was strangely arousing.

  Unexpectedly, all the air in the stairwell was sucked out through the chinks in the breeze block holes. Or at least that’s how it felt to my oxygen-depleted lungs.

  Holy eyes of sapphire, Batman!

  My brain disengaged. I was floating in a hazy tunnel with the man in front of me my only focus.

  He was gorgeous.

  Gor-geous.

  Tall with broad shoulders and a lean body, like all the other surfers in town but so much … better. His hair was covered in white dust, but underneath it was sandy blond, thick and several weeks past due for a cut, curling around his ears and against his neck. And his eyes. Oh my goodness, his eyes.

  Le sigh.

  They were a deep sapphire blue, framed by thick, light-brown lashes. My favourite colour of the ocean on a clear day, and in his tanned face, they glowed with an otherworldly light.

  His shoulders and arms were covered in the same white dust, the dark blue, work-stained singlet he wore hanging loosely over the similarly work-stained grey boardies. Thick socks peeked above heavy work boots. I wondered how tall he was without the boots on and desperately ignored the flush of colour I felt creeping up my neck.

  “Everything okay?” he rumbled, and a delicious shiver of feminine appreciation rippled down my spine.

  Oh my God, this was ridiculous. Even his voice was sexy. I couldn't remember a time when a man had ever affected me so … erotically.

  Urgh. Disgusted with myself, I snapped my eyes back to his and remembered the reason for my visit, more annoyed now than before because seriously, no one should ever be that good-looking. Using my irritation to fuel my anger, I crossed my arms protectively over my chest.

  “No, everything is not okay.”

  His brows snapped together. “Oh?”

  “I'm below you.”

  His brows rose, and I tried not to blush at the double entendre my words elicited.

  “I mean I'm Number Four.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Number Four.”

  I regarded his large, dusty hand but didn't take it, more for self-preservation than any real aversion because I very, very, very much wanted to touch him. “You’re loud up here.”

  He nodded, taking his hand back and glancing backwards. “Demolition usually is.”

  I leaned to the side, following his line of sight. A sudden, intense curiosity to know exactly what he was doing made me crane my neck further.

  “Want to come in? I could use some help.” He hooked his thumbs into his tool belt and smiled.

  My eyes snapped back to his. His wry grin made the hot ball of irritation flare anew.

  This wasn't going as intended. Instead of putting him in his place, I'd ogled him and become distracted by curiosity. Enough.

  I planted my hands on my hips, and his eyes dropped to them before taking a lazy tour of my body, taking their sweet time to do so. I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to mask the restless awareness his perusal aroused. The tingling path he’d ignited with his eyes continued up the back of my neck, across my scalp and down to my lower belly, fluttering and swelling before zapping its way straight to my nipples.

  He rubbed at his face, trying to hide the grin behind his hand, but I'd seen it.

  No, no, no!

  I begged them silently but they didn't listen, reacting like the lustful appendages they were. I took a deep breath then snapped my fingers in his face.

  “Eyes up!”

  He blinked, his lids squeezing shut a protracted moment before opening and meeting mine, reminding me of an exaggerated cartoon character. Recovering quickly, his expression morphed into one of blatant appreciation, and he gave me what I assumed was his best, most charming smile.

  I assumed this because I was utterly charmed.

  Crap sticks!

  I shook my head in one jerky movement.

  It didn't help.

  I took a deep breath and collected my thoughts.

  Banging, noise, irritating. Plus, I didn't come up here to get ogled.

  “This has been going on for a over a week.” I spat the words. “It’s Saturday afternoon for goodness sake. I want to have some quiet time in my apartment, but the noise never stops. Last night you worked until almost ten o'clock!”

  His smile faded, and I felt instantly bereft as his expression became one of serious contemplation. “I'm sorry. I didn't realise you could hear all that—”

  “Well, I could. Some of us have to be at work early. You know I could call the police on you? Disturbance of the peace. It doesn’t have to be late at night either, noise pollution can be at any time of day if the complainant finds it irritating and”—I leaned towards him what I hoped appeared menacingly to make my point and lowered my voice—“disturbing.”

  His eyes darkened, and he folded his arms across his impressive chest. If I was honest, I would admit he was a little intimidating and a whole lot of something else that made my blood warm, but when he answered my accusations with, “I sent a letter,” all I heard in his voice was the note of belligerence.

  “A letter? Your letter didn't tell me you’d be keeping me awake at night,” I hissed, and he actually appeared contrite.

  “It’s been weeks. You could’ve told me I was keeping you up,” he returned.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, sarcastic now. “A woman”—I waved a hand down my body and tried to ignore the renewed flare of heat I felt as his eyes inevitably followed. Stop drawing attention to your body!—“in her pajamas going out in the dark, alone, to knock on her neighbour’s door?” I sucked in a breath. “Someone she’s never met before, I might add, to tell him he’s being too noisy? Um, no.”

  “How very sensible of you,” he replied, droll.

  I spluttered.

  “Look, I need to get this done.” His irritation now almost matched mine. “I'd like to finish it this weekend. Does that work for you? I can stop about seven this evening.”

  I folded my arms. “No.”

  He raised a brow again and breathed hard through his nose.

  “I have the markets in the morning. They only happen once a month, and I'll need to be up early, very early to get to them. And thanks to you I didn't get much sleep last night.”

  He looked bewildered. “You’re going to go to bed before seven?”

  I opened my mouth to say no of course not, but then thought stuff it. “None of your business.”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “What time would you like me to finish?”

  I gave it some thought. “Five.”

  He checked his watch. “In an hour?”

  “Yup.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Sure am. Why not try going to bed early yourself?” I shot back, an idea hitting me. “That way you could get up early and finish your banging while I'm at the markets.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I'll be there from five in the morning till about midday. And I have more or less normal work hours during the week,” I added. He didn’t need to know I was packing up my shop because I’d been kicked out by the stupid new landlord, nor that I had early online consulting appointments.

  He eyed me like a bug under a microscope.

  “I'll see what I can do.” He gritted out between clenched teeth.

  “So you’ll stop in an hour?” I wanted verbal confirmation.

  He didn’t move for a moment, and I held my breath, desperatel
y needing a break from the incessant noise and his overwhelming presence. At last, he huffed a sigh.

  “Fine.” He put a hand on the door, readying it to close.

  “Thanks.” The word tasted like sawdust in my mouth, and by the expression on his face he knew it.

  “You’re welcome.” He slammed the door before I could turn to leave.

  “Arsehole.”

  I whirled around and stomped back down to my apartment. At least, I thought naively as I slammed my own door shut, despite Emerald Cove being a small town, I was unlikely to run into the jerk very often.

  Chapter 2

  My stomach rumbled, and I grimaced in embarrassment when the young backpacker looked up from her purse in alarm.

  “Hungry.” I said with an awkward laugh and handed her the flowers she'd just bought. It had been a long time since I'd stuffed a piece of toast and a banana down, and I was hanging for a coffee and something sugary of the pastry variety. The noises my stomach was now making were obscene.

  The backpacker raised her eyebrows, put her change away, gave me a very sophisticated, “Ciao.” and sauntered off, all lean hippy tan and long sun-bleached hair.

  It had been a busy morning; it always was in the summer when blooms were varied and vibrant and the customers were feeling festive.

  “Café pour toi.”

  I turned at the sound of my assistant's returning voice and practically snatched the latte from her hand, took a fortifying sip, then moaned, “That's the good stuff.”

  Camille rolled her turquoise eyes at me but couldn't disguise her smile behind her own cup of coffee. “You are an addict, mon amie.”

  “Hi, I'm kettle; you must be pot.”

  Camille tilted her head to the side in confusion. “Is this another of your English sayings?”

  I opened my mouth to explain, thought better of it and shook my head and laughed. “Yep.”