by White, J. L.
I nod in answer to her question. I should probably apologize again, now that I have her in person, but that same powerful draw I felt five days ago starts to swirl around inside me. Based on the expression on her face, I’m not the only one.
Damn. What exactly did I start when I kissed this woman?
The ambulance pulls out, the tires crunching on the gravel, and now we’re really alone.
I don’t know what it is about her, but I honestly don’t trust myself not to start kissing her again. I take a step back. She does as well. In fact, our eyes still on one another, she backs up another quick two steps.
“Watch out for ladders,” I say.
Like. An. Idiot.
She stops abruptly and gives me a wry look. “Very funny.”
“Sorry.” God, I’m an idiot. “I really didn’t mean to tease you. Are you alright?” I gesture to her hip. She’s wearing a straight skirt that showcases her long, shapely legs and hugs those hips of hers perfectly.
She takes a deep breath. “Fine. Yes. I’m fine.”
That non-answer tells me nothing, since she was saying the same damn thing seconds after that ladder crashed on top of her and she was writhing on the floor in pain.
But the ambulance is leaving the scene and I want to make sure I’m there to meet Isaac’s wife, so I just say, “That’s good,” and leave it at that. I’m glad to have a reason to go, because even with several steps separating us, it’s not enough.
I walk away with a sinking feeling that even though I’m fighting to resist this woman, sooner or later it’s a fight I’m destined to lose.
Chapter 10
Lizzy
I should’ve left the second the medic closed the ambulance doors. Don’t be alone with him. That’s the rule. It’s obvious I need that rule too, because being within arms’ reach of him was not good. Not good.
On my way to cottage thirteen to meet with Rod, I mentally list all the reasons why I don’t need to be kissing Marcia Carmichael’s son.
I’m not able to come up with as many reasons as I thought I would.
Rod comes out of the cottage wearing a white breathing mask and carrying a second one, which he hands to me. “What’s this?” I ask.
“We found black mold in the kitchen.”
Great. I put the mask on and follow him into the cottage, smelling the clean papery smell of the mask. As soon as we reach the kitchen, which has been gutted to the framing, I see right where he’s taking me.
“God, how did anyone miss this before?” There’s a massive black mold stain on the wooden flooring, where the kitchen sink used to be.
“There must have been a burst pipe or something once,” he says. “The base of the cabinet had been replaced, but they either ignored the floor or didn’t check it well enough for moisture and the mold grew after. Here, look at this.”
We crouch down and he points to the base of the wooden framing nearest the sink. The mold has climbed the wood by a few inches. “Lovely. So what does this mean?”
We straighten up and he tells me everything they have to tear out and replace. All the while, I’m thinking about the additional costs. Rayce feels strongly that we need to stay within certain margins, and I agree we should if we can. But at the same time, Dad didn’t transform that old hotel into the resort it is now by being timid. I mean, he moved the fucking elevator bays. I don’t think paying to remove a little black mold would freak him out. Would it?
Rod has already worked up the cost, which is actually higher than I would’ve guessed. “All right,” I say. “It needs to be done. Keep me posted.”
“I will.”
My day doesn’t improve much when I get back to the office. Not surprisingly, Rayce doesn’t like what the mold removal is doing to our margins, but doesn’t ask me to find a way to make up the costs elsewhere and I don’t offer. He might think I should, and maybe he’d be right, but I don’t want to cut corners. What we’re doing to the Cottages now is an investment, isn’t it? We have to make sure they measure up to the same exacting standards as the rest of the resort, or what’s the point?
Connor wanders into my office shortly after I come in from Rayce’s office and sits in the chair opposite me. His face is all lit up and he’s grinning broadly. In the past, I’d know just from looking at him that he’s grinning because he just took a group down the zip line or worked the teen center for a while or something. It’s been one of his coping strategies for when his itchy feet get to be too much for him. He’ll go get his energy out, then stay late in the office to make up for it. But these days, he seems to do it more because he likes it and less because he’s restless.
And he’s just as likely to be grinning like that because Whitney just sent him a mushy text or something. I never know.
“You just getting in?” I ask.
“Yeah. Took the Donner party down the zip line.”
“Seriously?” The Donner party is a group of little old ladies who’ve been in a quilting group for decades. I don’t think a single one of them is under sixty. “How many went?”
“Seven.”
“Wow.”
“Mabel’s my favorite. You should’ve seen her. She even started spinning around the last few runs. I told her she needs to move in with us and be grandma to our kids.”
I laugh. “Sounds like you made a new friend.”
“Oh yeah. Mabel’s my buddy. So, do you need anything before I get to work?” We tend to check in with each other at the beginning of the day. Course, his day’s starting significantly later than mine did.
“No, I’m good.”
“All right. Is Rayce in? I didn’t see him in his office.”
“He’s making rounds.” Several times a week, Rayce will randomly walk different areas of the resort just to “put his eyes on things” as he says. Management and employees never know where or when he’s going to show up. I don’t think he does it specifically to keep people on their toes or anything. We’ve got a good crew and he knows it. But keep them on their toes it does.
“Ah.” Connor nods and gets up, but before he leaves he says, “Oh. Do you know if you want that armoire or not?”
Apparently the one piece of furniture in my old house that Connor and Whitney have their eye on is the armoire I have in the master bedroom. If I keep Mom and Dad’s furniture, which I’ve said I might, I don’t need it. Or have a place for it. And it doesn’t go with everything else anyway. But I found that armoire down the coast in this fabulous antique shop and spent an entire weekend sanding it down and repainting it. I love that armoire, probably more than a person should reasonably love an armoire. But I do. It’s so pretty. But I’d have to get rid of something in Mom and Dad’s house to make room, and… I don’t know.
The whole thing’s stressing me out.
“Um… I’ll let you know.”
“No pressure. It’s no big deal if you want to keep it.”
“I know. I’m just still deciding. There’s so much furniture to figure out.”
I really wish they were just staying in my old house and I could stay in our parents’ house and it’d be easy.
Connor’s giving me an appraising look. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” I don’t want to talk about this. Fortunately, I know how to take care of that. “Don’t you have work to do, kiddo?”
He rolls his eyes and turns to leave, like I knew he would. “Don’t call me kiddo.”
I go back to the report I was working on. I don’t want to think about houses and furniture. I can think about it later.
Unfortunately, my mind goes straight to Brett Carmichael. I try not to think about him either, with zero success.
Freaking Brett Carmichael.
I’m worried about his employee, Isaac, too. I’m tempted to contact Brett to see how he is, but I don’t want to have to, you know, actually contact Brett. I could call Rod and ask him to find out for me, but that feels kind of juvenile. And chicken shit.
I give myself an exasperate
d sigh and pick up my phone. What am I worried about? He can’t kiss me over the phone.
Still, at the last second I chicken out on calling him and end up sending a text instead: Is Isaac all right?
I’m typing an email when, a minute later, I hear the ding that indicates I’ve received a text. I halt, glancing over at my phone’s screen. My fingers are still resting on the keys. I can see Brett’s text in the preview, without having to pull it up: Yes. They’re releasing him now. Thanks for asking.
Hands still on the keyboard, I look at the screen a moment longer, then go back to my email. I pretend I’m not afraid to pick up my own damn phone. I also pretend my heartbeat isn’t beating as quickly as it is.
Three days later, I’m in the kitchen of cottage five, leaning on the center island and making notes about a possible addition to our marketing campaign. I had a brainstorm during my quick meeting with Rod, which just ended, and wanted to capture my ideas before I lost them.
Cottage five is next in line to get stripped on the inside, and work is set to start sometime today, but for the moment I’m in here alone. It’s quiet and peaceful, and the sound of the nearby ocean is drifting in through the open front door. The only other sound is the scratching of my pen on the cream-colored paper in my Moleskine notebook, which is nearly full already.
I’m almost finished with my notes when I hear the sound of heavy boots coming through the front door—a worker finally arriving to begin demolition, no doubt—and hurry to finish my thought so I can get out of the way. Too late, I realize who else it might be and, sure enough, I raise my head to find Brett Carmichael coming around the corner and into the kitchen.
He stops when he sees me and I straighten, pen still in hand.
Crap. We’ll be working together on this project for months, and yet here it is only a few days since the last time I saw him and already I’m alone with him again. Even though he’s clear across the room, my senses heighten at the sight of him.
I try to maintain my cool. “Mr. Carmichael.”
“Elizabeth.”
Lizzy.
“I think I owe you an apology,” he says, slowly starting to come around the island.
Matching his pace, I begin circling the island as well, in the opposite direction. Because he needs to stay over there. Because all he has on is slacks and a collared shirt, nothing fancy, but god, he looks delectable. His broad chest fills out his shirt nicely and the hard knots of his biceps look perfectly squeezable. Plus those eyes. I really love those eyes.
So, yeah, over there.
“You already apologized.”
He stops and I stop too. I realize I’ve left my notebook and bag on the countertop. They’re now closer to him. Over there.
“It wasn’t appropriate. I didn’t mean to… attack you like that.”
I furrow my brows. Attack me? God, it’s not like I didn’t want him to kiss me. You know, in that moment.
Okay, maybe a little in this moment too. But, no, no, no. I just have to keep him over there so the energy that’s already passing between us doesn’t become unbearable. If he gets too close, I’m afraid I won’t be able to resist him. And I do want to resist him. I’ve already decided that.
“You didn’t,” I say, as he takes a step, this time going in the other direction. I also take a step in the other direction, maintaining the distance between us.
He stops and I stop too.
He cocks his head and holds my eyes. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice sounding both curious and amused, as if he’s suddenly realized what I’m doing. And why.
“Hmm?” I say, because my muddled brain can’t seem to come up with a better response then, I’m keeping you and your dangerous body the fuck over there.
His gaze gets more intense. Without him moving the slightest bit closer to me, the space between us heats up and shrinks. Oh, shit. I’m in trouble now.
He takes another step toward me, then another, holding my eyes. I only manage half a step back, toward the counter behind me.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“No.”
The honest answer, in case you’re having trouble following along, is yes.
“Then why,” he asks, coming yet closer, rounding the corner of the island, “are you once again backing away from me?” There’s nothing between us now and the air is starting to crackle.
“I’m not.” My rear hits the counter behind me and I grab it with both hands, the pen clicking against the surface, my eyes locked on his.
“Elizabeth.”
“Lizzy.”
He stops his advance, cocking his head again. “Lizzy?”
Oh shit. I did not mean to say that. But it’s hard to think with my blood pounding the way it is. “People close to me call me Lizzy,” I offer, as if that’s some sort of explanation.
God, that didn’t help matters at all.
His eyes sharpen with heat and oh, here he comes again. “You want me to get close to you?”
“No, I…” God, he’s right here. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“I think you do,” he says quietly. He’s stopped moving, but he’s just in front of me now, mere inches separating us. My eyes dart from his eyes to his lips.
“I don’t…” my voice is barely audible.
His eyes hold mine and my whole body is pulsing. This electricity between us is so overpowering. It’s taking over everything. I had decided I didn’t want this and yet once again my gaze falls—dammit—from his eyes to his lips.
I realize mine are parted slightly. I lick them and press them closed determinedly. He watches me do it. “I don’t…” I try again. I don’t like feeling so out of control. I gather what little scraps of willpower I have left. “…like you.”
I said it to try to push him away, but the words out of my mouth feel terrible. In fact, they feel like a wicked little lie.
He doesn’t move one whit. In fact, his only reaction is to blink, twice.
I want to take it back. But I don’t. Because then he’ll kiss me, I know he will. And I had decided I don’t want him to kiss me. This is so not going according to plan.
He straightens slightly, looking me in the eye with such intensity I forget all about his lips. “Is that so?” he asks quietly.
I stand there frozen, hands still gripping the counter behind me, as he slowly lifts his hand toward my face. I don’t move at all. I don’t take my eyes off his. His fingertips touch my skin—like a crack of lightning in a stormy sky—and he runs them down my cheek, leaving fire in their wake. My entire body weakens, and my arms slowly go slack.
My eyes still held by his, his fingers move to my neck. My vein pulses hard against him and my breath catches in my chest. His fingers continue their downward path, his sharp eyes observing my every reaction. When he rests the tip of his fingers at the tender base of my neck, I exhale shakily.
“I think you like me fine.”
At last his eyes drop from mine and he follows the track his fingers are burning along my exposed collar bone. His fingers trace the curve of my shoulder, tucking underneath my long hair. My pulse is reverberating thickly through my entire body. I’m barely breathing.
I want him to kiss me. I want him to kiss me like the fucking devil I know he is.
“I think you don’t want to like me.” He lightly plays with my hair, still watching his hand, sending waves of shivers over me. “If you want to know the truth, I don’t want to like you either,” but his voice is full of heat, and when he looks back at my eyes I’m gripped in the thunderstorm. “At least… not like this.”
Fuck. I would lean in and kiss him myself, but I’m caught in the intensity of his gaze and can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.
His hand lifts to the base of my neck and his fingers curl into my hair. His other hand runs along my hip then curls around my lower back. Our chests touch lightly at first, then more firmly. My arms have circled around him too, but still his mouth hovers just over mine. His gaze is
reaching somewhere deep inside me, sparking and popping.
His grip on my hair tightens. His grip on my body tightens. My stomach presses against his. I let out a slow, heated breath, my lips parting. My fingers curl on his firm back, the other hand still loosely holding the pen.
He leans in smoothly and the gap between our mouths disappears. His lips claim mine. My eyes flutter shut. He squeezes me tighter, little prickles of pleasure exploding where he’s pulling on the roots of my hair. I release the pen and it drops to the floor as I squeeze him back.
Our mouths open and his tongue demands entrance. A little whimper escapes the back of my throat. I kiss him back, tasting him, giving in.
He becomes, in that moment, his own entity in my mind. No longer tied to his family, it is only him, the man I’ve started to know myself: a man who’s intelligent, playful, kind, and apparently—Lord help me—passionate.
I kiss him back impatiently, sinking with weak knees, all while something within me rises with desire. I run my hands into his hair and break our kiss long enough to say breathlessly, “I lied.”
He takes me again. Kissing me more and making me dizzy, stopping just long enough to say, “I know.”
We continue to exchange heated kisses, but I say the words I so need to say. “I do like you.”
He pulls back slightly. Our hot breaths merge together as we look at one another, and grow still. His eyes soften and take me in—eyes, forehead, cheeks, lips. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I like you too.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, and a faint smile emerges on my face.
Sounds outside draw my attention and I drop my arms quickly, realizing people are coming up the steps to the cottage. He releases me more slowly, so slowly I have to give him a quizzical look. If it were up to me, we’d be clear across the room from each other right now, but even after he drops his arms, he’s still holding me in place with those eyes of his.
There’s that amused look I’ve become so familiar with.
“Wha?” I protest weakly. But he’s not flustered by the oncoming workers at all—they’re talking and laughing and in the living room now—and seems to be, in fact, keeping me from bolting on purpose.