“Jake, you’re a sex and relationship therapist.”
“Ex–sex and relationship therapist.”
“How can you not be interested in love?”
“Easy.” He banged the wood into the frame. Some people were bad bets when it came to love. Too closed off or just plain unwilling to take the risk. He wasn’t necessarily proud of the fact, but he fell somewhere on that spectrum. His marriage had taught him that much.
Emotionally unavailable.
That’s what women called him these days. The truth hurt, but it didn’t matter how much he wanted love if he didn’t feel it anymore. If he ever had at all.
“Relationships aren’t for everyone.”
Jane’s voice cut through the wire, straight to the heart of the matter. “A life without love sounds kind of lonely to me.”
Always the matchmaker.
“Yeah, well, I’m not lonely. I’ve got Island Time.” He picked up a power drill and walked across the dusty plank floor to the 1966 Chris Craft cruiser he planned to restore, his own, less official kind of therapy.
“Jake, you left Manhattan for a vacation—three years ago. Three years of no New York. No smog-filled air. No Sal’s Pizza. No Mets games.”
He reset the drill bit and anchored the boat to the table. “You know I’m a Yankees guy.”
Truth was the city didn’t define him. If he went back, it’d only be to fulfill his contractual obligations now that he was under the gun. His ex-agent had started sniffing around recently, pressuring him to deliver another bestseller, but writing a book about love relationships for the asshole who’d slept with his wife—currently ex-wife—and then married her? Yeah, Island Time and a lengthy legal battle seemed preferable.
“Don’t you think it’s time to come home?” she asked.
Jake rechecked the anchors and ignored the sympathy in her voice. Sure, he missed the city, but not enough to go back to that counterfeit, celebrity-style life. At the height of his career, everybody had wanted a piece of him, especially women. They’d line up for an autograph or marital advice, all with the hope of landing a nationally famous relationship expert. But he’d only wanted one woman. A bitter sound formed in the back of his throat. But that was a long time ago. A helluva long time. Lesson learned. “Jane, I have to go.”
His sister let go an enormous sigh. “Okay, fine—go. But like it or not, you’re Smart Cupid’s Mr. July, so don’t try to weasel out of it. Kate is already on the way.”
He tightened his grip on the phone. “Who the hell is Kate?
“My best blogger, Kate Bell. And be nice to her. She’s not exactly a frequent flier.”
His jaw flexed to keep him from saying something he might regret. “Then why is she flying into a hurricane?”
“Obviously I didn’t know about the storm. I’m marrying Charlie, not Jim Cantore.”
Jake groaned aloud. Since her engagement, his sister mentioned her upcoming nuptials every chance she got. Every email, every phone call. Everything reminded her to remind him—a walk through Central Park, pizza in the old neighborhood, hell, the color white. At least the hurricane-as-a-reminder made sense. God knew marriage topped his list of natural disasters. “Where am I supposed to put Ms. Infrequent Flyer? The resort is fully booked.”
“I don’t know… Your bungalow is nice.”
“My bungalow?” His neck began to sweat. He’d bought the island and started his couples retreat to find some damned quiet. Now he was supposed to let some Manhattan-style, sure-to-be-demanding woman named Kate into his freaking peace-filled bungalow. Not going to happen. Jake Wright was a matchmaking-free zone.
“Jake? Are you there? You’re, um, breaking up.” A wrapper of some kind crinkled in his ear as if it were static. “Must be the storm. I’m losing your signal.”
Losing the signal, my ass.
“Jane, I mean it this time,” he said through gritted teeth.
“If you can hear me, Kate arrives in Paradise Cay on the two o’clock charter.”
He set the drill down carefully and dragged both hands through his hair. “Not funny.”
“Sorry, bro, too much static.” More wrapper crinkling.
He tried to hold onto his rapidly unraveling temper. “Jane, I refuse to be a bachelor for your website. I told you. I’m through with all that—”
“Her name is Kate. Arriving on the two o’clock. Trust me, you’ll love her.”
Striding toward the door on the off-chance he was wrong about the wrapper, he smashed his knee into the cabinets lining the wall and bit back an expletive. “Jane? Jane?”
Click.
“Dammit.” He whirled back around and slammed his fist down on top of a nearby sawhorse. A hammer and a few nails fell and clattered onto the floor. The charter would land soon, provided the plane hadn’t been rerouted. Of all the times to send a love blogger to the island. He’d spent half the night, not to mention the entire morning, preparing the island resort for Dante, and now, thanks to his matchmaking sister, he needed to hustle over to the damn airfield.
He slapped the sawdust from his paint-splattered pants and imagined this Kate Bell standing on the tarmac in the wind, rain beating against her sure-to-be tailored clothes and overstuffed luggage, New York attitude on full display.
Guilt instantly flooded his body. Attitude or no attitude, he’d never abandon anyone. Jake was not his father, a man who had walked out on his family on Christmas Eve and never looked back. He’d cop to being emotionally distant, but he was a man who stuck—and his sister knew it.
Dammit.
He shoved the prescription safety glasses hard against the bridge of his nose and grabbed his keys from the tool chest. He loved Jane. He wanted to support her, and he was proud of the way she built her company, but interviewing to be some bachelor? No.
He strode across the property toward the truck, a plan already forming in his mind. When he got to the airfield, he’d explain the situation in a calm, professional manner. Kate Bell would realize he had nothing to offer to the readership of the Cupid blog and cancel the interview on the spot. Because the truth was Jake Wright was no expert on love.
Not anymore.
Chapter Two
Maybe it’s the martinis, Kate thought, shoehorned into the second row of the chartered flight direct from hell. Please, God, let it be the martinis.
She yanked her seat belt as the plane dipped into another air pocket. Be calm, be calm, be calm. They were not about to fall out of the sky. No. Her imagination was just working overtime—courtesy of the vodka. When the pilot said “final descent,” he didn’t mean final descent. He meant final for now, not final forever. Not prepare-to-meet-your-Maker final. Prepare-to-meet-your-Maker final was not an in-flight announcement. Definitely the martinis.
Besides, why worry? A bolt of lightning crackled through the clouds. Lightning was going to strike them down first. She clawed at the edges of the seat cushion/flotation device like a cast member of Lost, one of the few, one of the damned. Terrified, barely breathing. The landing gear screeched into position, an earsplitting metal-on-metal sound.
Holy Mother of God. A prayer formed on her lips. Her eyes slammed shut, her every muscle braced for impact, certain any second the plane would crash onto the island. Don’t panic. She held on tight. Do. Not. Panic. Rubber wheels hit the dirt—once, twice, three times—the Cessna skidding furiously along the narrow runway until the engine cut back with a deafening whirr and the plane roared to a complete stop.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Her shaking hand let go of the cushion, and her eyes fluttered open, tears leaking from their edges. She could breathe. Her body was trembling, but she could breathe.
She. Could. Breathe.
She pressed her forehead against the cool rectangular window and glanced down at the island’s sweet, solid, kissable ground. Hallelujah. Amen.
And that’s when she saw him.
Shit.
He stood alone at the edge of the runway, wearing a pair of oversized
black plastic glasses, paint-splattered chinos, and an irritated expression. She took a second look. That’s my bachelor? The nationally famous sex expert? The guy in the Magoo glasses?
She backed off the window and rifled through her paperwork for a recent publicity photograph, but she came up empty. Her brain flipped through its Rolodex of images. Author photo on the flap jacket of his book? Check. Television interview when his book had hit the top of the bestsellers list? Yep. Dark hair, blue eyes, perfect smile. That Jake Wright had been crush-worthy, a Cosmo girl’s dream come true.
So who was this guy? His caddy?
Anxiety pooled in her stomach. Just take a breather. Be kind. Be reasonable.
No need to FREAK out. Think about it. He was her boss’s brother. Her friend’s brother. If there was a time to be open-minded, that time was now. Not all bachelors needed to be hot, right? Hell, she’d given up hotties this morning like they were chocolate and it was Lent. Of course, hers was a personal dating choice made under extreme emotional duress. Smart Cupid’s readers didn’t want an average-looking, non-pathological man; they wanted a smokin’ hot Mr. July.
A dizzy sensation washed over her—from the stress or the martinis, she wasn’t sure. Don’t hyperventilate. She grabbed the airsickness bag from the seat pocket and snapped it open. Breathe into the bag, she thought, drawing in one of those seven-second breaths she’d learned at last week’s “Breathe Your Way to Success” seminar. Do. Not. Hyper—who was she kidding? She took another peek out the window, stifled a sob, and shoved her head deeper into the bag.
“Make this profile happen despite his resistance, and I’ll forget about the blog—maybe even call in a favor and talk to a friend who works for Cosmo.”
Her boss’s words echoed through her mind. She wanted to prove her worth—to Jane, to her family, to herself. She needed this interview. Blow this chance and she could kiss her future good-bye.
Not an option.
She crumpled up the bag and shoved it back into the seat pocket.
Focus on Cosmo. She unbuckled the seatbelt, grabbed her tote, and wove her way toward the exit. Cosmo byline. She stepped onto the foldy metal stairs that led to the ivory sand. Cosmo feature editor. The salty, humid air clung to her skin, and she pulled at her blouse. Ignoring the looming doozy of a headache—thank you, martini number three—she visualized that byline on the pages of the magazine, the January issue, the one with the Bedside Astrologer.
“Cosmopolitan,” she said on an exhale, aiming for confidence.
But as her left foot hit the top stair, her kitten heel caught on the metal grid and pitched her body forward. She reached for the railing with both hands but slipped down a few steps, wincing at the ominous ripping sound that announced the torn seam at her side.
Shit, shit, shit.
She scrambled to her feet and tugged at the ripped skirt for an extra inch of coverage as her itinerary, the contracts—everything she had on her relationship expert—tumbled out of her upended tote. No, no. no. Why didn’t I bring a zippered carry-on?
Magoo sprinted toward the plane. “Jesus, are you okay?”
“Fine.” Kate anchored the useless bag onto her shoulder and smoothed her skirt over her hip, knowing there’d be a monster bruise there later. “Totally fine.” Humiliated. Tipsy. A few missing documents away from losing her job. She flashed a reassuring smile, spun unsteadily around the silver staircase, and chased the papers circling beneath the plane.
He reached for her elbow, but she swiveled past him. “Miss Bell, it’s not safe to go back there.”
She waved him off and ducked beneath one of the wings as a gust of wind pressed her forward. “Give me one minute.”
“Miss Bell, I can’t do that,” he said, following her under the plane.
Making little circles in the air with her index finger, she glanced back at him. “Just turn the other way. Pretend you don’t see me.”
A few feet away, the manila folder lay upturned on the tarmac. In an aggressive move antithetical to her “Breathe Your Way to Success” mantra, her bare foot slammed onto the edge of the folder. But unable to maintain her balance on her remaining heel, she swiveled out of control and careened toward him. Her hands caught the collar of his shirt, pulled him toward her, and—wow. The air rushed from her lungs. Up close, he was cute, not the gorgeous-beyond-redemption type from his photo, but definitely more Alias-style Bradley Cooper than 1940s cartoon character. Raggedy dark hair that hit his collar, a half-cocked smile, a way-past-five o’ clock shadow.
His hands at her hips steadied her. “You okay?”
She blinked up at him, and the rush of her panic evaporated as a sense of kismet—calm, drunken kismet—washed over her. “Yes, yes, I’m…I’m fine. Just fine.”
Her brain reached for something more, something professional, but the way his ocean-blue eyes twinkled behind the oversized glasses threw her tipsy thoughts for a loop. A sudden image of his callused hands tracing the line of her hip crashed through her martini-infused consciousness. She released her grip and stepped back.
Whoa—no.
Her now semi-functional brain ticked off all the reasons to take a second step back. Boss’s brother. Smart Cupid bachelor. Ticket to Cosmo. Real Kate needed to remain professional, but New Kate wanted a side of no strings attached. Or maybe that’s just the vodka talking.
Definitely.
The.
Vodka.
A blush burned across her cheeks. “I’m not exactly a frequent flyer, so I might have indulged in a couple of martinis.” She held up three fingers. “Two. Maybe three. Tough to know for sure, because those promotional bottles are so cute and tiny and…” But before she finished, his steel-toe boots were halfway across the runway, his faded denim shirt flapping behind him in the wind. She blinked at his disappearing form. “Hey, where are you going?”
He pointed toward a yellow building fifty yards beyond the runway. Aviation Services. “To book your flight.”
“My flight?” She swung back around the foldy steps and rushed up to yank her heel from the grid. “What about the interview?”
“Interview’s off.”
“Off?” Shoving the shoe back onto her foot, she stumbled after him. She’d expected some resistance, but she’d just touched down. “It can’t be off.”
He spared a backward glance. “Sorry, sweetheart, but the hurricane takes priority.”
“Don’t-don’t call me sweetheart, sweetheart. I’m more than just…” Sure, she was tipsy, but that didn’t give him the right to give her the sweetheart treatment, judging her blonde hair and curves. Wait a sec…“A hurricane? What hurricane?”
He jerked his unshaven chin toward the horizon. “The one that’s headed toward the island.”
“That storm”—she glanced back at the shoreline—“is an actual hurricane and you think I’m going to climb onto another tin can and fly out of here? Voluntarily?” she said, double-timing her stride to keep up. “There aren’t enough martinis at an upper west side cocktail party.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, clearly irritated, but something flashed in his eyes, barely hidden. Something that felt fiercely protective. “If it wasn’t safe to fly out, they’d cancel all the flights. Better you get off the island before there’s any serious wind or snapped power lines.”
Serious wind? Snapped power lines? “I am not flying.”
He shaded his eyes and looked through the window. “The resort’s booked.”
A familiar panic started in her chest. Oh God, don’t hyperventilate. Do. Not. Hyperventilate. “There must be one available room on this godforsaken—”
“No rooms. Completely booked.”
“I could stay with you,” she said, emboldened by the powerful combination of desperation and martinis. “Get the up close and personal.”
“Stay?” His body angled toward her, annoyance carved into his face. “With me?”
“It’s one night.” She focused in on him. He was still irritated. Made it hard t
o appeal to his gentler side. “Jake—can I call you Jake?—Jake, this interview is…well, it’s a major opportunity for me, and if you don’t give me a break and answer a few easy questions—long story, short—I could end up in Ohio.” She fought back the rising panic, seven seconds from going to pieces. “Have you ever been to Ohio?”
“Ohio? What the hell is wrong with—” His annoyance again was replaced by a flash of…yep, definitely concern. So he did have a weak spot, confirmed when he held up both palms in a gesture of surrender. “You know what? I don’t need to know. You can stay.”
“Really?” Thank you, thank you, thank you. Not as tough a sell as expected. If it weren’t for the irritation and bad attitude, she’d plant a big one on him right now. “I promise you won’t regret this interview.”
“You can stay the night.” He rubbed the grime from the window and tapped on the glass. A sign hung over the desk. All Flights Canceled. “But as for the interview? No way in hell.”
Her grateful spinning world skidded to a stop. Wait a sec. No way in hell? Had he missed the part about the looming possibility of O-hi-o? “You can’t just cancel the interview.”
“I can.” He gestured down the runway at the clouds gathering in the sky. “But if you’d prefer to spend the night here in Aviation Services… It’s not the most secure building on this godforsaken island, but…”
“You wouldn’t.” She raised her chin in a challenge.
He jammed the Elvis Costellos into the bridge of his nose. “Try me.”
Gazing up at him, Kate gauged the likelihood that he’d leave her stranded. Probably too responsible, considering the glasses and the chinos, but with three martinis coursing through her veins, her judgment might be impaired. “Fine.”
Jake gave a short nod. Pressed his lips into a firm line. And strode off toward the Cessna. Halfway there, he stopped to talk to the ground crew and tipped his head toward the hangar, offering what looked like directions before continuing toward the plane.
One Little Kiss (Smart Cupid) Page 2
