Will Work For Love

by Amie Denman

  “I am serious about knowing a nice place to get some dinner. Unless,” his eyes dropped meaningfully to her left hand, “you’ve got a wedding to get to or anything like that.”

  “Not tonight,” she said. She didn’t need to explain anything right now. It was enough for him to know that tonight she was free to indulge in the island air. If only until tomorrow morning when it was back to the serious business of kicking some contractor’s ass.

  “Then it’s a date,” he said.

  “But I’ll buy,” she said. “To thank you for your heroics at the airport yesterday.”

  “That luggage did present a pretty serious threat.”

  “I’m a chronic over-packer. So, where are we eating?”

  “I know a place that makes chicken that would make you forget you’re a vegetarian,” he said. He took her elbow gently in his large hand and started to turn them both back toward town. He stopped and looked her over seriously, a slight frown drawing down one corner of his mouth. “You’re not a vegetarian are you?”

  Whitney laughed. This evening was definitely getting more interesting.

  ****

  A middle-aged woman with enough wrinkles on her pretty face to prove she’d spent a lifetime of sun worshipping came over to greet them when they entered the Shellfish Café.

  “Mr. Maxwell, what a pleasure.” From the look in her eyes, Whitney could see she really meant the greeting. It made her wonder what kind of life Chris Maxwell led on this island. Maybe he brought tourists here all the time. He was probably at the airport surveying the new arrivals every day. Maybe she was fooling herself if she thought he was fascinated by her.

  She glanced at him as they were led to a table by the front window. He waited while she sat down and then pulled up the chair next to hers, not across the table. Their legs were so close that she felt his thigh brush hers. Warm skin and blond hair, plenty of it below his cargo shorts.

  “Better view of the street this way,” he said.

  Whitney couldn’t decide if that was an excuse to get close to her or if he really was interested in the carnival atmosphere out on the street. Either way, she liked it.

  “Is there something special going on tonight? Or are there always this many people around on a Sunday night?”

  “Big kick-off to the Christmas season,” he said.

  The waitress came over to take their drink order, and Chris glanced at Whitney before ordering.

  “Want my recommendation on the drinks here?” he asked.

  “Sure, you’re the local.”

  “The house special. It’s been a long day, and I think it might be just the thing.”

  Whitney smiled at the young pretty waitress, “Two house specials, I guess.”

  The waitress sent a long glance over Chris’ face, taking a mental drink of him. Whitney again wondered just how popular Chris was in this town. She was on his turf and entirely at his mercy, but sitting at a quiet table by the front window with him only inches away, somehow didn’t feel dangerous.

  “What have I just ordered?” she asked.

  He smiled and leaned a little closer. She smelled clean manly soap. Tiny wrinkles curved near the corners of his eyes. He was probably only a few years older than she, but looked like he spent most of his time outside.

  “It’s a Virgin Islands special called the Virgin-esia,” he whispered. “It has the power to make you forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Everything,” he answered, his grin lighting up his face and his eyes searching hers. “I think there’s enough island rum in it to make you forget your problems. You might even forget there’s a world outside of St. Thomas.”

  Chris looked out at the crowd of people, some of whom were carrying sparklers, and some were playing musical instruments. Colorful costumes merged in and out of the swirling spectacle.

  “Have you always lived here?” Whitney asked.

  Chris shook his head. “Three years.”

  “And before that?”

  “Maine.”

  “What made you leave Maine?”

  “Long story,” Chris said. He eyed her seriously for a moment. “Your accent says New England.”

  “You got me.” Whitney smiled. “Boston.”

  The waitress arrived with drinks. Whitney eyed the Virgin-esia and decided it looked innocent enough, and very appealing. Ribbons of pink swirled through the overall orange color, but disappeared as soon as she swished her straw through it.

  “I don’t recommend using that straw,” Chris said. “It’ll go a little too fast.”

  “I don’t want to go too fast tonight,” she said. Heat rose up her neck and over her cheeks. “I mean, I’m in no hurry tonight.”

  Whitney looked over the rim of her colorful glass at Chris’ hands encircling his glass. She let her eyes wander slowly up his arms and across the open neck of his shirt, and then linger on his square jaw line. She looked a little higher and stopped at his eyes. The tropical blue color from her dreams last night.

  “Then we’ve come to the right place,” he said. “Great drinks and incredible food, but slow service.”

  “Perfect for relaxing.”

  Chris eyed her curiously. “Did you come to St. Thomas for relaxation?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “So, it’s a working vacation? And a wedding?”

  “It’s complicated.” The understatement of the century. Staging a wedding at East Pointe was the complication of her life. Explaining it to Chris would douse the small glow of hope the alcohol was igniting.

  He paused and looked quizzically at her.

  “Then,” he said slowly, “I guess the Virgin-esia is just the thing.” He smiled at her and raised his glass just a little in a mock toast. “To forgetting your complications.”

  She took a sip and let the rum slip over her tongue and warm her throat. Too much of that drink and she’d forget just about everything. Like the palm trees on the gazebo, the crushed roof on part of the house, the general disaster where the tent was supposed to go for the reception Maybe forgetting, just for tonight, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  ****

  After dinner, they strolled the main street of St. Thomas while Whitney looked in the shops. Most were closed, but they had colorful displays in the windows. The excited crowd bumped her around, and she was glad to have Chris’ powerful hand on her arm. When the street was blocked with partiers, he shoulder-plowed through.

  She followed him, noticing how he greeted people in the crowd by name. It was obvious he was pretty widely known on this island. He did not attempt to introduce her to any of the people who shook his hand or slapped him on the back. It was too loud for them to hear, and most people in the crowd were too drunk to remember anyway.

  It was almost ten o’clock when they joined the throng by the harbor to watch the Christmas tree come alive with lights. Drums beat in Whitney’s head making her drunk with night air, Chris Maxwell, and island music. She wanted to run her fingers through his dark blond hair and toy with the slightly shaggy ends curling over the top of his ears. Back in Boston, she usually dated the more buttoned-up types. Safe men like Logan. There was something refreshing…tempting…about Chris.

  He moved behind her and wrapped one arm around her waist, his other hand resting on her bare shoulder. It would take only a slight move for her to be completely in his embrace, for her lips to touch his. She wondered what it would feel like, and a tremor rippled over her skin. Chris must have felt the tremor because he pulled her closer, his body heat warming her everywhere they touched.

  Whitney barely noticed when the tree lights finally flickered on. The music died down, and people started to move away from the spectacle, but she stood completely still with the wall of Chris’ chest behind her and his slightly rough hand grazing the skin on her shoulder.

  A trio of people bumped along the boardwalk in the darkness.

  “That you, Maxwell?”

  The speaker was a twenty something man w
earing an open shirt and a pretty girl on each arm. He looked drunk and happy.

  Chris loosened his hold on Whitney and squinted into the darkness.

  “Wilson? You’re out late for a guy who has to be at work early.”

  Wilson looked doubtfully at Chris.

  “I’m not the only one,” he said.

  “Have I ever been late?”

  Wilson laughed. “No. And don’t worry about me. I’ll be there. My sister is sending some chicken for lunch, too, to say thanks for all you done for her.”

  “Not necessary,” Chris said, but chuckled and added, “but I’m not going to turn it down.”

  Wilson left with his girlfriends still on his arms and his shirt flapping loosely. Chris pulled Whitney close again, one arm around her waist and the other hand running a slow pattern from her shoulder down to her fingertips. His touch was tempting, intoxicating. Maybe she should call it a night before she let herself get carried away by the drums, the night, and loneliness. She was vulnerable. Especially since a tantalizing man was now kissing her neck in the darkness.

  “It’s really good,” he whispered.

  Whitney wanted to ask what he meant, but she couldn’t think clearly.

  “His sister’s chicken,” Chris said.

  Whitney laughed. “I’m almost afraid to ask what a man has to do to get paid in chicken around here.”

  “She owns the restaurant where we ate tonight. I helped her get a patio built.”

  The mere mention of building brought Whitney solidly back to the ground. She took a deep breath and turned toward Chris, the movement causing a gap between them. Maybe she needed breathing room.

  “You’re a builder?” she asked.

  Chris looked down at her, a serious expression on his face. “I was more of a supply man on that job.”

  The breeze brushed Whitney’s bare arms and legs, reminding her it was late. She had a twisted drive over darkened roads back to the East Pointe estate which was, in fact, in ruins. She had a meeting with a contractor in a few short hours and two weeks’ worth of hard labor to make everything perfect for Taylor.

  “I should probably get home,” she said tentatively.

  Chris nodded slowly, his eyes roaming her face. “Where’s home?”

  “I’m staying with a friend,” she said. Which was mostly true. Somehow, she didn’t like the feeling of staying all alone in that huge house right now. But she didn’t know enough about Chris Maxwell to invite him to keep her company. Although it was tempting.

  “If your…friend doesn’t have plans for you tomorrow, I happen to have the afternoon off. I can offer you an exceptional personal sightseeing tour.”

  “I don’t know…” Whitney hesitated. She planned to meet with the contractors in the morning. What would she have to do? Follow them around all day? Maybe and maybe not. She let out a long breath. “Can I call you?”

  “I’ll write down my cell,” Chris said.

  Chapter Four

  Monday morning dawned on what should have been the beginning of a beautiful day in the tropics. Sunshine, blue skies, glittering water. Much like the tropical blue eyes that wouldn’t leave her alone all night. Again. Thoughts of what might have happened with Chris flirted with her dreams, and she began to truly doubt the power of the Virgin-esia. That colorful drink made her forget only for a little while, and now reality stared her in the face.

  As she swept the light voile curtains aside, her stomach quivered and fell. This wreck of a yard would never be ready for a dream wedding. It would take a dedicated work crew with a serious taskmaster to even come close at all.

  Hanging out with the mysterious Chris Maxwell would be a whole lot more fun.

  She hardly knew him, but one thing was clear: he was totally different from Logan. The man who could be polite and businesslike about everything. Apartment leases, paint colors, sensible shoes. Even sex. He would have helped her out of the revolving door disaster by looking up suggestions on his smart phone. Unlike Chris. Maybe it was a good thing she was here. Some impulsiveness, heat, and testosterone would do her a lot of good.

  Maybe she ought to lay off those Virgin-esias.

  Whitney showered, dressed and roamed down to the kitchen where there were actually supplies today for coffee and toast from a brief shopping trip yesterday. Not a glamorous breakfast, but just enough to get her through her butt-kicking session with the contractor.

  She glanced over an island newspaper she picked up downtown yesterday and found an article about the clean up from Hurricane Destiny. The article spanned several pages and included colorful photographs of damaged hotels, shops, and homes. Whitney was about to settle in with the article and her second cup of coffee when the phone on the kitchen counter rang. The caller ID registered Taylor East’s phone in her Boston apartment.

  “Taylor!” Whitney said with forced enthusiasm.

  “Hey, Whitney. Just calling to check up on you. Doesn’t your cell phone work there? I tried calling you last night, but it went straight to voice mail.”

  “I don’t know, I guess I haven’t paid attention. Sorry I missed your call.”

  “No big deal. I just wanted to make sure the house is…um…comfortable for you.”

  Whitney laughed. “You know it’s comfortable. It’s fifty times grander than my apartment in Boston and there’s actually a place to park the way-too-nice Jeep you rented for me.”

  Relief flooded Taylor’s voice. “Everything’s going okay then?”

  “Sure is.”

  Whitney hoped the fake bravado in her voice didn’t sound as phony to Taylor as it did to her. She tried not to look out the kitchen window at the palm tree leaning over the garage roof as she spoke. It would definitely not help her performance much at all, and telling lies was something she wasn’t particularly good at anyway. She wondered briefly how Taylor’s parents were playing their role and keeping it from their daughter.

  “So the storm damage wasn’t as bad as we thought?”

  “Not too bad. It’s mostly taken care of already. I just have a few details to work out and this place will be top notch when you arrive in…what is it…just ten days now?”

  “Ten days ‘til we get there, twelve days until the wedding. And none too soon. At the rate my belly’s growing, my gown won’t fit if I get much bigger.”

  “You’ll be beautiful. Stop worrying! Just get yourself and Jackson down here and we’ll get the party started.”

  “Maybe you’ll have some time to party while you’re down there by yourself for the next ten days with nothing to do. Maybe you can find some way to amuse yourself?” Taylor asked.

  If only she really did have ten empty days ahead of her. Chris’ face floated in front of her eyes and she could almost feel his lips on her neck. She’d fill up those ten days pretty easily if she didn’t already have enough work to fill the next month.

  “Great idea, Taylor. I’ll look around downtown for an easy island guy who wants two weeks of sex and an invite to a swanky wedding. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “Have fun, but don’t wear yourself out. Save a little dancing for the reception.”

  There was a half second of silence on Taylor’s end, and then she said, “Really, Whitney, I can’t thank you enough for taking care of everything down there. I know you said it’s fine, but it’s still a lot to ask you to leave your business for two weeks and hang out there all alone planning my wedding.”

  “God, it’s torture,” Whitney said. “I have to meet with the florist, arrange a bunch of bows and chairs, check on the cake, and force myself to meet the chef at a five-star resort in town. I’ll probably even have to eat some samples. Some friend you are.”

  Taylor laughed. “If Jackson and I could get away sooner—”

  “No!” Whitney practically shouted. “I mean, don’t be ridiculous. Like I said, it’s all under control and maybe I want the house all to myself. You know, just in case I find that willing island guy.”

  “I’m calling you tonigh
t to check up on you and give you the big results.”

  “Your ultrasound! Twenty weeks down, twenty to go. I can’t wait to hear if it’s a boy or a girl. Good luck. I’ll be thinking of you.”

  After she hung up the phone with her best friend, Whitney downed another cup of coffee and made a few more notes on the checklist for the contractor. Just hearing Taylor’s excited and anxious voice made her twice as determined that East Pointe would be ready, come hell or high water.

  ****

  Rick stepped into the construction office at seven-thirty a.m. Real work didn’t get going on island time until at least eight o’clock, but a couple of years of working with and for Chris had taught him that the boss still had a Maine work ethic and was up with the dawn.

  “Didya get any rest yesterday?” Rick asked. He knew it was a pointless question because he knew that Chris worked every Sunday on his extra-curricular projects. Lots of the locals knew, too, because that’s when he showed up and fixed broken windows, patched roofs, and added special touches to playgrounds and parks. He would never work his employees as hard as he worked himself.

  “Actually,” Chris said as he leaned back in a creaky chair in the ramshackle office, “I did have some fun last night.”

  “Pretty lady? I hope?”

  “Beautiful.”

  Rick leaned against the aluminum wall and whistled. “No kidding. I was thinking you’d forgotten how to have fun.”

  “I remember.”

  “Local?”

  “Nope. I saw her at the airport day before yesterday when she flew in. She’s here for two weeks, I think,” Chris said.

  “Alone?”

  “Not sure. Said she’s staying with friends.”

  “Still feel like workin’ today?” Rick asked.

  “Got to. At least for a little while. Unless I get a better offer.”

  “And that would be…?”

  “Luck. And probably more than I deserve.”

  Chris drew some squiggly marks on his outdated desk calendar before continuing. “Want to hear something that’ll jumpstart your heart this morning? Check out this message I found on the answering machine this morning.”