by Amie Denman
She played a little game with time, vowing not to look outside until at least two o’clock. Wouldn’t the major improvements be more dramatic if she just let a few hours go by? Everyone likes pleasant surprises. She tried to concentrate on her novel, glancing up at the clock only every five minutes or so. At two, she approached the sliding glass doors and held her breath. She expected to see three hours of work multiplied by three workers. Nine hours of intense labor should make a substantial dent in the hurricane damage.
She slid open the door. Nothing had happened. Literally, nothing.
She searched the grounds, looking for a sign that the three workers made any progress at all. She could see no improvement except for a small pile of brush and boards stacked where the patio should be. She stepped outside and shielded her eyes from the sun. She searched the grounds, looking for the three men so she could hunt them down and motivate them into action. Only eleven days until the wedding, there was no time to lose. She looked from left to right, her fury mounting with every second. They were gone.
Whitney grabbed her phone. Someone was going to hear about this.
****
Rick and Chris were eating chicken sandwiches from Wilson’s sister, Mavis, when the office phone rang. Chris glanced at the caller ID and grimaced.
“Guess who?” he said to Rick.
“Wanna let the machine get it?”
Chris leaned over the machine’s speaker. “Let’s see what she says.”
“Hello, Blue Isle Construction? I’m calling from the East Pointe estate. I met with Rick Churchill this morning and he assured me that my repairs would be done right away.”
The female voice paused and Rick waved his hands in front of him and mouthed the words, “No, I didn’t.” Chris grinned in response.
“A few guys showed up here earlier and did next to nothing and now they’re gone. If you don’t get a crew out here this afternoon and start whipping this place into shape, my next phone call will be to—”
Chris’ brows rose. He picked up the phone and used a surprisingly convincing fake island accent to assure her that the workers were just at lunch. He told her that they were coming right back to get going on her hurricane damage, and then he hung up the phone.
“Why’d you do that?” Rick asked after Chris hung up the phone. “You sounded ridiculous.”
“Did you want her to actually call the police?”
“Think she would?” Rick asked.
Chris raked his hair with his fingers. “She’s getting married. And I’ve pretty much fucked up all her plans. She’s not going to give up until we fix her place.” He shoved his half-finished lunch back into a take-out bag. “Guess I’d do the same.”
“So, how’re we goin’ to pull this off?”
“We’ll put our best carpentry man on the job.”
“That would be you,” Rick said. “And even so, how’re you gonna get it all done before Christmas Eve?”
“Motivation,” Chris said, glancing out the window and focusing on something in the distance. “This company is all I have.”
“So you’re gonna show up and do her a big favor and not tell her you own Blue Isle?” Rick studied his boss for a moment. “And then what? She’s sure as hell gonna figure it out eventually.”
“Cross that bridge when we come to it,” Chris said.
Rick swore and tossed his lunch wrappers in a metal trash can by the door. “Good thing you can work like three men when you gotta.”
Chris opened his mouth to reply, but his cell phone rang in his pants pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the name on the caller ID.
“Her,” he said, holding up the phone.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Maxwell.”
“No choice.”
Chapter Seven
“Are you sure this is safe?” Whitney asked.
“I do this all the time.”
Whitney looked uncertainly at the boat Chris was loading with heavy windows and unfinished boards. He continued to pull boards out of an old brown pickup truck with “Flying Island Cargo” painted on the side. The painted design was much newer than the truck.
“How much do you plan to put on?” she asked.
“All of it. No sense taking an hour to get over to St. John unless I take everything my friend Sammy needs.”
With every shrink-wrapped window and untreated board, the weathered boat dropped a few inches lower at the dock. A few more supplies and Whitney was going to rethink going on a sightseeing/delivery trip with Chris. Maybe moping at East Pointe waiting for builders who were never going to show up would be a better deal than sitting at the bottom of the Caribbean.
When Whitney called Chris to take him up on his offer of a personal tour, he made his boat sound a little more glamorous over the phone. He also led her to believe last night that he had this afternoon off. Nothing on this island seemed to be what it appeared to be. Still, she would see St. Thomas from the water and get a trip to St. John in the bargain. And maybe she’d figure out the handsome man who was hot enough to distract her from her problems. Good thing she wore casual shorts and shoes instead of the cute sightseeing outfit she had considered.
The bright mid-afternoon sun sparkled on the blue water in the harbor. A cruise ship cozied up to the dock on the other side of the harbor, letting its passengers off to shop in Charlotte Amalie for the day.
“How often do you make this trip?” Whitney asked as she stood uncertainly on the dock and tried to stay out of the way. How low could the boat go without taking on water?
“At least once a week. There’s no airport on St. John, so my freight business makes a lot of deliveries over there.” Chris stacked another window carefully on the back of the boat and looked up at Whitney. “Lots of nice people there,” he said.
It was enticing watching him work in the afternoon sun, the rays glinting off his muscles as he lifted the supplies onto his boat. He took off his shirt. She sighed. She could use a man like him to clean up East Pointe in time for the wedding.
“Everything okay?” Chris asked.
Whitney decided to leave her worries behind and enjoy the scenery which included an incredibly sexy man inviting her aboard his boat. She nodded brightly at him and stepped aboard.
Flying over the blue waters of the Caribbean paled in comparison to dangling her hand in the shimmering waves as they cut a path eastward out of Charlotte Amalie toward the neighboring island of St. John.
“It’s mostly nature preserve,” Chris said as she stood next to him where he steered the boat. It was a wood boat that had seen better days, but it seemed seaworthy. At least so far. The open floor plan was perfect for stacking supplies and cargo, and there was a small roof over the cockpit where the steering wheel and two older vinyl seats were bolted to the floor.
Whitney sat in one of the seats, escaping the blistering sun and giving her eyes a break. Looking at Chris was definitely easy on the eyes.
“Do they need windows and boards at the nature preserve?” she asked.
“Nope, but quite a few people live there, too. They mostly work in the restaurants and hotels.”
“And they’re doing some building?” she asked, gesturing toward the supplies.
“Hurricane cleanup still,” he said. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his hands on the wheel and his eyes glued to the channel ahead.
Whitney was glad he was distracted. Just the thought of hurricane damage gave her a sinking feeling. She was tempted for the tenth time to pull her cell phone out of her purse and call Blue Isle to check up on the progress and blast a few more threats just in case. She was going to resist making that call for now, though. Ruining her trip to St. John, even if it was on a freight boat loaded with construction supplies, was not a very fun idea. Besides, she had given them nine days. They knew what they needed to do.
Perhaps by the time she got home in the evening…she glanced at Chris’ handsome profile…whatever time that happened to be, she would find things much i
mproved already at East Pointe. She would think happy thoughts. Which was easy to do looking at the green hills and white houses that dotted the island of St. Thomas as they cruised by.
“How long have you worked for ‘Flying Island Freight’?” she asked.
Chris looked at her with raised eyebrows and took a minute before he answered. “I own it,” he said. “I’ve been doing this since I came to St. Thomas three years ago.”
“You enjoy it?”
“It’s more play than work, what’s not to like?” he said.
“More play than work,” Whitney said. “That sounds like something I’d like to try.”
“What do you do in Boston? You never said.”
“I own a small business.”
“Revolving doors?” he asked, flashing her a look she found irresistible.
She laughed. “Sportswear. We customize team uniforms.”
“Like for kids soccer teams and schools?”
“And some professional teams,” she said. “It’s growing.”
“Is it more fun than work?” Chris asked. He steered with one hand and turned to face her, giving her his full attention.
“I keep thinking it’s going to be someday,” she replied, gazing at the blue sky framed by the boat’s windshield. “I have some changes to consider soon,” she finally said.
Chris nodded, his blue eyes slightly darkened in the shaded light under the half roof. Focused on her. It would have been nice to tell him the whole story about how her business manager and her friends were urging her to take a leap of faith and expand the business into manufacturing jerseys, T-shirts, and uniforms they were only silk-screening and embroidering now. The profits could eventually really grow with a move like that, but she’d have to make a big investment in a building, equipment, and lots more employees. Big risk.
A risk she was not sure she was up to taking right now. And at this very moment, looking over the beautiful water and watching St. Thomas disappear was a lot more appealing than thinking about the bottom line back home. She didn’t say anything, and Chris didn’t ask.
When they approached the harbor and docks at St. John Island, the sun was sinking a little lower in the western sky. Whitney noticed the sundown at about six o’clock yesterday, so she knew they only had about two hours of daylight left. Maybe she would get to enjoy the sunset from the water tonight. At the dock, a man with an ancient battered pickup truck waited.
“Hey, Chris,” he said, with a sweeping, full-armed wave “Thanks for making a special trip over here.” He grabbed the ropes Chris threw onto the dock.
“No problem, Sammy,” Chris said.
Sammy glanced onto the boat and saw Whitney sitting in one of the captain’s chairs. She waved. “I can see that. No problems today,” he said.
Sammy was middle-aged with ebony skin and thick gray hair cut very short. His face was permanently wrinkled into laugh lines. Although he effortlessly tied the boat to a post on the dock with one hand, the lower half of his other arm was missing.
“Got my truck waiting here,” Sammy said, gesturing at the end of the dock. “If I help you unload, you’ll still have time for a sunset cruise,” he added, grinning at Whitney.
“I can help, too,” she said, extending her hand as she stepped out of the boat. “I’m Whitney Oliver.”
“Sam Flemond.”
They worked quietly for the next ten minutes or so, carrying supplies off the boat, down the short dock, and stacking them in the bed of Sammy’s truck. Whitney and Sammy carried heavy items together, both unsteady and staggering a little on the narrow dock. Once, Whitney nearly stepped off the dock, but she felt a steadying hand on her back.
“Be careful,” Chris said. “Good help is hard to come by.”
She turned around and saw Chris’ infectious grin that had them all laughing as they finished unloading the boat and loading Sammy’s truck.
“Thanks, Chris,” Sammy said. “What do I owe you for the delivery?”
“Nothing at all, I was coming over today anyway.”
Sammy looked doubtfully at the empty boat.
“Sightseeing tour for Whitney. She’s never been here before.”
Sammy’s face lit up. “Never been to St. John? It’s the best island in the Caribbean.”
“I can see that already,” Whitney said.
“How about showing her the view from your place?” Chris suggested.
Sammy looked shrewdly at Chris. “I know what you’re up to, and I appreciate the offer, but I can’t keep you. Not when you’ve got other plans.”
“I was just thinking that maybe your wife had been up to some baking today. You know I never turn down food.”
“If you want to come along down the road, we’ll see about some pie.”
Chris winked at Whitney and put an arm around her. “Do you mind a little side trip?”
“I’m all yours,” she said.
The three of them squeezed into the cab of Sammy’s truck and drove five minutes down the road. Sammy stopped in front of a dilapidated group of houses missing windows and showing weathered boards. Several of the small homes had tarps covering parts of their roofs.
“I didn’t know you needed shingles, too,” Chris said quietly. “I can bring those next time.”
“You’ve done enough. Wait here while I see if the wife has some extra pie to send with you for the return trip.” He winked. “Just in case you get hungry.”
Chris got out of the truck and Whitney slid out after him. He went to the bed of the truck and started unloading the construction supplies. Just helping haul a few things back on the dock with Sammy’s help made her really appreciate how much work Chris was putting in on this. He had already moved all the windows and boards three times. His broad shoulders and strong arms didn’t even look tired, but she wanted to reach out and knead those muscles with her fingers anyway. He was so…nice. And that wasn’t all.
At home, Whitney was always the hardest working person around. The one everyone went to when something had to get done. Just spending one day with Chris made her realize how nice it was to be around a man who could literally work circles around her. A man like that could make her life easier. He wasn’t anything like her old flame, Logan. She hadn’t even asked him to help with the simplest of tasks, even to open a jar of olives. Ever. She watched Chris’ capable hands unloading construction supplies. He could open a case of olive jars.
The stack of windows and boards on the ground grew as Whitney tried to help. By the time Sammy came back carrying a wicker basket covered with a bright colored towel, the supplies were all unloaded and stacked neatly on the ground near the first house.
Sammy looked at the pile and then he met Chris’ eyes, a serious expression on his face. “Can’t tell you how much we appreciate it,” he said.
“Can’t tell you how much I love pie,” Chris said. “Now, how about a ride back to the docks so I can sail off into the sunset with this beautiful…pie.” He looked at Whitney as he finished his sentence. She laughed.
When they got back on the boat and pulled away from the dock, Whitney said, “That was really nice.”
“St. John is beautiful,” Chris replied.
“Not that. I mean you. You didn’t have to go to his house and unload all that.”
Chris shrugged, concentrating on backing out of the dock and turning the heavy boat around.
“And you weren’t coming here anyway,” Whitney continued.
Chris met her eyes, but didn’t say anything.
“I’ll bet you’re going back another day to help him put in those windows and fix his roof,” she said.
Chris kept one hand on the wheel, but reached out with the other arm and pulled Whitney tight against him. His arm wrapped all the way around her, practically crushing her against his chest. “If I kiss you, will you stop talking?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said, unbalanced but strangely steady. “I can’t tell you for sure.”
“Because I need to test t
he theory?”
“No,” she whispered, “because I can’t think when you’re touching me.”
“Good,” he said, lowering his head to hers. The thrum of the boat’s engine under her feet was no match for the buzz electrifying her body where it met his. Chris’ scent, sun-warmed skin, was the first sensation. Fingers brushed her cheeks, stroking outward and tangling in her hair until his hands held her head firmly.
Not that she would have moved. His lips found hers at the very moment she was sure she could not wait another second. Gentle at first, then more insistent, his mouth covered hers. Leaning into him and slipping her hands under the back of his T-shirt, she surrendered to the kiss like a diver leaping from the beam into warm inviting water. Eyes closed, Whitney focused on every square inch of connection between them. Lips, hands, bodies.
A loud boat horn shattered the kiss like glass.
Chris pulled back quickly, steadying his hand on the wheel, his eyes searching her face and free arm encircling her.
“Better pay attention to what I’m doing,” he said.
Whitney laughed. “I thought you were.”
“I mean the boat,” he said, breathing deeply and concentrating on the sparkling blue water ahead. “I want us to live to do that again. On dry land.”
Whitney stood close to Chris as he steered and kept one arm around her. The air between them was charged with leftover sparks from their kiss. Fighting for control, Whitney nodded and smiled, as Chris pointed out some tiny islands, naming them and telling her about sunken hazards and tales of shipwrecks. The ride back to St. Thomas made time a liar, going fast and slow all at once.
When they pulled into the harbor in Charlotte Amalie, Whitney jumped onto the dock and took the ropes Chris handed her.
“Just loop it around that post,” he said. “I’ll tie it up in a minute.”
Chris eased the boat into place like he’d done it a thousand times and shut off the engine.
