She picked the middle street, walking slowly. When her father had called to tell her that one of his oil industry colleagues needed a temporary chef for a private island residence he owned in the British Virgin Islands—a place he let out—and that the job was hers if she wanted it, she hadn’t hesitated for a second.
Between booking flights and packing, she’d pored over online pictures of perfect beaches, leaning palm trees and pristine yachts anchored in turquoise water, losing herself in the fantasy of it, but those wires lacing the streets together were a reminder that fantasy was just a manipulation of the truth. In real life, whichever street you took, there were always telegraph poles spoiling the view, or inside, little disturbances of the spirit spoiling a mood, like the guilt that was clawing at her belly for leaving the island without checking first to see if Joel’s catamaran had still been on the beach.
She drew an irritable breath. Why was she worrying? He’d probably taken off early as usual and, even if he hadn’t, he was used to getting his own breakfast. She’d agreed to be his friend; she hadn’t agreed to stay on Buck Island twenty-four-seven! She yanked up the shoulder strap of her tote and stepped out. She needed this day to herself, needed space and a change of scene! And it was nice, wasn’t it, not to be shopping for provisions. It was good having time to look around.
She took out her phone and photographed a cute-looking restaurant with a red wooden sign and then took more pictures of houses with roofs and walls and window shutters painted in rainbow shades, to show Grandma.
She drifted through a craft market, catching smiles from hopeful vendors, fingering textiles and jewellery, but she couldn’t decide on anything so she moved on, going into a cool, airy art gallery so hushed that she felt guilty for even moving because every time she did, the pale wooden floors creaked. If she’d have been with someone, it would have been something to laugh about, but on her own... She headed for the gift shop and bought some postcards.
Outside, the heat hit her hard. On Buck Island, the heat blew through on a breeze that never stopped, but here, it seemed to bounce off the buildings and off the pavements. She felt light-headed, felt her palms sweating, and then she remembered that she’d been in such a hurry to catch Erris that morning that she’d left without breakfast. No wonder she was dizzy! She needed something to eat and a nice cool drink.
She cut through a walkway to the middle street, retracing her steps until she came to the restaurant she’d photographed earlier. It was the red wooden sign that had caught her eye, the neat edges of the cream painted script which said: The Roost. She’d always had a thing about signage. It had to be inviting and this ticked all the boxes. She pushed the door open.
Inside, it seemed a little gloomy at first, but there was a ceiling fan going, wafting cool air around which felt like heaven. She stuffed her sunglasses into her tote and looked around, eyes adjusting. It was a narrow, whitewashed space, with exposed eaves and white beams which made it feel airy. In front of her was a long wooden counter and above it, on the wall behind, was a wide blackboard listing favourites and specials: chicken with rice; goat stew; flying fish sandwich; roast pork and plantains; spinach callaloo. Authentic! Tasty and filling. She felt her stomach rumbling.
‘Hello.’ A sweet-faced girl in a white blouse and red canvas apron was smiling at her. ‘Are you sitting in, or taking away?’
‘Sitting in, please.’
The girl picked up a menu from the counter. ‘Okay. Please come.’
She followed the girl through a pair of doors and felt a thrill of happiness. In front of her was a charming outdoor dining area set out with glass-topped rattan tables shaded by cream canvas umbrellas. There were high blue walls all around and stone planters dotted here and there, bursting with lush greenery. It was completely lovely.
When she was seated, the girl handed her a tall slim menu, then poured her a glass of water from a jug clinking with ice cubes. ‘Can I get you a cocktail, or a beer?’
‘No, thanks. Water’s fine.’ She fanned her face with the menu. ‘I’m feeling the heat!’
The girl was nodding. ‘It sure is hot today, so you just take your time... I’ll come back in a few minutes.’
She sipped her water, watching the girl threading her way back through the tables, then she looked down at the menu. There was an appealing etching of a chicken coop on the front of it, but the vibe here was colonial-slash-tropical, not remotely hygge. She sipped again, felt her spirits plummeting. Café Hygge was a dream, but could she make it a reality? Tom had agreed to buy her out of the bistro, but when would that be? He’d moved into a new place with Rachel—a bigger flat at a much higher rent—and of course Rachel would have to give up working soon...
Her breath caught on a shard of bright clear pain. Why was Rachel the one having a baby and not her? She’d been with Tom since she was seventeen. They’d trained together, lived and worked together, opened a restaurant together, but...they’d never talked about having a family. Why? She pressed her glass to her forehead, rolling its coolness back and forth. It was her. She’d always been a slave to work, chasing perfection, chasing glory, because...she squeezed her eyes shut, felt the blood pounding in her temples...because of Sunday morning rolls buttered with smiles, because making nice food was how she’d got her parents to notice her.
Food and love, love and food, simmering for years, reducing, thickening, congealing, until in her mind they were the same thing. Food had always been her ticket, but not with Tom. She’d thought he loved her for herself, thought that once they’d ironed out the wrinkles with the bistro, there’d be time for a life beyond the kitchen, but he’d betrayed her and her best friend had stolen the life that should have been hers.
She felt tears thickening in her throat, seeping from between her lashes. She wanted a baby...or two...maybe three and she wanted a home that was more than the crash pad she and Tom had shared. She wanted a home like Grandma’s, a home filled with laughter and love, and the smell of fresh bread... But she was behind the curve now. Twenty-nine years old with nothing to show for it. All she had was a fantasy café.
She put her glass down, shuddering a little breath. If Café Hygge was going to be her baby, then it was going to be a difficult birth. She couldn’t see herself forcing Tom to sell the bistro so that she could get her half of the money back. That would mean talking to him! It would mean being cool and business-like. She wasn’t up to that, not yet, but she’d have to change, somehow. Find a way!
She looked up. The waitress was coming. She wiped her eyes quickly, scanning the menu. Chicken and rice. That would be filling and comforting, not as comforting as having someone to talk to, but she didn’t want to trouble Melinda and Grandma would only worry. As for Joel...no. Just, no!
* * *
Joel sipped his water, staring at the chink of sunlight dancing on the table. He hadn’t needed a menu. He’d been to The Roost often enough to know that the goat stew was his favourite. He liked the thick, rich gravy flavoured with cloves and the pile of potatoes and greens and fried plantains that came with it. Usually he’d have been ravenous by now even if he’d had breakfast, but although he could feel his belly churning, his hunger felt distant and unimportant. He took another sip from his glass, felt its ice chill burning his throat. Everything seemed to be going...what had Emilie called it... Pete Tong?
Emilie! He’d wanted to see her that morning, to make good on his promise that she could trust him. He’d wanted to show her that he was her friend, so instead of taking off early he’d stayed in his room, catching up with emails, then he’d showered and gone down, but in the kitchen he’d found two young women in blue tabards chattering away, wiping the counters.
They’d told him that Emilie was on Tortola, that she’d got off the boat as they’d been getting on and that she’d looked ‘very pretty’, as if she was going on a date. As soon as they’d said it, he’d felt a snap of disappointment, then something g
nawing away at him, a miserable cocktail of hurt and anger. He’d tried taking it out on the power boat, throttling it hard, tearing up the ocean, but it was only when he’d been tying up at The Moorings Marina that he’d realised what the ugly, alien feeling was: jealousy!
He slugged back another mouthful of water. When Astrid had told him she was falling for Johan, he’d felt a flash of something like it, pain like a lion’s roar—deep and loud and rumbling—but it had fizzled out quickly and nothing had flooded in to fill the void. But this feeling was twitching on and on inside him like a flame in a draught and it was just as useless: not bright enough to throw any light, not hot enough to burn off the mist swirling in his head. Had Emilie met someone here...? She hadn’t given him that impression, but then what did he know?
He put his glass down, harder than he’d meant to. He barely knew Emilie, but she’d put in him a tangle just the same. How was that even possible? He was supposed to be too wounded to walk, too broken to even think about...what? What was he thinking about? He closed his eyes, massaging his forehead. Her lips...on his, his on hers, warm, urgent...kissing.
When she’d stumbled against him on the beach, he’d wanted to pull her right in and kiss her and he’d seen something gathering in her eyes too, but then it had faded and she’d stepped back, flushed and flustered, static crackling awkwardly around them. Maybe that was why she’d called back that she was sorry, unless she’d been apologising for the blindfold, and the teasing way she’d touched him.
A tingle raced along his spine. Her warm fingertips, her voice, the way she’d stretched out all the little moments—it had felt deliberate—naughty—but he’d started it, hadn’t he, by choosing a trust game that involved physical contact. Truth was, he’d wanted to hold her, to feel her falling into his arms. Kristus! From the moment he’d set eyes on her he’d wanted her, wanted her like he’d never wanted anyone before.
He picked up his glass, swirling the ice around. If only she’d let him defuse the bomb afterwards, allowed him to smooth things over with some banal conversation, maybe everything would be feeling different today, but while he ate her mouth-watering Caribbean Crab Cakes Benedict, she’d been bustling about with garnishes, only catching his eye and smiling now and again, so that in the end he’d decided to give her some space and try again in the morning. But she’d given him the slip.
‘Goat stew!’ The waitress was setting down his plate, laying down the three sizzling side dishes. ‘Can I get you a beer?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ Drinking wasn’t the answer! Besides, he’d hired the Jeep again. Driving around Tortola had seemed like a good idea since there was no one on Buck Island to keep him company. Ironic! When he’d first arrived on the island all he’d wanted was to be alone and now...
‘Okay. Enjoy!’ The girl turned away and his heart bounced. Emilie was gliding past, stunning in a silky dress the colour of café au lait. She was heading for the exit, bag in hand.
He shot to his feet, catching his head on the edge of umbrella. ‘Emilie!’
She jerked as if a string had pulled tight. ‘Joel!’
‘What a nice surprise!’ He fought off the umbrella, nearly knocking his glass over.
She stepped nearer, a smile hiding at the corners of her mouth. ‘You should probably sit down before you do some real damage.’
He grinned, knew that it was a goofy kind of grin because his lips couldn’t contain it. ‘I was trying to get your attention.’
Her eyes filled with sparkles. ‘You did.’
She looked lovely, perfectly dressed for a date. He swallowed, looking into the space over her shoulder for any sign of a male companion. ‘So, are you leaving...?’
‘No.’ She gave her bag a jiggle. ‘I was just going to freshen up before my lunch arrives.’
She’d said ‘my lunch’. He felt a flicker of hope. ‘Are you alone?’
She blinked quickly and then her gaze settled. ‘Yes.’
There was that same scrawl of pain in her eyes he’d seen before and it got him right in the chest. He felt his jealousy withering, his lust sliding into the shadows. Something was hurting her and he wanted to know what it was. She had no real reason to trust him. She hadn’t even trusted him enough to explain why she’d made six versions of the same cake. He’d have to do better, work harder, be the friend he’d promised to be. He smiled. ‘Would you like to join me, or... I could join you, if you’d like...?’
‘That’s...’ her tongue hovered for half a beat ‘...that would be lovely, thank you. I’ve got a nice corner table. Maybe the waitress could help you move your—’ She threw a glance at his food.
‘It’s goat stew.’
‘Right.’ She smiled, clutching her bag. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
* * *
‘Joel, can I ask you something?’
His stomach dipped. They’d been chatting while they ate. She was in Road Town on a whim, she said—sightseeing—because she hadn’t had the opportunity before, but although she’d been smiling, telling him about an art gallery with a creaky floor, he’d had the feeling that something was bothering her.
She’d kept glancing at his disappearing stew and he’d noticed how her knife and fork had stilled every time he’d spooned another potato or fried plantain on to his plate. Maybe he’d been attacking his lunch with too much gusto, but he couldn’t help that! He hadn’t had any breakfast and, from the moment he’d discovered that Emilie was not on a date, his hunger had returned with a vengeance. He set his knife and fork down. ‘Of course.’
A little notch appeared between her eyes. ‘At the house, at dinner, am I...am I giving you enough to eat?’
His stomach flopped. The way she’d been watching him, vulnerability flickering behind her eyes. Damn! He should have twigged. Making his own breakfasts, having hearty lunches at The Roost, then topping up with some street food in the late afternoons before going back to Buck Island had meant he’d been able to pace himself over her delicious dinner morsels and appear satisfied. Maybe he should have ʼfessed up before now, told her that her portions were too small, but he hadn’t had the heart. He’d seen that first night how much she needed his delight, his approval, and even if he didn’t quite understand it, he respected it, respected her. So he’d stuck to his workaround and kept his thoughts to himself.
But now he was in a jam. The restless spark of physical attraction he felt around her was a perpetual torment, but more than anything else he wanted to know who she was on the inside and that would never happen if he lied to her. If he wanted to get to know her properly, then he was going to have to push past some thorns, risk a few scratches. He took a careful breath. ‘The truth is...no.’
The light faded from her eyes.
‘But—’ he held up a finger ‘—that’s because I burn calories like crazy when I’m sailing.’ Which was true and, if he laid it on thick, would soften the blow. ‘Sailing a cat is super physical and I’m probably overdoing it, staying out too long because the sailing’s so good here... I need a lot of fuel!’
She frowned. ‘It’s why you’ve been getting your own breakfast, isn’t it?’
He nodded.
She was shaking her head. ‘God, Joel, I’m so sorry... You should have told me.’ She bit her lip. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You put so much of yourself into it and everything you make is perfect.’
Her eyes glazed, then she was looking down, staring into her lap.
He felt helpless. How could he make her see that it wasn’t worth crying over? It wasn’t as if he intended to leave a bad review. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but this wasn’t the time or the place. He moved his plate aside and slid his hand across the table. ‘Hey, Em, really, it’s no big deal.’
‘But it is. It must be.’ She looked up, eyes glistening. ‘Don’t you see? I’m obviousl
y so damned uptight that you didn’t even dare to bring it up, even though this is your holiday and it’s costing you a fortune to be here.’
‘You’re not uptight, you’re just a perfectionist.’ Something was happening in her eyes. Maybe he could turn things around if he could just keep going. He moistened his lips. ‘I mean, six versions of the same chocolate cake! That’s dedication...and remember, it’s not actually costing me anything to be here because—’
‘Your friend.’ She was biting her lip. ‘I remember, but still, he wouldn’t want you to be hungry.’
‘That’s true, but I won’t tell him if you don’t.’
The light was coming back into her eyes. ‘Joel...why are you being so nice?’
Was she kidding? He smiled. ‘Because I have no reason not to be and...’ deep breath ‘...because I’ve got a Jeep for the afternoon with an empty passenger seat and I was thinking that, if you’re free, we could take a ride, enjoy the sunshine. Normal stuff.’
Warmth filled her eyes, spilling over so that it was filling him too, then her hand was sliding over his. ‘Normal stuff sounds like catnip right now.’
CHAPTER SIX
JOEL WAS TILTING his head in her direction. ‘Not much further!’
He hadn’t told her where they were going and she didn’t care. It was just nice to be with someone—with him—winding into the hills in an open-top Jeep, birling along under a blue sky with the sun in her eyes and her hair blowing. What a turnaround! She’d been feeling lower than low, then suddenly, somehow, there he’d been, in the same restaurant, tangling himself in the parasol, looking ridiculously pleased to see her.
Catnip!
She eyed him sideways. How different he was to the way he’d seemed on the beach that first day. Back then, he’d been cool, wary, pale lipped, but now he was all open smiles and chaotic breezy hair. She felt a little tingle of happiness. He was gorgeous, but more importantly, he was big-hearted. He’d kept quiet about her portion sizes because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. He’d made light of it, but she felt bad all the same. He was a big guy. Athletic! If she’d stopped scrambling around on the ledge of her own insecurity for just one moment, if she’d summoned just one iota of emotional intelligence, she’d have understood why he’d always seemed a little underwhelmed with the plates she’d set in front of him.
Harlequin Romance April 2021 Box Set Page 53
