Chapter 7
It began with a lightpitter patter on the dome roof, no stronger than a gentle summer rain. Then the wind whipped up, and the rain did too.
Charlotte stood at the French doors leading out to her private balcony and wrapped her arms around her middle. This was just a summer storm, but a category 4 hurricane was on its way. She had no idea what a category 4 hurricane would look like, but this—just a summer storm—was coming down hard.
She touched the thick wooden frame encasing the French doors. Would this hold during a hurricane? She shifted slightly, trying to determine how close the casita was in relation to the edge of the cliff. The view had been breathtaking hours ago, but could this little structure—and her along with it—end up debris at the bottom of the cliff? How far down was down?
She shivered and said a little prayer. Please. Hold.
But there was no point in standing by the doors and staring at the rain. Charlotte swallowed hard as she got into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, gripping the thin bedding so tight her fingers ached. She squeezed her eyes shut then covered her head with a squishy pillow.
Unable to pull in a comfortable breath, Charlotte lifted the pillow from her face.
And then she felt it...plop—right on the center of her forehead.
Then plop, plop, plop.
Oh no!
Charlotte glanced up but couldn’t detect any problems with the ceiling. Then plop again.
She jumped up, dashed to the bathroom and gathered the neat stack of white towels on the shelf. Quickly, she moved her pillows from the center of the bed to one side. She flipped the damp one over and placed two folded towels where her head had been.
Okay. That would work. She’d simply stay on her side of the bed for the night. The towels would get damp, but she’d be fine over here.
Then the plopping began again, but faster and heavier this time. She wiped at the wetness on her arm. What the hell. Maybe the towels wouldn’t be enough for all this dripping.
She glanced up and stared as a large hole in the ceiling appeared, and water poured in like a runaway hose.
She screamed.
Sam burst through her door and slammed it behind him. “Charlotte, what’s going on? Are you okay?” he yelled, water dripping from his hair and clothes. “Are you hurt?”
Shaking, Charlotte jumped from the drenched bed and wiped the wetness from her face. “Your roof leaks,” she yelled back, explaining the obvious. Even so, she pointed toward the ceiling. “Didn’t your people check that before you first bought this place?”
“Yes, the structural engineers checked all the buildings, and they’re good. Some of the roofs needed repairing, and the current crew fixed them—or supposedly fixed them.”
“I don’t think they fixed this one!”
“I think you’re right. You can’t stay here.” He cracked open the door and heavy rain blew in.
“What?” She held out her hands.
“It’s not safe for you here,” he said. “You can stay with me.”
Stay with him? She shook her head. “Maybe if I move the bed?”
“No, we don’t know...” His gaze darted toward the ceiling again, and the hole was getting larger. “Charlotte?” Worry lines creased his forehead. “Come on.”
Charlotte stood back as she took in the heavy rain behind Sam. Damn, there was no choice. She grabbed her purse and hurried toward him.
Sam wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side as he hustled them from her little house to his.
“Charlotte, I’m so sorry.” He slammed the door behind him, then turned to her, pushing dripping hair from her face and wiping her cheeks. “I gave you that casita because it has the best view. I thought...”
“That was nice of you—giving me the nicest view.” She caught her breath. “I got really soaked. I bet there was something clogging things up there. I’m sorry I screamed and startled you.”
“I’m glad I heard you.” He gave her shoulder a pat then turned to his open closet at the other side of the room. His clothes—mostly polos and khakis—were neatly hung on a rod hanging from the ceiling. He found a nice men’s white button down and handed it to her. “Here. I think this will work for you.”
Charlotte nodded, dashed into the bathroom and peeled her slick nightshirt off her body. Ugh! She tossed it onto the curtain rod and straightened it out. What a sticky mess.
Quickly she grabbed a towel from the shelf and blotted her still-dripping hair. She glanced in the mirror and groaned, then threaded her fingers through her hair. Okay, not too bad.
Not wanting to linger, she slid on his shirt and secured the buttons.
She ran the tips of her fingers along the collar and down the placket. Not surprisingly, the material felt fine, substantial. She’d seen many like it hanging in his foyer after being dropped off by his laundry service. And now she was wearing one of those shirts—and would be in his bedroom tonight.
She looked up. Could this night get any stranger?
“Hey.” She took a step into the bedroom, a little self-conscious in his shirt. While she’d been gone, he’d put on a new, dry tee and loose boxers.
“You can have the bed, of course. I’ll be fine on this.” He tapped the back of a flimsy lounge chair. “With extra pillows and an extra blanket it will be comfy.”
“No.” She shook her head. That was crazy. “I can’t let you do that. The bed is big enough for both of us.”
He walked toward her. “Charlotte, I know this is awkward for you and having twenty people headed to a sex club here doesn’t make it easier.”
“It’s okay. All the nakedness in the pool and the orgasm talk is a little weird, but everyone’s nice.” She shrugged because it had to be okay. There were no other options tonight. “We’re getting ready for a big hurricane, so we’ll make the best of it.”
He glanced over her shoulder toward the door that led to her casita. “Were you sleeping when the leak turned into a faucet on your bed?”
“No,” she admitted. “The storm isn’t especially loud, but I kept thinking about the hurricane and what was going to happen next. What about you? Were you sleeping?”
“Nope,” he replied. “I’m worried about the storm too.”
Charlotte ran her fingers up and down her arms, skimming the soft fabric of Sam’s shirt. “I’m glad not to be alone right now.”
“So maybe you’ll be able to relax and fall asleep.” He pointed to the end of the bed. “Why don’t we sit?”
She glanced out his French doors and eyed the rain before taking a seat. What would happen when the hurricane hit? “Wishful thinking, but doubtful.”
“All right then.” His brows pulled together as he playfully tapped a finger against his jaw. “What’s your favorite comfort food?”
“You want to talk food right now?”
“Yup.” He grinned, teasing her.
“All right.” Since she wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon, this made sense. Distract, distract, distract. And she loved talking about food. “To eat or to make?”
“Either.”
She tilted her head to the side, giving it some thought. “Pastina. It’s super simple.” And it sounded good right now. “It’s these tiny pasta noodles served with tons of butter and parmesan. It’s so...”
“You made it for me once.”
Remembering, she smiled. “I did.” He’d come home clearly feeling like shit and had gone right to bed.
“I thought it was the best thing I’d ever eaten.” He wet his lips as he eyed her. “But then you left a quart of that amazing beef barley soup.”
She grinned again. “I know what works when someone is sick.”
“You know what works, period. Everything you make is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Wanting to block out the rain, she turned her back to the French doors.
“I’m glad I convinced you to come cook for me.”
“I am too,” she said, and her eyes narrowed as she remembered their negotiation. “I’m surprised you were willing to pay me so much.”
“I like getting what I want.”
“I was so nervous back then.” Sam was her first big personal chef client, and the pressure was on. Her palms and pits had sweat for weeks. “You were paying me more than I’d ever made before, and I wanted to deliver.”
“I like watching you cook.”
She blinked up at him, and her heart skipped a beat. He liked... “You watch me cook?”
He nodded.
Her heart zigged again, and she admitted, “I watch you work sometimes...”
“I know,” he replied, his eyes locked on hers.
For a long moment, they stared at each other, not talking, barely breathing, the only sound around them the rain hitting the casita. Then Sam cleared his throat. “What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not in the kitchen?”
“Oh.” Charlotte relaxed. They were back to safe topics again. “I don’t know. I’m always in a kitchen. Sleeping maybe.”
“What’s your...”
“What is this?” She laughed. “Twenty questions?”
“Yeah. Stephanie sent me a list of activities that works for groups, including twenty questions.” He shifted a little closer. “You missed the icebreaker. I’m doing a clean version of the game.” He tapped a finger against his chin. “There are lots of things I want to know about you.”
That made her curious. “Like what?”
“All kinds of things.” He tilted his head to the side, his gaze still on her. “Stephanie’s questions gave me a lot to think about.”
“You want to talk about sexy stuff?” she asked.
“Maybe.” His deep voice held a teasing note. “If it’s okay with you.”
“I’m not interesting.” She rolled her eyes. God, she had to be the least interesting person he knew. Certainly the least interesting person currently at the villa. “It’s work, sleep, family and that’s it.”
“You’re close to your family?”
She nodded, not wanting to say more. Her family. She didn’t want to go there. “We’re very close.”
“You’ve met my parents, my brother, my grandmother.” He nibbled on his lower lip as his eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I’ve met any members of your family.”
“We’re a busy lot.”
“You look tense all of a sudden.” He studied her face, and his eyes narrowed even more. “Everything okay?”
She nodded. His family was wonderful and welcoming, and hers was...different. “I’m in a dry shirt and about to go to sleep in a warm, dry bed.” She patted his hand. “All is good.”
“You never talk about your family.”
“I know.” She swallowed hard. “I hope that’s okay.”
He was silent, then said, “Of course it is.”
“I think I’d rather go over Stephanie’s twenty questions.” She ran a hand through her damp hair and laughed. That would be easier. “But I’m sure sexy talk with your boss is a truly bad idea.”
“I guess it’s good I’m not your boss. Remember you insisted on being a contractor and not an employee.” Suddenly, that gleam in his green eyes was back. “And I’m happy to ask you any kind of question you want.”
“Maybe just friendly questions.”
“Sure, we can do that.”