Chapter 3
EMERY
“ W hat the hell are you doing here?”
Not my friendliest greeting, but mortification scorches my cheeks as Weston Spade, of all people, witnesses my impromptu performance.
With his arched brow, smug grin, and casual stance leaning against the doorjamb, he looks as supercilious as I remember.
“Now is that any way to speak to your knight in shining armour?”
His grin widens as he saunters towards me, and I struggle not to gawp at his all-round gorgeousness.
Tall, tanned, and terrific, his blue eyes deeper than the ocean lapping the island, his dark brown hair skimming the collar of his white pilot’s shirt, the gold and black epaulets highlighting the breadth of his shoulders.
“What do you mean…?” My gaze lands on the Esky at the door and I can’t help but smile. “If that’s my ham, then you really are a knight in shining armour.”
“Your ham?” His eyebrow arches higher, if that’s possible. “You’re the caterer?”
He makes it sound like I’m stripping for the wedding guests.
“Why is that so unbelievable?”
“Because the one time you made scrambled eggs for me and Tom, I ended up with food poisoning.”
I roll my eyes and curse my brother for not mentioning to Weston that I’m the caterer. “Bull.”
“Okay, so that might be a small white lie.” He holds up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “But last time I heard, Tom mentioned you were enrolling in a sommelier’s course.”
“Turns out I like food more than wine.” I shrug. “And catering pays the bills.”
“Good for you,” he says, sounding like he means it. “By the way, whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.”
His stomach growls and I laugh. “Hungry?”
“Just a tad.”
I point at a stainless-steel bench that’s so clean I can see my reflection in it. “Take a seat and I’ll fix you something, if you’re lucky.”
“I’m feeling very lucky,” he murmurs, and our gazes lock, something indefinable arcing between us, something I don’t want to identify because it might resurrect memories of that Christmas night I’d rather forget.
I look away first, the memory of how close we came to losing our minds an annoying burr I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try. And I’ve tried.
But every time Tom mentions Weston in passing, I remember the feel of his rock-hard chest beneath my palms; the tantalising crisp citrus of his aftershave; the electricity zapping my skin as my lips grazed his.
Before one of us came to our senses—him—and he tore down the mistletoe hanging over our heads, shot me a disbelieving glare, and made a run for it.
I’d wanted to run after him, spin him around, and call him out for being a fraud. To make him acknowledge that the attraction between us was mutual. I settled for stomping the mistletoe into the ground.
I acted like an immature brat four years ago and I hope his memory isn’t as good as mine. Having him witness my impromptu song and dance is enough mortification for one day.
“Want me to put your precious ham in the fridge?”
I nod. “Thanks. Pad Thai noodles okay? I was just about to eat.”
“Sounds perfect.” He bends over to pop the lid on the Esky, and I can’t help but stare. I mean, come on, I’m only human and his butt is perfection.
I grit my teeth and spin away, focussing on dishing up noodles into two bowls before sprinkling finely chopped peanuts and Thai basil over the top.
I made extra because I’d planned on having the noodles again for dinner while I put the finishing touches on the desserts, but I love sharing food, especially with a hungry guest.
Though technically, I’m the guest on this island, and I wish I knew more about what makes this enigmatic man tick. Tom rarely mentions him and I don’t ask, because I don’t want my doofus brother telling Weston I’m interested in what he’s doing.
Besides, I can cyber stalk. Not that Weston posts much, but his stunning photos of faraway places make me envious. What would it be like to have a job where I travel the world and have enough money to pay rent without stressing? Guess I’ll never know.
“Are you okay?” Weston lays a hand on my shoulder, and I startle.
He’s standing close, and I resist the urge to lean into him.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Why do you ask?”
“You had a weird look on your face.” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Hunger’s probably making me delirious.”
“Here.” I pick up a bowl of noodles and hand it to him. “Eat.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
He sits at the bench and starts shovelling noodles into his mouth, his groans of appreciation making me turn away so he can’t see the blush burning my cheeks again.
“This is incredible,” he pauses long enough to say, before resuming eating.
I join him at the bench, my appetite gone as I watch in fascination the way his long fingers grip the fork, the gloss of sesame oil—my secret ingredient—on his lips, the movement of his neck as he swallows.
Damn it, that’s the moment I realise I still have it bad for Weston Spade.