Falling for Mr. Thornton

Chapter 1 On the Island

On the Island

Melanie Stanford

“I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me.” —Chapter XXIV, North and South

I can’t believe I’m going back there. Back to the scene of the crime, so to speak. But not my crime. His.

The plane touches down, smoothly despite its teeny size, and then makes its way slowly down the runway to the terminal. It isn’t my first time on the island, but I stare out of the window as if I’ll see something new.

The view isn’t much to look at. Grass a bit too long curling in the breeze.

Sky so clear it looks fake. Airport so small it looks more like an office building.

It’s one of those airports that doesn’t have jet bridges connecting the airplane to the terminal.

Instead, we walk down rickety metal steps, across the tarmac, and into the building.

While I wait for my luggage, I call my dad. It’s his fault I’m here again, after all.

“Meg?” Dad says on the other line. “Is that you?” As if caller ID didn’t tell him.

“Yeah, it’s me. I made it here safely.”

He lets out an audible breath of relief. Dad hates flying. He watches too many shows about plane crashes. “Are you at the resort?”

“No, I’m still at the airport waiting for my luggage.”

“Better you lose your luggage than your life.”

It’s good he can’t see me roll my eyes. Obviously dying would be bad, but losing my luggage would be a travesty.

There is pretty much nowhere to shop on this tiny island, and I don’t want to waste my money on overpriced resort clothes that are better suited for a sixty-year-old lady—one of the things I may have mentioned when I blogged about the resort last time.

“How was the flight? Turbulence? Delays? Shaky landing?”

“It was totally fine.” There was a lot of turbulence actually, being such a small plane and all, but I don’t tell Dad. He’d freak.

“Okay then.” He sounds doubtful.

The luggage starts coming down the conveyor belt. “How’s Mom?”

“No change. The doctor said she just needs to keep doing what she’s doing.”

I grip the phone in my hand. Yet another reason why I shouldn’t be on a remote island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. If my mom worsens, I won’t have time to get home.

My luggage appears, flowery suitcases tumbling from the top of the belt and then spinning away from me. “I better go. Tell Mom I love her.”

“Will do. And Meg?”

“Yeah?” I step closer to the conveyor so I’m ready to grab when my luggage goes by.

“Be nice to John, all right? Give him…give that place a chance.”

I snatch for the handle of my suitcase but fumble at Dad’s words and miss. My suitcase runs away from me. I sigh.

“Sure, Dad.”

“Love you, Meg.”

“Love you, too.”

I hang up and pocket my phone. As I wait for my suitcase to come back around,I resist the urge to call Dad back just so I can yell at him. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to give this place—especially John Thornton—another chance. I don’t want to be away from Mom again.

This time I grab my suitcase and haul it off the runway with a grunt. I roll it out of the airport, a grumpy and resentful cloud following behind.

“Margaret Hale checking in.” I tap my finger on the counter while the receptionist similarly taps on the keyboard.

I try not to look, but I’m totally glancing around, keeping my eye out.

I really don’t want to run into him. I mean, he knows I’m coming, but maybe I’ll get lucky and manage to avoid him for my entire stay.

“Meg.”

Dang it.

“You’re back.”

His presence is a weight behind me. If only I could ignore him. Where are my earbuds when I need them? Then again, he’d probably tap me on my shoulder or something. There’s no avoiding John Thornton.

I turn halfway. I don’t quite look at him. “I’m back.”

He doesn’t say anything, and it feels like he’s daring me to meet his eyes. Hold out, just hold out. You can do it.

I can’t do it. The silence is too much, and I finally give in and look at him.

He’s not as close to me as I thought, but there’s something about him—something that radiates off him like an energy field. Get too close and you’ll get hit by the blast.

“How are your parents?”

I blink, not so much at the question but at the softness in his voice. It’s so unlike him.

Memories of the moment we met flood into my brain.

I didn’t want to come to the resort in the first place.

My mom had just been diagnosed with cancer, and I wanted to be with her.

But Dad asked me this favor. “He’s a family friend,” Dad said.

“Please,” Dad said. “Your mother will be fine without you for a little while,” Dad said. But what did he know?

Turned out, she was as fine as someone with cancer can be while I was away, but I still resented leaving her.

And it just went downhill from there. I arrived at the resort and was told I’d meet the resort manager right away.

I ended up waiting and waiting, getting more annoyed by the second.

I mean, I know I’m not this huge deal, but when a popular travel blogger with almost a million Instagram followers comes to review your resort, you’d think you’d treat her with a little more respect.

So instead of waiting, I went exploring—in places I’m not supposed to be, but that was the point.

Hotels, resorts, they always show you their best sides, but I like to see what’s going on behind the scenes.

How clean are their kitchens? How organized is the management? How do they treat their staff?

That’s how I first found Mr. John Thornton.

In his office, yelling at one of his employees.

Ripping into him while the poor man cowered before his boss.

When John saw me, he yelled at me, too. Screamed at me to get out.

Imagine his surprise when he found out I was the daughter of his friend Richard Hale and the blogger sent to review his resort.

It wasn’t a good start. He gave me excuses later,trying to explain what that employee had done, but I wouldn’t listen. He’s the boss, and he doesn’t need to treat his employees that way—or perfect strangers—regardless of the situation.

Needless to say, I didn’t give the resort a good review.

Now I’m back as a favour to my dad because, for some reason, he loves John and he thinks I treated him unfairly. Me!

“Are you not going to talk to me at all?” John asks.

“I’m sorry,” I say, manners automatically kicking in. “I’m tired from the flight. My parents are good.”

I don’t want to get into my mom’s illness with this guy. He probably already knows anyway. It’s weird how much he and my dad talk.

He nods. “I’ll show you to your room.”

He grabs the handle of my suitcase and starts walking away, not waiting to see if I’ll follow.

I follow. Grudgingly. I mean, he’s got my stuff.

“Last time…” he starts when I’ve caught up to him.

He clears his throat. We both remember what happened last time.

“Last time you had a room on the top floor, for the view. This time I thought you might like one of our ocean rooms.” He opens the door with a swipe of a key card, then motions me inside.

I forget about his lurking presence behind me as I take in the room.

Warm wood floorboards, gorgeous local art hanging on the light blue walls, a king size bed with lush white sheets and pillows.

The bathroom is marble and sparkling clean.

There’s a cushy chair in one corner of the room.

And the best part, huge glass doors covered by a gauzy white curtain opening right onto the beach.

I drop my purse on the bed, the ocean beckoning to me. The glass doors slide open, and a rush of warm air blows over me, smelling like salt and something sweeter, like fruit.

“Do you like it?” John asks.

I turn. Swallow at his gaze. “Are all the rooms like this?”

One of the things I criticized in my review last year was the décor, the tacky wall hangings, the cheap bedspreads, the thin and worn carpeting. The whole place needed an update, and it looks like he did it.

“Well, not all of them.”

My eyebrows raise. Did he just renovate one room for my benefit, for people like me?

“The whole place was remodelled. I took everything you wrote to heart. But not every room is at this level. This is one of our more expensive rooms.”

He remodelled the entire resort…because of me? That must have cost a fortune. How many years will it take him to earn that money back? Will the investment be worth it?

No. I won’t feel guilty. He wants a resort people will come back to, will tell their friends about, will remember forever? Then the place has to reflect that.

“Sometime I’d like to check out some of the other rooms,” I say. Because of course I can’t trust what he said.

“Of course.” He’s thumbing the handle of my suitcase. He must realize it, because he shoves the handle down a little too hard. “I’ll let you settle in. There’s an open dinner reservation for you at Bliss. I remember you liked it last time.”

The only thing I liked last time. That and the beach. He turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Breath rushes out of me, and I sink onto the bed. It’s hard to breathe when John is around. I’m exhausted, by the trip, by being near him.

My eyes snag on the ocean again. Nothing makes me feel better than a swim.

The ocean calls.

Most people are uncomfortable eating alone, but I’m used to it.

I’ve travelled a lot now for work and most of it by myself.

So I don’t mind at all sitting in a fancy restaurant at a table alone, enjoying the seafood or the steak or whatever local delicacy a starred chef wants to prepare for me.

I love to people-watch, musing about who’s on their first vacation together, who’s been together forever, who’s about to break up.

Watching people break up over their salmon or get engaged with the old ring in the champagne glass corny bit.