Chapter 18
JACOB
For a second when I wake up in a comfortable bed, I think I’m at home and that the nightmare of the inn is far behind me, but the bright sunshine and morning birds tell a different story.
I’m in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar house, in a bed that smells like clean linen and sea salt and sex, without any clothes on.
Slowly, as consciousness returns to me, the memories of last night fill in; of watching the sunset in the cave, of kissing Billie, of indulging our wild fantasies.
She’s not the girl I was looking for. Hell, I thought she hated me. But last night, after we finally caught our breath in the cave, she walked me back to her house so we could fall into bed all over again.
If that was hate sex, then she can keep hating me.
But I don’t think it was. I saw the look in her eyes every time I complimented her, that look that wanted to say what, me? The look that told me she didn’t quite believe that I could really think those things about her.
Beautiful Billie. She’s spent so long helping everyone else that she’s forgotten she’s as worthy of love as all of them.
If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to help her learn that all over again.
There’s a sudden and loud crash in the kitchen, and I realize that’s where she must be. I’m still waking up and it takes me a while not to be groggy and bemused by the world, but I feel bad just lying here while Billie has probably done half of her daily tasks already.
And she probably has coffee downstairs, so I force myself to get up. I pull on yesterday’s shirt and pants and try not to grimace at how unclean I feel, then groggily make my way downstairs.
She looks radiant and alive as she stands at the stove.
I wasn’t paying any attention last night, but her home is wonderful.
It’s not big, but it has everything she needs.
The kitchen’s decorated exactly how I would expect — vaguely ocean-themed, funny sayings on woodcuts, tastefully mismatched plates.
The window is open and a faint breeze blows its way into the kitchen, catching the long white skirt of her dress and making it billow around her legs.
Her hair is tied up in a loose ponytail, and she has on some music that she’s humming along to, some pop singer I’ve probably never heard of.
She looks utterly content in her own little world.
I cough gently to get her attention, not wanting to look like I was sneaking up on her. She turns to face me and smiles. “You’re not a morning person, are you?”
I shake my head. “Only when I really, really have to be.”
“Coffee?” she offers.
“You’re a saint,” I say.
She points at the kitchen table, at one of the rustic-looking wooden chairs, and obediently, I sit. Then she turns her back on me again to return to the kitchen counter and pivots around with a steaming hot cup of coffee. “For you.”
“This is the same stuff you have in the cafe?” I ask, dizzy from the delicious smell floating toward me.
She nods as she puts the cup down. “It’s a secret blend.”
“I could drink this coffee every single day,” I say. “I mean it.”
“That’s what everyone says.” She giggles.
“You have to tell me the secret.”
“And have you run me out of business? Absolutely not.”
Another smell registers with me, and I frown, staring over at the stove. “You’re cooking?”
She shrugs, biting her bottom lip. “It’s not much, just eggs and bacon.”
“You really don’t have to. If I wanted someone to make me breakfast, I’m all-inclusive at the inn.”
Billie laughs at that. “Believe me, you’ll get a much better breakfast here. Mrs. Petering is a kind woman, but breakfast at the inn leaves something to be desired.”
“Still,” I say, “you don’t have to cook for me.”
“I’m cooking for me,” she says, fixing me with a stern look. “But if you want some, there’s enough.”
There’s no further argument I can make to that. I don’t think I’m getting much choice in the being-fed-department.
“Don’t you have to go and open the cafe?” I ask.
She shrugs, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “I have enough people who will help me out and make sure everything’s running okay. Lantigua can open up and run the place just fine. I trust him totally. Plus, you look like you could do with some looking after.”
“Hey, now,” I pout. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When was the last time anyone cooked you breakfast? Or anything, in fact?”
“I go out to restaurants all the time.”
“I mean at home. Wait, do you even have a home?”
“Technically, yes, but now that all the stalkers know where I live, not anymore.”
“It’s why you want the island,” she says quietly, the memory of my true purpose blowing a cold wind between us.
I don’t feel like getting into an argument about this right now, so I change the subject. “Tell me more about the cafe.”
“What do you want to know?” She flips the bacon, and it sizzles happily in its pan. “Toast?”
“Please.”
“Whole grain bread okay? It’s all I’ve got.”
“Guess it’ll have to be.” I take a sip of my coffee and then say, “Why do you run the place?”
“It used to be my parents. My father left it to me in his will.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because that’s what you’re meant to say when someone has a dead family member. It sounds like a topic I’m definitely going to screw up, so I steer away from it. “You must enjoy it.”
“I do,” she says. “Usually, anyway.”
“Usually?” She turns off the gas and plates up eggs, bacon and toast before slinging a plate down in front of me, one with a faded sailing ship on it. “What’s wrong with the place?”
She laughs bitterly as she takes a seat next to me.
“What’s not wrong with it? The coffee machine’s always on the fritz.
The kitchen needs a total overhaul. I’m lucky the aesthetic in there is rustic seaside or else it would look totally shabby.
It could do with a repaint. A new pastry display. New chairs. Everything.”
“Then why don’t you?” I ask.
She swallows hard, her eyes shining. “It’s easy for you, Mr. Money Bags,” she says, her voice catching in her throat. “But not everyone’s made of untold billions.”
“But the cafe must do okay for itself,” I say, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “I mean, it’s busy enough, isn’t it? The place was packed when I went in.”
“Sure, it keeps itself afloat. But that’s about all it does. We break even. Usually even make a modest profit, but nothing like enough to upgrade everything. Barely enough to upgrade anything.”
“You could sell the place,” I say, then wince at the pained look on her face. That was the wrong thing to say.
“I truly love it there. It’s the heart of the community. I love local life. I love feeling involved. I love serving people, and people love to come to the cafe as a hub, as a place they know they’ll be safe. That’s important to me.”
“Noble,” I say, but I think that was the wrong thing to say too, because she doesn’t relax.
The dress she’s wearing reveals her bare shoulders and all the tension she’s carrying in them. “When was the last time you genuinely interacted with human beings?” she asks. “I don’t mean businessmen, or at work. I mean, have you ever cared about a community? A place?”
I chew my toast slowly, not wanting to answer.
My silence says enough.
“Exactly. I could make more money if I did something else. I know that. But it’s not about money for me.
I don’t want to be miserable. I want to help people, to see them succeed.
That’s what makes me happy. And as I say, the cafe does well enough.
I can pay all the staff well, and it’s a place for the locals to go.
I wouldn’t give that up for anything. Sure, there’s a few cosmetic issues.
And if something truly important breaks, I’ll deal with it when we get there.
But success isn’t only about profit. I suppose you wouldn’t understand that, though. ”
I swallow hard. “No,” I agree quietly. “I guess I wouldn’t.”
The breeze carries the cry of a seagull overhead and an awkward silence between us.
Maybe she’s realizing that getting involved with me is a bad idea. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I won’t ever understand her, but she’s making me want to.
“I don’t want to buy the island,” I say softly. “Not really. Not anymore.”
“You don’t?” She looks up at me, her eyes glistening.
“I want to live here, but you’re right. I can’t take all this away from you, from any of you. It’s more than just land, isn’t it? It’s home.”
That makes her smile, her rosy lips drawing my gaze.
“And before you even think of saying anything,” she says.
“I don’t need your help. I’m not a charity case.
I’ve been running this cafe all on my own for years.
I don’t need some billionaire with a savior complex to throw money at me because he feels bad, okay?
I don’t need you to do anything for me because you pity me. ”
“I don’t pity you,” I say firmly. “And if you think that’s why I slept with you…
” The furious blush on her face deepens, confirming that that was what she was really thinking about.
“It’s not. You intrigue me, Billie. You’re a beautiful woman.
One who isn’t afraid to say what she thinks.
You’re the most interesting girl who’s ever had any interest in me. ”
“What makes you think I have an interest in you?” she scoffs, raising an eyebrow.
“One or two things,” I say with a smile. “This hickey, for example.” I pull down my collar enough to show her the red mark, and she bites her lip trying not to laugh.
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. In fact, I wouldn’t mind if you did it again.”
“Oh?” she says, raising both eyebrows. “Are you flirting with me?”
I twist my face in an act of confusion. “You know, I think I might be.”
She stands up, pushes her chair back and walks slowly over to me before straddling my legs and sitting down in my lap. “Well, if biting’s what you’re into, I think more of that could be arranged.”