Chapter 16 #2
She purses her lips—hopefully holding back whatever story’s on the tip of her tongue that she just has to get out.
But then she nudges the door until there’s only a thin crack, and turns, giving me her undivided attention.
“And then we kissed,” I finally say, watching, reading her reaction.
Wordlessly, my estate manager of ten years, who’s pushing sixty and has a dozen children of her own, calmly walks over to the door and peeks out. I’m assuming the coast’s clear, because she shuts it and lets out a shrill scream before she literally jumps for joy.
“Oh, my sweet Jesus. I was so worried about you.”
Tenderly, she presses a velvety hand to her chest, eyes watering, warm brown skin crinkling under a smile as wide as the day is long.
Wait, why?
“Mr. Warner, it’s been so long since I done seen you on this island.
I heard you were planning on selling Clover Cay.
Didn’t want nothing to do with this place after Sherry passed on.
” She sighs, deeply. “Hurt me to my heart, truly. And I know it wasn’t all good memories, but this place is where your heart blooms. Be such a shame to lose it. You’re such a great husband.”
All I hear is Cord’s told you so.
Great husband.
My mind backpedals, stalling as she continues, “We’ve all been praying for you to find love again.”
“Listen, you’ve got it all wrong.” A shaky laugh tumbles out of me.
Praying for me? Love? “Did you hear what I said? Our plane’s landing gear malfunctioned.
We pretty much skidded to a stop until we reached the tip of the runway.
We were a few feet from being submerged.
That sort of thing will make you do crazy things to calm your nerves, you know? ”
Nacheline absolutely doesn’t know.
She’s still beaming, and I can’t even blame her because it sounds ridiculous, even thinking I’m falling for a woman I met twice and kissed once.
“Uh-huh.” She covers her heart with her hand. “I hear what you’re saying, but I’m tickled. This is just like that movie…”
“What movie?” I half laugh.
Nacheline snaps her fingers. “The one with the romance book writer and the cover model. She writes all kinds of stories about adventure and exotic places.” Please let there be a point.
She tilts her soft gaze at me. “But then there’s an evil billionaire who read one of books with an ancient town and decided she must know where it is. So he kidnaps her—”
“I’m sorry, wait.” Exotic places? Kidnapping? A cover model? “What does this have to do with Whitney and me?” I ask.
She looks at me like I must be dense.
“Don’t you see, he loves her.” Nacheline’s crisp, clipped consonants hit hard as she tosses up her hands. “That’s why he had to go rescue her in the jungle. It’s adventure.”
I don’t know, maybe I am dense because… what?
Laughter tickles the back of my throat.
This movie sounds terrible. Why did it remind her of us? Is the correlation in the room with us?
I drag a hand over my jaw, searching her eyes.
She’s making zero sense.
But on the off chance that there’s some sage advice mixed in with this Whac-A-Mole plot, I’m listening.
“The town they’d been looking for wasn’t some castle full of gold and riches, Mr. Warner. No, it was the queen’s secret place to grieve her husband. And treasure was the love they had there.”
Yeah, still nothing.
I slice my hands through the air, needing to get this straight. “So, in this scenario, I’m the cover model, the romance book writer, the evil billionaire, or the queen?”
Nacheline lets out another deep sigh. She’s completely exasperated by my question, but I’m going to need her to spell this out for me.
“Try to pay attention, Mr. Warner. You’re the romance book writer.” She actually grunts. “How can you write about love and adventure, when you don’t get out there to experience it?”
“Sooooo… Whitney’s the cover model. Got it.”
I do not got it.
She pushes the door until it snicks closed, then whirls around on her heel.
“You’re the writer. She’s your story.” Again, she purses her lips. “You put yourself out there; now it’s all coming to you. The story, love, romance, adventure. Life.”
“Ah, okay.”
I nod a good dozen times.
Mostly because still not getting it after the third time is my limit.
But also, I’m a bit concerned that I just poured out my heart, feelings, fears, all of it.
I mean, I didn’t say I’m pretty sure I like Whitney, that I felt like an asshole for clearly misjudging her, or that our kiss woke up something inside me I’d thought was long dead.
Or how I hate that we haven’t spoken since and both chose lunch alone in our rooms over being anywhere near each other.
And yet somehow, to Nacheline, this all adds up to a messy adventure comedy with a weak plot and a dash of romantic chemistry?
“Interesting.” Make that make sense.
“Okay, now that we’ve got that straight, go and get yourself cleaned up for breakfast.” Her voice lifts with that warm, rolling lilt.
“I’m sure you and Ms. Whitney will whip up something in the kitchen, you know?
” I’m about to say no, I sure as hell don’t know, when she adds, “After, you’ll show her around the island before the storm—”
“The storm?” I feel my eyebrows dip.
She groans. “Oh, Lord. What am I going to do with you, Mr. Warner? The weather alerts say we’re on storm watch. Maybe even upgraded to a tropical storm soon.”
This just keeps getting better.
Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose.
First the landing gear and the kiss, and now I’m just supposed to play restaurant in the kitchen with Whitney while a weather system is picking up?
“You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re joking.”
When I open my eyes again, her hand is planted on her generous hip. “No, sir…”
Her expression is no-nonsense as she starts ticking off what she’s been doing to prepare since the moment the warnings escalated while I was airborne.
The outdoor furniture and my yacht are already secured.
The windows, which I’m only just now noticing, have been shuttered.
She’s checked the backup generator, and set up an emergency staging area in the windowless movie theater, ideal for floods or extreme winds.
There hasn’t been any official evacuation orders, but she’s loaded up the room with non-perishable food, gallons of water, meds, a radio, a few sealed bags of cash and important documents, extra fuel, as well as all the electronics—charged devices, flashlights, batteries, power banks.
All in all, she’s ready for us to stay indoors, should the weather take a turn for the worse.
Everything’s been done.
Which explains why I’ve been appointed to head chef.
She sent the rest of the staff home this morning, took a call from the realtor postponing our meeting to discuss the island’s listing price, and notified my closest neighbor, Jeff, who’s two miles away, and apparently has already been over to check on her and walk the grounds.
Hmm.
“What’d you say?” I ask, genuinely curious why he’s jumping the gun.
“I kept telling him there was no need, that you’re here, but he insisted,” she says.
“Can you believe it? He came twice today, telling me he noticed some damage on the yacht and something about unusual traffic in the area. Says he wants to be on ‘high alert,’ in case I need him. As if we’re so close, when I can’t stand that nosy man.
And you know what I tell him? I say, this is my home as much as Mr. Warner’s. So, go!”
She laughs, clearly still irritated with Jeff.
“And you said he walked the grounds?”
“The entire island! Twice! Like, what are you looking for?” Nacheline blows out an exasperated breath as she slips out her phone, probably calculating how much time she’s got to finish her to-do list. “But no worries. I’ve got it all under control.
Gibson’s in the blue room upstairs…” Her tone slips into a low purr at the mention of my pilot, whom she’s not-so-subtly flirted with every time he flies me down to Clover Cay.
“And the new flight attendant’s in the green room downstairs. ”
Her protective instincts kick in as she shoots me a sidelong glare.
Just like Mom and Greer, Nacheline wants me to find love, but not with just anyone looking to get her hooks into me.
“Her name is Mya, and she’s not permanent, if that’s what that look is about.” I chuckle. “Tricia’s unwell, so my buddy at Gold Wing Charter sent her over. That’s all.”
“I sure hope so.”
I avert my gaze, staring aimlessly at the deep mahogany shutters covering the window for a moment before I squint at Nacheline.
“You really think there’ll be a tropical storm?” I ask.
We’ve had rains like this before, and they almost always fizzle out. Especially this time of year. In February? A tropical storm in the Bahamas?
“I hear what you’re saying. Don’t make the least bit of sense.” Her twisted-up hair, more salt than pepper these days, sways gently as she shakes her head. “The last one was back in the fifties. But you know what I always say…”
“Tell God your plan, and watch him laugh?” I guess.
“Exactly.” Her grin widens. “Heavenly Father, Mother Nature. They’re the ones in charge. You just stop hiding and figure out how to use your words. Cook that nice lady a proper meal and write the rest of the story.”
We both laugh.
She doesn’t say the rest, but I hear silent ingredients. Love, romance, adventure. Life.
Nacheline and I are still cackling as she shoos me out the library, clapping her hands, all businesses, while I promise not to let Whitney starve today.
And maybe—hopefully—I’ll get a chance to apologize for the kiss and get on with completing the painting evaluations before our next brush with death.