Will Work For Love (4 page)

Chris looked out at the crowd of people, some of
whom were carrying sparklers, and some were playing musical
instruments. Colorful costumes merged in and out of the swirling
spectacle.

“Have you always lived here?” Whitney asked.

Chris shook his head. “Three years.”

“And before that?”

“Maine.”

“What made you leave Maine?”

“Long story,” Chris said. He eyed her seriously for
a moment. “Your accent says New England.”

“You got me.” Whitney smiled. “Boston.”

The waitress arrived with drinks. Whitney eyed the
Virgin-esia and decided it looked innocent enough, and very
appealing. Ribbons of pink swirled through the overall orange
color, but disappeared as soon as she swished her straw through
it.

“I don’t recommend using that straw,” Chris said.
“It’ll go a little too fast.”

“I don’t want to go too fast tonight,” she said.
Heat rose up her neck and over her cheeks. “I mean, I’m in no hurry
tonight.”

Whitney looked over the rim of her colorful glass at
Chris’ hands encircling his glass. She let her eyes wander slowly
up his arms and across the open neck of his shirt, and then linger
on his square jaw line. She looked a little higher and stopped at
his eyes. The tropical blue color from her dreams last night.

“Then we’ve come to the right place,” he said.
“Great drinks and incredible food, but slow service.”

“Perfect for relaxing.”

Chris eyed her curiously. “Did you come to St.
Thomas for relaxation?”

“Yes and no.”

“So, it’s a working vacation? And a wedding?”

“It’s complicated.” The understatement of the
century. Staging a wedding at East Pointe was the complication of
her life. Explaining it to Chris would douse the small glow of hope
the alcohol was igniting.

He paused and looked quizzically at her.

“Then,” he said slowly, “I guess the Virgin-esia is
just the thing.” He smiled at her and raised his glass just a
little in a mock toast. “To forgetting your complications.”

She took a sip and let the rum slip over her tongue
and warm her throat. Too much of that drink and she’d forget just
about everything. Like the palm trees on the gazebo, the crushed
roof on part of the house, the general disaster where the tent was
supposed to go for the reception Maybe forgetting, just for
tonight, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

****

After dinner, they strolled the main street of St.
Thomas while Whitney looked in the shops. Most were closed, but
they had colorful displays in the windows. The excited crowd bumped
her around, and she was glad to have Chris’ powerful hand on her
arm. When the street was blocked with partiers, he shoulder-plowed
through.

She followed him, noticing how he greeted people in
the crowd by name. It was obvious he was pretty widely known on
this island. He did not attempt to introduce her to any of the
people who shook his hand or slapped him on the back. It was too
loud for them to hear, and most people in the crowd were too drunk
to remember anyway.

It was almost ten o’clock when they joined the
throng by the harbor to watch the Christmas tree come alive with
lights. Drums beat in Whitney’s head making her drunk with night
air, Chris Maxwell, and island music. She wanted to run her fingers
through his dark blond hair and toy with the slightly shaggy ends
curling over the top of his ears. Back in Boston, she usually dated
the more buttoned-up types. Safe men like Logan. There was
something refreshing…tempting…about Chris.

He moved behind her and wrapped one arm around her
waist, his other hand resting on her bare shoulder. It would take
only a slight move for her to be completely in his embrace, for her
lips to touch his. She wondered what it would feel like, and a
tremor rippled over her skin. Chris must have felt the tremor
because he pulled her closer, his body heat warming her everywhere
they touched.

Whitney barely noticed when the tree lights finally
flickered on. The music died down, and people started to move away
from the spectacle, but she stood completely still with the wall of
Chris’ chest behind her and his slightly rough hand grazing the
skin on her shoulder.

A trio of people bumped along the boardwalk in the
darkness.

“That you, Maxwell?”

The speaker was a twenty something man wearing an
open shirt and a pretty girl on each arm. He looked drunk and
happy.

Chris loosened his hold on Whitney and squinted into
the darkness.

“Wilson? You’re out late for a guy who has to be at
work early.”

Wilson looked doubtfully at Chris.

“I’m not the only one,” he said.

“Have I ever been late?”

Wilson laughed. “No. And don’t worry about me. I’ll
be there. My sister is sending some chicken for lunch, too, to say
thanks for all you done for her.”

“Not necessary,” Chris said, but chuckled and added,
“but I’m not going to turn it down.”

Wilson left with his girlfriends still on his arms
and his shirt flapping loosely. Chris pulled Whitney close again,
one arm around her waist and the other hand running a slow pattern
from her shoulder down to her fingertips. His touch was tempting,
intoxicating. Maybe she should call it a night before she let
herself get carried away by the drums, the night, and loneliness.
She was vulnerable. Especially since a tantalizing man was now
kissing her neck in the darkness.

“It’s really good,” he whispered.

Whitney wanted to ask what he meant, but she
couldn’t think clearly.

“His sister’s chicken,” Chris said.

Whitney laughed. “I’m almost afraid to ask what a
man has to do to get paid in chicken around here.”

“She owns the restaurant where we ate tonight. I
helped her get a patio built.”

The mere mention of building brought Whitney solidly
back to the ground. She took a deep breath and turned toward Chris,
the movement causing a gap between them. Maybe she needed breathing
room.

“You’re a builder?” she asked.

Chris looked down at her, a serious expression on
his face. “I was more of a supply man on that job.”

The breeze brushed Whitney’s bare arms and legs,
reminding her it was late. She had a twisted drive over darkened
roads back to the East Pointe estate which was, in fact, in ruins.
She had a meeting with a contractor in a few short hours and two
weeks’ worth of hard labor to make everything perfect for
Taylor.

“I should probably get home,” she said
tentatively.

Chris nodded slowly, his eyes roaming her face.
“Where’s home?”

“I’m staying with a friend,” she said. Which was
mostly true. Somehow, she didn’t like the feeling of staying all
alone in that huge house right now. But she didn’t know enough
about Chris Maxwell to invite him to keep her company. Although it
was
tempting.

“If your…friend doesn’t have plans for you tomorrow,
I happen to have the afternoon off. I can offer you an exceptional
personal sightseeing tour.”

“I don’t know…” Whitney hesitated. She planned to
meet with the contractors in the morning. What would she have to
do? Follow them around all day? Maybe and maybe not. She let out a
long breath. “Can I call you?”

“I’ll write down my cell,” Chris said.

Chapter Four

Monday morning dawned on what should have been the
beginning of a beautiful day in the tropics. Sunshine, blue skies,
glittering water. Much like the tropical blue eyes that wouldn’t
leave her alone all night. Again. Thoughts of what might have
happened with Chris flirted with her dreams, and she began to truly
doubt the power of the Virgin-esia. That colorful drink made her
forget only for a little while, and now reality stared her in the
face.

As she swept the light voile curtains aside, her
stomach quivered and fell. This wreck of a yard would never be
ready for a dream wedding. It would take a dedicated work crew with
a serious taskmaster to even come close at all.

Hanging out with the mysterious Chris Maxwell would
be a whole lot more fun.

She hardly knew him, but one thing was clear: he was
totally different from Logan. The man who could be polite and
businesslike about everything. Apartment leases, paint colors,
sensible shoes. Even sex. He would have helped her out of the
revolving door disaster by looking up suggestions on his smart
phone. Unlike Chris. Maybe it was a good thing she was here. Some
impulsiveness, heat, and testosterone would do her a lot of
good.

Maybe she ought to lay off those Virgin-esias.

Whitney showered, dressed and roamed down to the
kitchen where there were actually supplies today for coffee and
toast from a brief shopping trip yesterday. Not a glamorous
breakfast, but just enough to get her through her butt-kicking
session with the contractor.

She glanced over an island newspaper she picked up
downtown yesterday and found an article about the clean up from
Hurricane Destiny. The article spanned several pages and included
colorful photographs of damaged hotels, shops, and homes. Whitney
was about to settle in with the article and her second cup of
coffee when the phone on the kitchen counter rang. The caller ID
registered Taylor East’s phone in her Boston apartment.

“Taylor!” Whitney said with forced enthusiasm.

“Hey, Whitney. Just calling to check up on you.
Doesn’t your cell phone work there? I tried calling you last night,
but it went straight to voice mail.”

“I don’t know, I guess I haven’t paid attention.
Sorry I missed your call.”

“No big deal. I just wanted to make sure the house
is…um…comfortable for you.”

Whitney laughed. “You know it’s comfortable. It’s
fifty times grander than my apartment in Boston and there’s
actually a place to park the way-too-nice Jeep you rented for
me.”

Relief flooded Taylor’s voice. “Everything’s going
okay then?”

“Sure is.”

Whitney hoped the fake bravado in her voice didn’t
sound as phony to Taylor as it did to her. She tried not to look
out the kitchen window at the palm tree leaning over the garage
roof as she spoke. It would definitely not help her performance
much at all, and telling lies was something she wasn’t particularly
good at anyway. She wondered briefly how Taylor’s parents were
playing their role and keeping it from their daughter.

“So the storm damage wasn’t as bad as we
thought?”

“Not too bad. It’s mostly taken care of already. I
just have a few details to work out and this place will be top
notch when you arrive in…what is it…just ten days now?”

“Ten days ‘til we get there, twelve days until the
wedding. And none too soon. At the rate my belly’s growing, my gown
won’t fit if I get much bigger.”

“You’ll be beautiful. Stop worrying! Just get
yourself and Jackson down here and we’ll get the party
started.”

“Maybe you’ll have some time to party while you’re
down there by yourself for the next ten days with nothing to do.
Maybe you can find some way to amuse yourself?” Taylor asked.

If only she really did have ten empty days ahead of
her. Chris’ face floated in front of her eyes and she could almost
feel his lips on her neck. She’d fill up those ten days pretty
easily if she didn’t already have enough work to fill the next
month.

“Great idea, Taylor. I’ll look around downtown for
an easy island guy who wants two weeks of sex and an invite to a
swanky wedding. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Have fun, but don’t wear yourself out. Save a
little dancing for the reception.”

There was a half second of silence on Taylor’s end,
and then she said, “Really, Whitney, I can’t thank you enough for
taking care of everything down there. I know you said it’s fine,
but it’s still a lot to ask you to leave your business for two
weeks and hang out there all alone planning my wedding.”

“God, it’s torture,” Whitney said. “I have to meet
with the florist, arrange a bunch of bows and chairs, check on the
cake, and force myself to meet the chef at a five-star resort in
town. I’ll probably even have to eat some samples. Some friend you
are.”

Taylor laughed. “If Jackson and I could get away
sooner—”

“No!” Whitney practically shouted. “I mean, don’t be
ridiculous. Like I said, it’s all under control and maybe I want
the house all to myself. You know, just in case I find that willing
island guy.”

“I’m calling you tonight to check up on you and give
you the big results.”

“Your ultrasound! Twenty weeks down, twenty to go. I
can’t wait to hear if it’s a boy or a girl. Good luck. I’ll be
thinking of you.”

After she hung up the phone with her best friend,
Whitney downed another cup of coffee and made a few more notes on
the checklist for the contractor. Just hearing Taylor’s excited and
anxious voice made her twice as determined that East Pointe would
be ready, come hell or high water.

****

Rick stepped into the construction office at
seven-thirty a.m. Real work didn’t get going on island time until
at least eight o’clock, but a couple of years of working with and
for Chris had taught him that the boss still had a Maine work ethic
and was up with the dawn.

“Didya get any rest yesterday?” Rick asked. He knew
it was a pointless question because he knew that Chris worked every
Sunday on his extra-curricular projects. Lots of the locals knew,
too, because that’s when he showed up and fixed broken windows,
patched roofs, and added special touches to playgrounds and parks.
He would never work his employees as hard as he worked himself.

“Actually,” Chris said as he leaned back in a creaky
chair in the ramshackle office, “I did have some fun last
night.”

“Pretty lady? I hope?”

“Beautiful.”

Rick leaned against the aluminum wall and whistled.
“No kidding. I was thinking you’d forgotten how to have fun.”