Will Work For Love (9 page)

“No, you wouldn’t,” Rick answered.

“Go home and go Christmas shopping for your
grandkids. I’m going to Ella’s to finish up the work on her shop.
I’m sending a grounds crew out to Whitney’s to get rid of the rest
of the tree damage, including that nasty one hanging on the
house.”

“Then you’re gonna work yourself to death on the
rest of the job?”

“Gotta. Now, will you record a new message on the
answering machine announcing our holiday shutdown?”

“What happened to your fake island accent?”

“I can only get away with so much,” said Chris. And
he knew it was true.

Chris was on a ladder an hour later, the sun
piercing his tired eyes and sweat pouring down the inside of his
shirt. Why he was still wearing the shirt, he didn’t know. He just
hadn’t bothered to take it off yet. Ella had been out to offer him
cold drinks about three times, interrupting his work with her
friendly talk and sincere thanks. Her flower shop specialized in
delivering flower arrangements for the hotel lobbies and special
requests from guests. She wanted to break into the thriving local
wedding market, but her damaged shop was holding her back.

Ella didn’t want prospective brides being turned off
by ugly exterior damage, even though they would find surprisingly
upscale arrangements if they would just step inside her small shop
just off the main street downtown. Now, with Chris’ hard work, the
outside would be a more accurate reflection of the quality of her
work.

Chris nailed the last pieces of decorative woodwork
that he’d carefully hand-made to match the existing ones on the
island cottage. A little yellow and white paint and this would look
like Hurricane Destiny had passed over with just a kiss. As he
nailed it into place, he heard a vehicle pull up on the other side
of the shop. Of course there was nothing strange about a car
showing up at a flower shop, but he thought he caught a glimpse of
the color black out of the corner of his eye.

He leaned back on the ladder, steadying one hand on
the corner of the building. He could only see a tiny bit of the
back bumper and rear fender of the black vehicle, but it was
unmistakable. A black Jeep. He’d be the first to admit he had
Whitney on the brain, but even so, there could be no doubt who just
pulled in to the flower shop parking lot.

One thing about Whitney he’d already noticed was she
was not a woman who wasted time. He heard the car door shut. She
would come around the front corner of the shop in about five
seconds flat, walking with her brisk Boston pace. And he would be a
sitting duck on the ladder. She’d see him up there hammering, she’d
ask questions, and she’d discover his Blue Isle Construction truck
parked on the other side of the shop if she did any investigating
at all. And she would.

Chris burst into action. He scrambled down the
ladder, nearly dropping his hammer into the bushes below. He heard
the crunch of feet on gravel and he didn’t even risk a glance in
that direction. Two more seconds, and he’d be around the other side
of the flower shop making a quick getaway in his truck. He could
come back for the ladder later when the coast was clear.

He dove into his truck, turned the key in the
ignition, and pulled the door shut as the truck was already in
motion. The sudden burst of activity sent streaks of pain through
his already aching head. He drove up the street out of sight and
parked under a shade tree. Chris leaned against the worn vinyl seat
and let out a long slow breath. He closed his eyes and tried to
ease the tension in his shoulders and neck, hoping his headache
would ease up.

It was cowardly, really cowardly, to run away from
facing Whitney and admitting who he was. If he really cared about
her, he’d have to be honest. The problem was being honest would
kill any chance of a relationship with her because she would
probably tear him to shreds for not fixing up her wedding venue
when he should have.

There was the little issue of her wedding, too, that
could reasonably stand in the way of a relationship with her…but
something about it just didn’t seem quite right. It was confusing
and the mixed signals were flashing from both directions. He
couldn’t help the feeling that he had his hand on a light switch,
but he just needed to turn it on to see something that should be
right in front of him.

He wasn’t going to find out this morning, that was
for sure. He was going to go home and have a nap. Either the
headache was going, or he was. After, he’d head out to East Pointe
and begin his mission to save Blue Isle by doing the work he was
supposed to do in the first place.

****

Whitney had to drag herself out of bed that morning.
She had a ten o’clock appointment with the florist she was barely
going to be on time for. If she hurried. But that wasn’t the only
thing on her agenda. Blue Isle Construction would be getting a
phone call from her this morning, too. And she was in no mood to be
nice.

Despite her happiness for her friend Taylor, she
suffered through a long and lonely night. Worries about the
wedding, desolate sounds from the empty house, and the coolness
that settled over Chris last night kept her from enjoying the fine
sheets in her guest bedroom.

What caused the abrupt change in him? It all went
well…incredibly well…the boat ride, the dinner. Romantic. It hinted
of lots more to come.

And then she opened her big mouth and complained
about her construction problems. She thought he would be
sympathetic. Maybe she didn’t explain it well enough. She got
interrupted by Taylor’s call, and then what happened was her fault.
A man as attractive and desirable as Chris with her in an emotional
state? Too dangerous. She just didn’t trust herself. Maybe that was
why she always chose safe men. Chris was not a safe choice. He was
too…everything.

She was running late for her florist appointment, so
she had to put off her call to Blue Isle. Maybe she could
straighten it all out if she could just talk to Rick Churchill
again. There had to be a way. But that would have to wait, she
thought, as she drove up to the charming yellow florist’s shop.

“Ella St. Rosa?” Whitney asked when a small woman
with long straight hair met her at the door to her flower shop.

“Yes,” she answered pleasantly. “Are you Whitney
Oliver? I thought you must be. Come right in and tell me what your
friend has in mind for her wedding.”

“I’m glad you’re open. I wasn’t sure when I saw the
ladder up and heard the hammering when I pulled in.”

“Some minor leftover damage from the hurricane,”
Ella said as she led her to a sofa and opened a large photo album
filled with pictures of brides, flower arrangements, and bridal
parties.

“Seems like there’s a lot of that around here,”
Whitney commented.

“Too much. Lucky for me, I’ve got a builder who is
like my guardian angel.”

“I could use one of those. All the flowers in the
world won’t cover up the damage to the trellis and gazebo unless I
get my contractors to finish up before Christmas Eve.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, honey. It will be the
beautiful wedding that Taylor deserves. I don’t know her fiancé,
but I’ve known Taylor since she was a little girl and her parents
brought her in here for little bouquets.”

“No wonder she told me to come to you.”

“I just can’t believe she’s old enough to get
married. Now, what colors are we working with for the wedding?”
asked Ella as she pulled out ribbon samples and got ready to go to
work.

****

Later, after a nap, some office work, and two plates
of leftover chicken, Chris stopped by Ella’s shop to get his
ladder.

“You ran off so fast this morning, I didn’t get a
chance to say thanks or write you a check,” she said as she saw him
stoop slightly to step into her quiet perfumed shop.

“Sorry about that,” he said, grinning. “I have a lot
of irons in the fire.”

“I’m sure you do. You must not be the only
construction company that’s running ragged. I was talking to the
loveliest girl earlier today about wedding flowers and she said her
contractors weren’t getting a thing done. She’s really worried that
the wedding she’s planning will be a disaster unless the damage
gets repaired and soon.”

“Island wedding?” Chris inquired, trying to be
nonchalant.

“At East Pointe. Taylor East is getting married on
Christmas Eve.”

“Well,” Chris said casually, “congratulations to
him.”

Ella looked up quickly from some flowers she was
packaging up for delivery and laughed. “Him? Taylor is a beautiful
blue-eyed blond. I’ve known her since she was a little girl. Her
parents have owned East Pointe for probably twenty years,” Ella
paused. “I’m just so happy for her.”

“So this Taylor was here earlier?”

“No, her friend who’s planning the wedding.” Ella
looked closely at Chris. “Have you had too much sun today? You
don’t seem like yourself.”

Maybe it was the fragrance of the flowers or the
dark coolness of the shop, but Chris felt a wave of something like
unmitigated relief wash over him like a dip in a clear pool of
water after wandering in the desert. It all started to make sense
now. All the pieces. Whitney was the maid of honor. Not the
bride.

“Maybe I ought to offer to help this lady out. I’d
hate to see a wedding ruined.”

“Chris Maxwell, you have a heart of gold. Everyone
says it, and it’s true.”

“What did you say her name was?” he asked.

“Whitney Oliver. Now wait right there while I get my
checkbook and pay you for fixing that roof.”

Chris didn’t wait for her to write a check; instead
he walked out of the shop like he was in a daze. He climbed into
the driver’s seat of his pickup and thought for a moment. Jesus.
The light had come on. And the game was about to change.

Chapter Ten

Rick asked no questions when Chris stopped by his
small house in a quiet nook of the island. He handed Chris the keys
to the brown Flying Island Freight truck and took the keys to the
Blue Isle Construction truck with only a raised eyebrow as a
comment. Neither one of the men owned any other vehicle, and they
had shared the two trucks informally for the past several years. On
a small island like St. Thomas, there was no need for an additional
personal vehicle.

Chris drove directly to East Pointe and left the
brown truck in the driveway. It was surprisingly ugly in the
elegant driveway of the estate. Normally, he would have grimly
reflected on the decadence of owners like this. Today, he didn’t
care. His mind was on finding Whitney and repairing the hurricane
damage before it swept away his company.

He rang the doorbell by the kitchen door and waited,
but no one came. Chris took a step back and turned, walking the
curved sidewalk around toward the beach side. As soon as he came
around the corner of the house, he stopped. She was right there for
the taking.

He stood still for a moment, just looking at her.
She didn’t see him yet. It would only be seconds before she turned
around. She wore shorts that revealed shapely long legs. He could
tell she was barefoot. The thought of being able to touch all that
skin nearly undid his resolve to control himself and play his hand
coolly. Her short-sleeved slim-fitting shirt teased him by barely
skimming over breasts that would fit just right in his hands. The
light breeze coming off the sparkling blue water tossed her brown
hair a little. It played across her shoulders and her back.

The moment she started to turn and noticed him, he
felt the shock of her glance race down his back. She stood still as
if she were waiting for him to make a move. He already had made a
move by coming over, and there was nothing slowing down his long
strides as he closed the distance between them in seconds. He
crossed the lawn, never taking his eyes off her. He stepped onto
the bright sand and almost stumbled in his heavy construction
boots. She waited for him, not moving a muscle.

She locked eyes with him as he came up, lips parted.
He felt a connection with her before he even pulled her into his
arms. Undeniable. His lips came slowly to hers, their eyes wide
open and searching each other’s until they were too close. She
closed her eyes first, but her lips said she was wide awake and
welcoming.

Before all his restraint was completely gone, he
pulled back for a second so he could speak.

“I want to help you,” he began, “with your
construction problems.”

Whitney’s eyes clouded and her forehead wrinkled.
She pressed her lips together and looked pained. Chris thought for
a moment that she was going to cry, but her expression quickly
changed. The look of fierceness he had seen in her before took over
her face and her jaw set in what looked like gritty
resignation.

“There’s no helping anything,” she said. “My
contractors closed up shop for the holidays.” She bit her lip and
looked away from him out at the blue sea that deepened in the late
day light. “Poor Taylor. Her wedding—” Whitney broke off her
sentence because she turned back and saw that Chris was grinning.
No, he was smirking.

“How is this funny?” she demanded. She looked angry
enough to pick him up and toss him into the ocean.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I finally
figured out that you’re not getting married.”

“Married? Me?”

“To Taylor. I thought for the last three days that
you were marrying a guy named Taylor East. You even said ‘I love
you’ on the phone.”

Whitney huffed out a sigh. “Girls say that to their
friends. Good friends anyway.”

“I know,” he said. “I was just a little
confused.”

“A lot confused,” Whitney said. She paused. “So
that’s what happened last night. You thought I took a call from my
fiancé while I was out with you.”