An Island Affair. Monica RichardsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
I missed Whitney. I missed Alyson, too. As young girls, we were all much closer—having shared so many intimate secrets growing up. Alyson was my first best friend, my accomplice on many of my sneaky endeavors. I’d been close with both my sisters.
I removed the embellished sandals from my feet and changed into a pair of exercise pants and a tank top. I turned on my music playlist on my iPhone, rolled my mat onto the hardwood floor and immediately began to stretch my limbs. As I worked out the kinks in my body, thoughts of Jackson Conner entered my head, unannounced. Unwarranted thoughts danced about without permission. Despite his arrogance, the man was so sexy. I smiled at the thought of him wanting to see me to the ferry. That was cute. Actually it was quite gentlemanlike, I thought. It was surprising that a man like him would care at all. He seemed so pompous.
I got into the downward-dog position, stretched my body across my mat. Yoga was a practice that I’d studied and developed as a significant part of my lifestyle. My parents didn’t understand yoga.
“We’re Baptists,” my mother reminded me when I tried to explain what all the stretching and candle-lighting was about, “and we don’t practice any other religions in this house!”
It was a lost cause trying to explain to them that yoga was not a religion. So I simply exercised behind closed doors, and very quietly. But I made a mental note that, as much as I loved my childhood home, I needed my own place very soon.
Jackson
I could see the flames in the distance and hear the sirens blare. I felt helpless in the backseat of the taxi, so close to the Grove. Though I wanted the driver to speed up a bit, that would never happen. No one on this island hurried for anything. Relaxed and easygoing, the islanders fished, took long walks along the beach and lounged on hammocks all day. Hurry was not a part of the culture here. My heart pounded and my mind raced as I thought of the Grove. The electrician was scheduled to be at the properties this morning. Had there been a mishap? A short circuit? I prayed.
When I pulled up at the Clydesdale, my men were already on the scene and work had already begun. And I was relieved to know that the fire was about a mile farther down the road at one of the local vacation homes. I exhaled as I stepped out of the backseat of the cab and paid the driver. A quick glance and I spotted her, not that I was looking for her. Although she wore a pair of tight jeans and a faded T-shirt, she was still just as beautiful as the day before. My energy changed. She made me sweat and caused my heart to beat a little faster. I was nervous for no reason at all, and I didn’t like it. No man should feel that way around a woman, unless she’s Beyoncé or Halle Berry. Jasmine Talbot wasn’t a celebrity. She was a wannabe.
She stood in front of the house chatting with my construction manager, Lance. Pointing her finger up at one of the windows, it seemed she was giving him orders and that was completely out of the question. Whatever she wanted done, she needed to address it with me. And I would tell her so, just as soon as I was able to peel my eyes from her and gather my thoughts. I found myself wondering how old she was, as if it mattered. I knew she was Edward’s younger sister and he was my age. I’d recently celebrated my twenty-ninth birthday—two months before his. So she couldn’t have been much younger than that.
“Is there something I can assist you with, Miss Talbot?” I interrupted her little meeting.
“I was just explaining to Lance here that I’ll be working in that room up there—” she pointed upward again “—and he’s agreed that he’ll have someone bring the old desk out of the storage shed for me...and place it in my office.”
“Miss Talbot—”
“Jasmine,” she interrupted. “Call me Jasmine please.”
“Jasmine.” I faked a smile. Chose my words carefully. “You asked me about that desk yesterday...”
“Yes, and I didn’t like your response.”
“If you don’t mind, please do not address my men. If you have an issue or concern, I would appreciate if you would take it up with me.”
“I would’ve done that, Mr. Conner—”
“Jackson,” I corrected her.
“I would’ve done that, Jackson. But you weren’t here.”
“I’m sorry I was a bit late. I was detained. Stomachache. Had to settle my...” Why was I explaining this to her? “I’ll make sure the desk is carried upstairs for you.”
“Thank you, Jackson.” She walked away, headed inside and then turned back to me, catching me staring at her. “Lemon and warm water,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Best thing for an upset stomach. My mother used to give it to us all the time. Settles it right away.”
“Thank you,” I said, but she was already gone. I glanced over at Lance, who was also staring at Jasmine. “Close your mouth.”
“I think she likes me.” Lance smiled.
I laughed and handed him a set of plans I’d revised. “Here. I’ve revised these. The wood paneling on the wall in the great room stays. And when you get a chance, have a couple of the guys bring that cruddy old desk out of the storage space and take it up to that room. Let’s get the room painted and the floors done right away. Maybe that’ll keep her out of our hair.”
“I don’t mind her being in my hair,” said Lance with a huge smile.
I gave him a sideways look and he wiped the grin from his face.
“I’m on it,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and Jax,” said Lance, “let’s not drink so much tonight.”
“I’m not drinking with you fools at all...ever again,” I said, “and contrary to popular belief, we’re not on this glorious, wonderful, magnificent island for a vacation. We’re here to work! That’s it.”
“What? All work and no play? That’s boring. No wonder you can’t find a woman. You’re a workaholic.”
“I’m not looking for a woman. I’m happy, see?” I faked a smile.
“Right.” He shook his head and walked away.
He was right. I was a workaholic—a lifestyle that I’d developed at a very young age. Ambition didn’t allow for much sleep or playtime. Even in my sleep I dreamed of success. And playtime consisted of an occasional eighteen holes on the golf course with a few of my college buddies. Being a workaholic had everything to do with why I didn’t have a woman in my life. Women required things that I wasn’t prepared or willing to give them—time. And I didn’t have much of it. When I was at home in Key West, after a hard day’s work, I usually settled into my renovated bungalow in Old Town. With a cold bottle of Heineken and takeout from a local eatery, I normally watched SportsCenter or caught a game on ESPN, with my laptop in front of me as I simultaneously reviewed plans and designs. I lounged in my leather easy chair in the corner of the room, where I almost always fell asleep before finally going to bed. It was my routine.
Since being on Eleuthera, I’d been having a hard time finding my rhythm. My vacation rental home was a far cry from my bungalow in the city. Although it was a gorgeous place, with its similar pastel-colored homes as the ones in Key West, Eleuthera was not my home.
Last night, I’d allowed my staff to twist my arm and I’d reluctantly stepped outside of my comfort zone. I ventured to a local bar on Harbour Island and found every one of my employees there. They were loud and boisterous and encouraged me to be the same. My good senses told me to rule against it, but I didn’t listen. I started the night with a cold beer at the opposite end of the bar as them, wanting to alienate myself from the rowdiness. I rarely drank more than a beer or two, but my first few days on the island had proved to be somewhat trying. I’d had to