Taken (15 page)

Chapter Eleven

We work in separate rooms, and it’s probably for the best or we might not get anything done otherwise. I find nothing to salvage, only old junk and trash to be tossed out. I wonder what we’ll do with trash on the island, it’s not like there’s a trash truck that will rumble down the road every Tuesday morning like at home. Guess we’ll have to burn it.

The tell-tale click-clack of heels alerts me to Joan’s presence behind me. “Where’s Merrick?”

“Not in here.” I don’t bother turning around.

“The crew has a bonfire going. They’re cooking out, brats and beer, so there’s no need to fix them anything for dinner.”

“Great.” Is she expecting me to cook for her? Not likely. “Hope they can sleep a few to a room. Not many of the floors are stable enough to let them use the guestrooms.” Out of the twenty rooms, the wood floors were rotted in over half.

“I think they’d rather sleep outside. They brought tents and everything. At least until the hotel is renovated. It’s kind of like a guys’ retreat out there.”

Her light tone makes me turn around and find her smiling. “Sounds like they’re having fun.”

“They are.” Her gentle expression falters. “Do you mind if I take one of the rooms inside?”

Why would she assume I’d have an issue with that, like I’d make her sleep out on the patio or something? “Of course! I expected you to.”

She nods. “Have you looked at the clothes I brought you yet?”

“Oh, I forgot about them.” I wave a hand around the room. “I got busy.”

“It’s been an interesting day.” She shakes her head and her eyes snap into clear, driven, Dragon Lady focus. “I’ll find Merrick.”

“You do that,” I say as she strides from the room, our fleeting moment of neutrality gone with a rush of her red sundress.

About a half hour later, I finish sorting through the room I’m working in and decide there’s no reason to start on another if the men are sleeping outside anyway. My stomach rumbles, but I need a hot shower before anything else.

Jogging down the stairs, I notice my bags are no longer in the kitchen. They must’ve been moved. I turn and go up to your room—our room?—and find you sitting on the couch looking contemplative. “Something wrong?”

You give me a brief smile and open your mouth to say something, but my phone rings sitting on the coffee table. We both stare at it like it’s a bomb threatening to destroy the bubble of denial we’ve created and survived in the past few days.

“Are you going to answer it?” you ask. Your voice is controlled and quiet. I can’t tell what you’re feeling.

I don’t know, so I don’t answer you. My hands are gripped tightly together and pressed into my waist, like touching my phone will burn me worse than the hot casserole dish.

Slowly, you lean forward, pick up the phone and hold it out to me. “Take it. You should answer.”

Are you testing me? I probe your eyes for any indication of what you’re thinking, but they’re as unwavering and controlled as your voice. This must be your business-god-poker-face.

My hand trembles as I reach out and take the phone on its third ring and press the green answer button. “H-hello?” I stutter, watching you lean your elbows on your knees and lower your face into your hands waiting for the bomb to drop.

“Rachael, why didn’t you call me back? I left you a message.” My mother uses her typical condescending tone. “I was worried.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

Your hands drop away from your face, and your eyes go wide watching me.

“How’s your trip?” I ask.

“Well, it’s rained the past two days, so I’m hoping it doesn’t keep up the entire time.” Leave it to my mother to be unappreciative of a free multi-week, European vacation.

“It’s lovely, Rachael,” my aunt calls from somewhere near my mom. I’m on speaker. “Tell Mr. Rocha thank you. It’s a very generous thing to do.”

“Well, of course it’s generous!” my mom says, like she’s been accused of being ungrateful. “I just hope it stops raining so we can take advantage of his generosity.”

“How’s the consulting coming along?” my aunt asks.

“It’s going well.” I say, watching your deer-in-headlights expression ease a bit. “There’s a work crew here starting renovations. It’ll be incredible when it’s finished.”

“Will you be home soon?” Mom asks. There’s an edge to her voice. She’s never been alone in her life. She lived with my grandparents until she married my dad. The past year without him has been a trying experience for her—and for me. She expects me to stop by every single day. I don’t have my own life. I pay rent to live in an apartment I never spend time in.

“I’ll be back when you are.”

You sit up straight and hold your hand out to me. I take it and sit beside you.

“You’re not very talkative,” Mom says. “There’s something wrong. I know you.” Oh no. She’s going to start prying. This I
don’t
need.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

You run a hand up and down my back.

“What time is it there?” I ask her. “It has to be late. And where are you?”

“We’re just getting ready for bed. We’re on the cruise ship heading toward Italy.”

“Italy. Wow.”

You wrap an arm around me and pull me to you. “I’d like to take you to Italy,” you whisper in my ear.

“We’ll bring you some pizza,” my aunt says, laughing.

“Sounds good. I’m starving.”

“I’ll make you something.” You squeeze my thigh and stand.

“How are you living on that island?” Mom asks as I watch you leave the room. “Does it have any modern conveniences at all?”

“Yes, mom. Merrick—Mr. Rocha—made some updates, like the kitchen and bathroom, so we’re able to live comfortably while renovating.”

“Merrick, huh?” my aunt says. I don’t miss the innuendo in her voice. “First name basis?”

“Well, we are here working together. You normally do call your co-workers by their first names.” I will not fall into this trap.

“Co-worker? Isn’t he your boss?” Mom says.

“I’m actually the boss on this project.” I sound smug. I can’t help but smile. I’m the boss.

“I thought you were only consulting.” Mom’s voice is panicked. “Did you take the project manager position and not tell me?”

“No.” Or did I? I really don’t know how I got the role of boss other than you gave it to me.

“Then I don’t understand this. How can you be the boss?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Okay? It just is what it is.”

“Stop pestering her,” my aunt says. “She’s doing what she loves, and she’s apparently doing a good job of it. Be happy for her.”

“I
am
happy for her.” But Mom doesn’t sound happy at all. “And I’m proud of you, Rachael. You must be doing a great job if Mr. Rocha put you in charge.”

A spike of warmth jolts through my heart. My mom has never said she’s proud of me. “Thanks.”

After an awkward pause, I make an excuse to get off the phone. “Well, I need to get in the shower and find something to eat. I’m glad you’re having a good time. Let me know how Italy is.”

“I’ll call you in a couple of days. Don’t work yourself to death. Stay hydrated. It has to be excruciatingly hot there.”

“It is. Don’t worry, Mom.”

“I love you, Rach.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

We hang up, and I set my phone back on the coffee table. Our conversation seemed so normal. I didn’t even have to lie to her about how I got here. Maybe we are past that.

I’m still not sure I can touch you, or let you touch me, that I can give you that part of me. You’ve given me control of the renovations and control over us and if our relationship progresses, so why can’t I let go? Why do I still feel vulnerable to you if I hold all the control?

Because what if I let go and then you take it back? The attraction I feel for you… It would destroy me. I’m afraid of what you could do to me if I give myself over physically—if I give myself emotionally. The two go hand-in-hand with me.

I love the way it feels when I’m close to you, when you nuzzle your nose in my hair, the warmth of your chest against my cheek, your hand squeezing mine. I love seeing unexpected emotions in your beautiful dark eyes.

I might as well give it all up. I’m already gone over you.

On my way to the bathroom, I pass Joan wrapped in a fluffy, white towel. Her golden skin glistens with water. We acknowledge each other with slight smiles and keep walking.

The bathroom is steamy, the mirror fogged. I wipe a towel over it and notice how tan I’ve become since I got here. My hair’s a little lighter, too. I haven’t even been outside that much. It must’ve happened when we were on the water fishing.

I shower, and even though there’s brand new body wash and shampoo sitting beside yours, courtesy of Joan, I still use your soap. I like to smell like you. I like everything about you. Maybe tonight… Maybe I’ll surprise you.

After my shower, I open the drawer of the dresser at the end of the bed where I normally find your t-shirts. But it’s filled with lacy underwear and bras. Each drawer is filled with women’s clothing—shorts, shirts, socks, anything and everything I could ever need during my stay. I give Joan an A plus for being thorough.

I pull on a pair of soft, white shorts over a simple white thong, and I’m surprised at just how short they are. But they’re a comfortable cotton jersey material. After selecting an aqua blue tank top that accentuates my tan and brushing out my wet hair, I pad down the stairs in flip flops to find you.