Chapter Two
Maybe it’s the martinis, Kate thought, shoehorned into the second row of the chartered flight direct from hell. Please, God, let it be the martinis.
She yanked her seat belt as the plane dipped into another air pocket. Be calm, be calm, be calm. They were not about to fall out of the sky. No. Her imagination was just working overtime—courtesy of the vodka. When the pilot said “final descent,” he didn’t mean final descent. He meant final for now, not final forever. Not prepare-to-meet-your-Maker final. Prepare-to-meet-your-Maker final was not an in-flight announcement. Definitely the martinis.
Besides, why worry? A bolt of lightning crackled through the clouds. Lightning was going to strike them down first. She clawed at the edges of the seat cushion/flotation device like a cast member of Lost, one of the few, one of the damned. Terrified, barely breathing. The landing gear screeched into position, an earsplitting metal-on-metal sound.
Holy Mother of God. A prayer formed on her lips. Her eyes slammed shut, her every muscle braced for impact, certain any second the plane would crash onto the island. Don’t panic. She held on tight. Do. Not. Panic. Rubber wheels hit the dirt—once, twice, three times—the Cessna skidding furiously along the narrow runway until the engine cut back with a deafening whirr and the plane roared to a complete stop.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Her shaking hand let go of the cushion, and her eyes fluttered open, tears leaking from their edges. She could breathe. Her body was trembling, but she could breathe.
She. Could. Breathe.
She pressed her forehead against the cool rectangular window and glanced down at the island’s sweet, solid, kissable ground. Hallelujah. Amen.
And that’s when she saw him.
Shit.
He stood alone at the edge of the runway, wearing a pair of oversized black plastic glasses, paint-splattered chinos, and an irritated expression. She took a second look. That’s my bachelor? The nationally famous sex expert? The guy in the Magoo glasses?
She backed off the window and rifled through her paperwork for a recent publicity photograph, but she came up empty. Her brain flipped through its Rolodex of images. Author photo on the flap jacket of his book? Check. Television interview when his book had hit the top of the bestsellers list? Yep. Dark hair, blue eyes, perfect smile. That Jake Wright had been crush-worthy, a Cosmo girl’s dream come true.
So who was this guy? His caddy?
Anxiety pooled in her stomach. Just take a breather. Be kind. Be reasonable.
No need to FREAK out. Think about it. He was her boss’s brother. Her friend’s brother. If there was a time to be open-minded, that time was now. Not all bachelors needed to be hot, right? Hell, she’d given up hotties this morning like they were chocolate and it was Lent. Of course, hers was a personal dating choice made under extreme emotional duress. Smart Cupid’s readers didn’t want an average-looking, non-pathological man; they wanted a smokin’ hot Mr. July.
A dizzy sensation washed over her—from the stress or the martinis, she wasn’t sure. Don’t hyperventilate. She grabbed the airsickness bag from the seat pocket and snapped it open. Breathe into the bag, she thought, drawing in one of those seven-second breaths she’d learned at last week’s “Breathe Your Way to Success” seminar. Do. Not. Hyper—who was she kidding? She took another peek out the window, stifled a sob, and shoved her head deeper into the bag.
“Make this profile happen despite his resistance, and I’ll forget about the blog—maybe even call in a favor and talk to a friend who works for Cosmo.”
Her boss’s words echoed through her mind. She wanted to prove her worth—to Jane, to her family, to herself. She needed this interview. Blow this chance and she could kiss her future good-bye.
Not an option.
She crumpled up the bag and shoved it back into the seat pocket.
Focus on Cosmo. She unbuckled the seatbelt, grabbed her tote, and wove her way toward the exit. Cosmo byline. She stepped onto the foldy metal stairs that led to the ivory sand. Cosmo feature editor. The salty, humid air clung to her skin, and she pulled at her blouse. Ignoring the looming doozy of a headache—thank you, martini number three—she visualized that byline on the pages of the magazine, the January issue, the one with the Bedside Astrologer.
“Cosmopolitan,” she said on an exhale, aiming for confidence.
But as her left foot hit the top stair, her kitten heel caught on the metal grid and pitched her body forward. She reached for the railing with both hands but slipped down a few steps, wincing at the ominous ripping sound that announced the torn seam at her side.
Shit, shit, shit.
She scrambled to her feet and tugged at the ripped skirt for an extra inch of coverage as her itinerary, the contracts—everything she had on her relationship expert—tumbled out of her upended tote. No, no. no. Why didn’t I bring a zippered carry-on?
Magoo sprinted toward the plane. “Jesus, are you okay?”
“Fine.” Kate anchored the useless bag onto her shoulder and smoothed her skirt over her hip, knowing there’d be a monster bruise there later. “Totally fine.” Humiliated. Tipsy. A few missing documents away from losing her job. She flashed a reassuring smile, spun unsteadily around the silver staircase, and chased the papers circling beneath the plane.
He reached for her elbow, but she swiveled past him. “Miss Bell, it’s not safe to go back there.”
She waved him off and ducked beneath one of the wings as a gust of wind pressed her forward. “Give me one minute.”
“Miss Bell, I can’t do that,” he said, following her under the plane.
Making little circles in the air with her index finger, she glanced back at him. “Just turn the other way. Pretend you don’t see me.”
A few feet away, the manila folder lay upturned on the tarmac. In an aggressive move antithetical to her “Breathe Your Way to Success” mantra, her bare foot slammed onto the edge of the folder. But unable to maintain her balance on her remaining heel, she swiveled out of control and careened toward him. Her hands caught the collar of his shirt, pulled him toward her, and—wow. The air rushed from her lungs. Up close, he was cute, not the gorgeous-beyond-redemption type from his photo, but definitely more Alias-style Bradley Cooper than 1940s cartoon character. Raggedy dark hair that hit his collar, a half-cocked smile, a way-past-five o’ clock shadow.
His hands at her hips steadied her. “You okay?”
She blinked up at him, and the rush of her panic evaporated as a sense of kismet—calm, drunken kismet—washed over her. “Yes, yes, I’m…I’m fine. Just fine.”
Her brain reached for something more, something professional, but the way his ocean-blue eyes twinkled behind the oversized glasses threw her tipsy thoughts for a loop. A sudden image of his callused hands tracing the line of her hip crashed through her martini-infused consciousness. She released her grip and stepped back.
Whoa—no.
Her now semi-functional brain ticked off all the reasons to take a second step back. Boss’s brother. Smart Cupid bachelor. Ticket to Cosmo. Real Kate needed to remain professional, but New Kate wanted a side of no strings attached. Or maybe that’s just the vodka talking.
Definitely.
The.
Vodka.
A blush burned across her cheeks. “I’m not exactly a frequent flyer, so I might have indulged in a couple of martinis.” She held up three fingers. “Two. Maybe three. Tough to know for sure, because those promotional bottles are so cute and tiny and…” But before she finished, his steel-toe boots were halfway across the runway, his faded denim shirt flapping behind him in the wind. She blinked at his disappearing form. “Hey, where are you going?”
He pointed toward a yellow building fifty yards beyond the runway. Aviation Services. “To book your flight.”
“My flight?” She swung back around the foldy steps and rushed up to yank her heel from the grid. “What about the interview?”
“Interview’s off.”
“Off?” Shoving the shoe back onto her foot, she stumbled after him. She’d expected some resistance, but she’d just touched down. “It can’t be off.”
He spared a backward glance. “Sorry, sweetheart, but the hurricane takes priority.”
“Don’t-don’t call me sweetheart, sweetheart. I’m more than just…” Sure, she was tipsy, but that didn’t give him the right to give her the sweetheart treatment, judging her blonde hair and curves. Wait a sec…“A hurricane? What hurricane?”
He jerked his unshaven chin toward the horizon. “The one that’s headed toward the island.”
“That storm”—she glanced back at the shoreline—“is an actual hurricane and you think I’m going to climb onto another tin can and fly out of here? Voluntarily?” she said, double-timing her stride to keep up. “There aren’t enough martinis at an upper west side cocktail party.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, clearly irritated, but something flashed in his eyes, barely hidden. Something that felt fiercely protective. “If it wasn’t safe to fly out, they’d cancel all the flights. Better you get off the island before there’s any serious wind or snapped power lines.”
Serious wind? Snapped power lines? “I am not flying.”
He shaded his eyes and looked through the window. “The resort’s booked.”
A familiar panic started in her chest. Oh God, don’t hyperventilate. Do. Not. Hyperventilate. “There must be one available room on this godforsaken—”
“No rooms. Completely booked.”
“I could stay with you,” she said, emboldened by the powerful combination of desperation and martinis. “Get the up close and personal.”
“Stay?” His body angled toward her, annoyance carved into his face. “With me?”
“It’s one night.” She focused in on him. He was still irritated. Made it hard to appeal to his gentler side. “Jake—can I call you Jake?—Jake, this interview is…well, it’s a major opportunity for me, and if you don’t give me a break and answer a few easy questions—long story, short—I could end up in Ohio.” She fought back the rising panic, seven seconds from going to pieces. “Have you ever been to Ohio?”
“Ohio? What the hell is wrong with—” His annoyance again was replaced by a flash of…yep, definitely concern. So he did have a weak spot, confirmed when he held up both palms in a gesture of surrender. “You know what? I don’t need to know. You can stay.”
“Really?” Thank you, thank you, thank you. Not as tough a sell as expected. If it weren’t for the irritation and bad attitude, she’d plant a big one on him right now. “I promise you won’t regret this interview.”
“You can stay the night.” He rubbed the grime from the window and tapped on the glass. A sign hung over the desk. All Flights Canceled. “But as for the interview? No way in hell.”
Her grateful spinning world skidded to a stop. Wait a sec. No way in hell? Had he missed the part about the looming possibility of O-hi-o? “You can’t just cancel the interview.”
“I can.” He gestured down the runway at the clouds gathering in the sky. “But if you’d prefer to spend the night here in Aviation Services… It’s not the most secure building on this godforsaken island, but…”
“You wouldn’t.” She raised her chin in a challenge.
He jammed the Elvis Costellos into the bridge of his nose. “Try me.”
Gazing up at him, Kate gauged the likelihood that he’d leave her stranded. Probably too responsible, considering the glasses and the chinos, but with three martinis coursing through her veins, her judgment might be impaired. “Fine.”
Jake gave a short nod. Pressed his lips into a firm line. And strode off toward the Cessna. Halfway there, he stopped to talk to the ground crew and tipped his head toward the hangar, offering what looked like directions before continuing toward the plane.
She lurched away from the door, vodka messing with her equilibrium, the screen banging behind her as she raced to catch him. “If I could just ask a couple of questions—off the record.”
“What part of no interview do you not understand?” He yanked her duffle with its neon pink Smart Cupid tags from the underside of the plane, slung it across his shoulder, and stalked over to a truck parked at the edge of the airfield.
Kate stopped, a small voice inside her whispering, Give the guy a break. He’s not interested in being the bachelor. Just forget the interview and hunker down with some Ho Hos, a couple magazines, and a bottle of Chardonnay. But a second voice, a louder, drunken voice said, Let this sucker off the hook and you’re going home with no interview and no shot at Cosmo. A blonde, brokenhearted failure.
The drunken voice won.
She rushed forward on her damaged heel. “Being a hunk for Smart Cupid is a once in—”
“A lifetime opportunity.” He tossed the bag into the bed of the pickup and secured it under the tarp. “I’ve heard the company line, Miss Bell.”
“So why not grab the brass balls? Or, ring. I mean—grab the brass ring.” Damn, that didn’t sound right. She pressed a palm to her forehead and tried to organize her thoughts.
He yanked at the overlong curls at the back of his neck. “Despite what your boss may have told you, I’m not interested in love.”
Hold everything. Not interested in love? He was the expert. Her heart kicked in its reflexive response. “Everyone’s interested in love.”
“Not everyone.” The truck’s tailgate slammed into place. “Definitely not me.”
Kate stared back at him, her thoughts all jumbled together from the martinis…and the flying…and the hurricane. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe love’s not the problem. I mean, I know you’re the authority on the subject…”
“Ex-authority on the subject.” He fished his keys from the pocket of his chinos and let the beep of his auto-starter punctuate his words.
“…but maybe you’ve been looking in all the wrong places.”
He cocked a dark eyebrow. “There are right places?”
Like she needed his sarcasm right now. Where were all the good guys? The romantic ones who climbed fire escapes, flowers at the ready. “You just haven’t found The One.”
“Right. The One.” That muscle in his jaw ticked again, all cynical and derisive. “Sounds like three martinis talking.” He opened the passenger door and waved her inside.
“No, no, no, definitely not the martinis talking,” Kate said, depositing her butt inside the front cab. “Okay, maybe they’re talking a little. But they’re talking sense.” He moved to shut the door, and she stopped it with her kitten heel. “Can I tell you something?”
“Can I stop you?”
She scooted to the edge of the leather seat. “Here’s the deal. I suck at dating.”
His head fell forward on a sigh. “Please get in the truck.”
Balancing her hands on his shoulders, she continued, “Seriously. I do. All kinds of dating. My one and only blind date actually had a warrant out for his arrest. Halfway through dinner, the police dragged him from our table in the back of this little Thai place in Queens. I spent the rest of the night scouring line-ups downtown.”
His eyes snapped to hers. “Jesus—really?”
Kate nodded. “Another guy I’d been dating for about a month left me in the middle of a movie. Went to get popcorn. Disappeared.” She blew at her open palm. “Like David Copperfield. In a puff of smoke.”
“You have to be kidding.”
A definitive shake of her head. “Not kidding here, Jake. We’re talkin’ blockbuster dating issues. So I get the whole ‘love’s not for me’ attitude. Easier to take a pass than commit to another round of love and face inevitable heartbreak. Trust me. I. Am. Down. With. That.” Her voice dipped to a whisper. “But—and this is what I wanted to tell you.” She shifted closer. “This morning? My most recent company-line package smashed my heart. Smashed it. Like, with a ball-peen hammer.” She leaned out of the truck a little farther, her body swinging from the cherry-red door. “But even I know love is out there. And you—you’re the expert.”
“Ex-expert.”
She placed a hand over her heart. “And I—I am the new Kate.”
“That’s terrific. Now can ‘the new Kate’ please get in the truck?”
“No. This is important.” She shook her head and tried to focus on what he needed to know, but—wow—last martini was really kicking in, or maybe it was the tumble, or the prospect of being stranded, but keeping her thoughts together was tough. “Listen, Jake, you’re the guy who wrote the book on great sex. You should be looking for The One, too. Because great sex is part of that package…that whole star-spangled, bells ringing, love-forever package.” And her super-sized heart needed that package. The romance, the proposal on bended knee, the everlasting declaration of love. All of it. “I thought my ex was The One, but obviously I was wrong, because The One ponies up the great sex.”
“Really need you to get back in the truck now.”
“Truth be told, my ex wasn’t all that and a bag of chips on the old sex-o-meter.” She crooked her index finger, and he leaned in. “If you know what I mean.”
His eyes narrowed. “Think you might want to change the subject?”
“No, Jake, what I want is the chips.” Her elbow slipped a few inches down the open door. “Can you tell me where to find The One and some crazy hot chips?”
His hand gripped the doorframe. “Yeah, those martinis are definitely talking.”
She tilted closer. “Don’t you think I deserve the chips?”
Please say yes.
It wasn’t just a sales pitch. She needed to believe it.
He stabbed at his glasses. “Am I really qualified to answer that question?”
“Hell, yes, I deserve the chips.” Her fist flew into the air, Norma Rae–style. “All women deserve the chips. We all deserve the freaking chips.”
“Chips for all. That is extremely democratic. Now let’s get you back into the truck.” He settled her inside the cab, came around, and climbed in the driver’s side.
Kate snuggled back against the red leather interior. “Did I tell you I don’t like flying?”
“You did.”
“And that I might have had a martini or three?”
“You mentioned it, yes.” He reached across for her seatbelt and clicked it into place. He was a nice guy. He smelled nice, too. Like the deepest blue ocean and fresh salty air.
She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent as her voice drifted away. “Normally, I’m a one martini girl. Two is my night-on-the-town absolute max, but flying a six-seater equipped for an unexpected water landing into the eye of a freaking hurricane scared the hell out of me.”
The engine roared into life. “No need to worry now, we’re ahead of the weather.”
Such a nice, reassuring thing to say. Jake Wright is nice guy. She opened her eyes to sneak a peek as he navigated his F-150 across the narrow runway like a pro. Nice hands. Nice driving skills. Maybe he’d be willing to talk about those skills in the impromptu interview. On the QT. A behind-the-closed-doors-of-an-F-series conversation. Play it cool. No mention of love or matchmaking or Smart Cupid.
“So, off the record—”
“One night, no interview.” His gaze never left the road.
Kate wrinkled her nose. Back to his one night, no interview thing. How could he be so cranky when he was driving a limited edition Super Cab with a six-liter engine?
Well, cranky or not, she refused to give up. Everything was on the line for her, and with just twenty-four hours to score the interview, she planned to make the most of every second.
Take that, Mr. Wright. Mr. Ex-Sex Factor.
She sat up in the comfy seat, opened her tote, and pushed aside two self-help books, her tablet, several highlighters, her phone, keys to her walk-up, the undershirt, and a contractor’s license her father had mailed to her last week. When she reached the bottom, she pulled out her voice recorder, pressed the red button, and pointed it in his direction.
Let him try to get her on the next available weather-cleared flight back to Manhattan. This interview was her first real chance to prove she was more than just a pretty girl from Arcadia, and she was going to make it a big, fat, sexy success. Hurricane or no hurricane.
Besides, if Jake was honestly through with love, he was in serious trouble—the kind of trouble she knew something about.