“Emma, it's Harrison. Fidel is on his way with Mr. Davenport. They should be there in fifteen minutes. Any chance you could have yourself up at the villa with an appetizer and some cold beverages waiting?”
“Absolutely.” As in,Absolutely! There is a very slim chance I’ll make it up there in time.“Any hint as to his food and or drink preferences?”
“No, sorry. He didn’t return the guest preferences sheet.”
Of course, he didn’t. “Okay, 10-4, Harrison. I’ll get to it.”
As I rush back to the kitchenette, a wave of inspiration hits in the form of cherry bruschetta. Easy, fast, and (hopefully) impressive. The oven door groans when I open it to make sure there are no animals nesting inside. All clear. Okay. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all…
Oh, yes it will. This damn oven doesn’t have a broil setting which means slow-toasting the bread. Setting the dial to 350°F, I quickly slice a baguette, lightly brush six slices with olive oil, place them on a small cookie sheet and pop them in the oven while I get to work on the cherry compote.
While the liquid cooks out of the compote, I gather everything I’ll need to take with me to the villa, including a bottle of Pinot Noir that pairs well with the appetizer. When everything is ready, I pack the small cooler that thankfully has been provided, grab the uniform I borrowed, and climb down off the boat and onto the small wooden dock. A golf cart waits for me, plugged into a solar-powered generator. Seconds later, I’m zooming up the steep, windy path.
When I reach the villa, I momentarily forget how much of a panic I'm in and am awed by what Harrison and Libby have managed to accomplish since I was last here during my ‘hiatus’ from school. There used to be a tiny one-room cabin with no electricity or running water, but the building before me screams luxury. Surrounded by jungle, the villa has floor-to-ceiling windows and an enormous wrap-around porch that sits under a dramatically sloped ironwood roof. The extra-wide double doors are made from polished mahogany. I sound like a travel brochure, no? If this whole cooking thing doesn’t work out, maybe I could have a career in marketing.
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with gray hair in a tight bun hurries out. She’s dressed in a light gray, short-sleeved dress with a white apron tied at her waist and she looks as stressed as I feel. “You must be Emma,” she says, rushing down the steps. “Why are you not in uniform? We’ve only got a few minutes to finish preparations.”
She takes the cooler and rushes ahead of me back into the villa with me at her heels.
“I only just landed and haven’t exactly had a chance—”
“No time for excuses. Go get yourself dressed in there. I’ll lay the food out,” she barks.
Well, that’s a bit rude. Does she think I work forher? Deciding to let it go, I rush to the washroom, calling over my shoulder that she needs to plate the bruschetta with the cheese first, then the compote.
“This is not my first rodeo,” she replies in her upper-crust accent as I shut the door to the washroom.
I snag a perfectly rolled facecloth off the tray on the counter, rip open a bar of soap and get to work washing out some of the stench. According to my watch, I have about two minutes until Mr. Important arrives. “Not my first rodeo,” I mutter. “As if she’s ever even been to a rodeo. She’s probably never even seen a cow in real life. ‘Oh, Emma, you’ll love Phyllis and Alfred. They’re so wonderful.’ Pfft.”
After my thirty-second sponge bath, I squeeze myself into the borrowed uniform, only to realize it must be child-sized. Seriously? Who can fit in this thing? The sleeves come up to the middle of my forearm; the pants, which are tight enough to display my lack of knickers, come up just below my calves; and the buttons on my jacket strain to pop open as I squish my boobs in.Come on girls, could you be smaller, just for a few minutes?
I help myself to a swig of mouthwash and give myself a few seconds to freshen my breath. Just as I’m preparing to sneak out with my dirty clothes, the soap I’m liberating, and the cloth I used, the sound of male voices makes their way through the washroom door.
Shit. He’s here.
I hurry out of the bathroom without watching where I'm going, only to crash into a very solid structure.
Mr. Important.
Of course, I make a loud ‘oofing’ sound while the contents of my arms drop to the floor between us. The soap slides across the room leaving a wet streak on the Brazilian hardwood, hitting Phyllis in the old lady nurse shoe. When I look up, I see her and her husband gaping in horror.
I risk a glance at Mr. Davenport, who incidentally is much younger and much hotter than I anticipated. He's easily over six-feet tall, lean with ramrod straight posture, and has rimless glasses that frame his gorgeous green eyes. His dark brown hair sits perfectly in place as though not one strand would dare stray from the pack. His sharp features, chiselled jaw, and full lips have an expression that is so severe, it makes me want to catch a flight back to the U.S. and find a Wendy's in need of a fry cook. He's dressed in rich guy casual—a pair of jeans that probably cost more than my first car, some brown loafers, and a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to display a muscular set of forearms.
He tilts his head and narrows his eyes at me a little. “Who are you and why are you stealing my soap?”
Hissoap? He’s just renting this place. “I’m Emma Banks. I’ll be your personal chef during your stay and I’m not stealing your soap. I’m…commandeering it.”
Raising one eyebrow, he says, “Is it required for some urgent government business in which you’re involved?”
“Something like that,” I answer, crouching quickly to pick up the dropped items.Rrrriiippp!
Annddd…my pants have split open at my bottom, which is just perfect since I’m not wearing any knickers.
“Did your pants just—”
I shoot up to standing and cut him off by loudly saying, “I’ve prepared a cherry bruschetta with goat cheese and paired it with a Pinot Noir to welcome you. I hope it will be to your liking.”
He stares down at the tray of carefully crafted appetizers but instead of doing what I hoped he would, he stuffs both hands in the front pockets of his jeans and says, “I'm not really a fan of goat cheese.”
