“Yes.”
“Fine. I’ll go back.”But only until I find a way to get off that damn island.
Rosy pats my cheek. “That’s my girl. Be strong…and maybe bring a speargun to hide under your bed.”
11
Boat Show Models and Ill-Mannered Men
Pierce
I’m a one-hit-wonder. The guy whose moment of brilliance was fleeting and now…I’m a has-been at the tender age of thirty-one.
So, I might as well just lay here on the floor while the sun sets, tossing this stupid little ball in the air again as I listen to Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 2 in B Minor with the volume as close to maximum as possible without blowing the speakers, because let’s face it, my life as I know it is over.
A face appears above me and I scream like a girl before I realize it’s Ms. Banks with my dinner.
“I knocked but you didn’t hear me over your music,” she shouts.
Scrambling to my feet, I place the ball into the useless decorative plate that sits at the centre of the coffee table, then hit the pause button on my phone, silencing the Valcourt Symphony Orchestra.
“Hard at work, I see…” she says as she crosses the room.
That’s it. I’m done feeling bad about being rude before. I don’t need to be judged by some newbie cook who doesn’t have the first clue how hard it is to write an entire epic novel.“Yes, actually, I was. If you knew anything about art, you'd know that it's imperative to let the mind flow in order to create.”
Looking over her shoulder at me, she says, “Cooking is an art form. It's called the culinary arts for a reason.”
“Yes, I know you chefs like to think that, but anyone can cook. You just have to be able to read and do basic maths, which most third-graders have mastered.”
Narrowing her eyes, she says, “You know what else most third-graders have mastered? Manners.”
“I don’t think you’ve met many children.” Ha! Score one for Pierce.
Silence falls as she turns her back on me and sets to work. I watch, our feisty exchange ringing in my brain. “Why isn't one of the other ones bringing me my food?”
“The other ones?” She asks, raising an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, I’d actually prefer to have one of them serve me.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I regret them, feeling every bit the pompous arse. “I need to concentrate and I’m afraid you distract me.”
Giving me a smug grin, she says, “Am I somehowmoredistracting than Phyllis or Alfred?”
Against my better judgement, I stare at her for a moment longer than I should, soaking in her beauty. “Yes, but not for the reason that your generous ego has concocted. It's because you're agitating.” Liar.
“Well, until the path dries out, I'm afraid you'll have to be agitated. The golf cart won't make it up here and apparently, my coworkers are suffering from bunions and joint problems so they can't make the walk. So, for now, if you want to eat, you're stuck with a distraction,” she says firmly. Her face lights up suddenly. “But if I’m too much of a problem, I could just leave the supplies here and you could cook for yourself in that amazing kitchen right there,” she says, pointing in the general direction of the stove.
Something tells me she has an ulterior motive—probably so she can go back to the main island and shag the totally buff, adrenaline junkie boyfriend I imagine a girl like her would have. The thought of that is somehow more irritating to me than her presence. “I have neither the time nor the inclination to do that.”
“Then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” She sets to work arranging the food, her hands a blur of activity as she lights a candle to place under the food warmer on which she places a bowl of soup and a plate that is covered with a silver lid. A colourful salad is placed in front of my chair, which she has chosen for the view of the valley outside. A heavenly mixture of scents causes my stomach to make a most unrefined sound, and I find myself wishing I’d left the music on. Maybe she didn’t hear it.
Oh, there it goes again. Shit.
And she definitely heard that one because she’s very clearly trying not to smile, and has sucked both her lips in between her teeth, hiding them while she uncorks a bottle of white wine.
When she’s finished pouring a glass, she turns to me, gesturing like a model at the boat show. “For your dinner this evening, I've prepared a feta-free Greek-style grilled asparagus salad with a homemade red wine vinaigrette, followed by Jerusalem artichoke and truffle soup. The main dish is handmade gnocchi with fresh pesto sauce and chicken sausage, and for dessert, a caramel mousse with a cashew cookie crumble. Bon appétit.” She shuts the cooler and walks toward the door.
Somehow the thought of being here alone with this incredible view and what is certain to be a mouth-wateringly amazing meal makes me wish I was sharing it with someone. Not her, obviously, we hate each other. Some nice person, like Zach, maybe. She’s a horrible distraction. A horrible, beautiful distraction.
“Good night, sir,” she says opening the door.
