It’s weird. Normally, if I were this attracted to a woman in an empty boardroom like this, I’d be quietly fantasizing in a pretty graphic fashion, speculating about whether the conference table could hold our weight.
But while kissing her has crossed my mind, other thoughts haven’t been as intrusive. My mind feels whooshy and my heart races when I’m around Isla. Like I am caught in a riptide. I don’t just want a part of her. I’m not sure what I want from her? To be a part of her world?
This is impossible of course. And crazy. This woman is a walking hallucinogen. She needs to be classified and come with a warning.
It’s a bad idea to even think about it.Bad, bad, idea.Fantastic, but bonkers. I grasp onto logic and common sense in order to swim myself back to the safety of solid ground. Isla Fairfax and I can never be more than friends. It’s just the novelty of her that’s unsettling me. The accent. Her hair. The bright colors. Her silly belief in magic.
Maybe if we weren’t working together there’d be one-night stand potential?
No Jackson! You need to shut these thoughts down!
Okay. So maybe I regret my insensitivity. And it’s probably unkind of me to be giving her such a hard time. After all, it’s going to be bad enough when she comes off like a fool on the show. There’s no reason we have to be enemies just because we disagree about magic, right?
The lump in my throat is still there, but I feel less likely to choke on it. I offer up the best apology I can come up with, without sounding insincere.
“Look, Isla, I’d be thrilled if you proved me wrong. But unless you can use your cards to predict the lottery numbers for tonight, I’m not buying it. I’m sorry; it’s not personal. I just don’t believe in that kind of stuff, so I kind of think you’re full of it.”
I watch her wrap the tarot cards in a silk cloth and place them into a zippered case. She places the case carefully in her beaded and embroidered tote bag. Her brow is furrowed. With her left hand, she strokes a pink crystal pendant that’s hanging around her neck. Rose quartz?
“You think you know a lot about me, don’t you?” Isla drops the pendant, and it swings in a circle before landing in her cleavage. I have to cleave my eyes away.
“I mean, not really, but I know your type?” I shrug. “Again it’s nothing personal. I’m a data guy.”
“You know nothing about me, Jackson Porter,” she says, “but I’m pretty sure I know a few things about you.”
She glances at the pen in my hand, which I’ve just noticed I’m slowly clicking again. It’s an annoying habit that I haven’t been able to break. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I set the pen down.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry I’m being such an ass. My sister and my friends are always telling me I have no manners. Can you at least let me buy you dinner to make it up to you? I’m not flying home till tomorrow morning.”
“No,” Isla answers. “I’ve got a deadline and an awful lot to do to get ready for next week. I’m just going to go back to my hotel, do some work, and crash.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling so much more disappointed by her rejection than I would have expected.
“See you at Peaches,” Isla calls over her shoulder before leaving. “And don’t worry aboutmelooking like an ass there. Worry about your own ass instead. Oh, and Jackson?” she smirks a little, pausing in the doorway, “I see you as much more of a Flounder than a Sebastian.”
isla
“My ideal partner would share my love of five-star travel and have enough points and miles to keep up with me.”
~Jackson Porter, Playing With Matches Confessionals
There’sa dedicated driver waiting for me, holding a sign with my name on it, when I arrive at the tiny island airport. He quickly loads my luggage and escorts me into a brand-new SUV. The backseat is outfitted with cameras, water bottles, and a big box of tissues.
“That’s for the confessionals,” the driver points to the camera. “It’s all set up for you if you want to record something on the way to the resort, Darlin’. Just press the red button.”
“Oh, I’m not one of the contestants,” I laugh.
“Right,” he says, checking his clipboard. “You’re the star. You’re Isla, the…” he squints at the writing and laughs a little, “Mystic Matchmaker? What’s that about?”
“I’m a romance novelist, actually. The mystic matchmaker is the main character in a series that I write,” I explain.
“Well, don’t let me stop you from recording,” he says as we pull away from the airport. “Rob told me it’s all good, whatever you wanna say. Also Rob told me if I get his people to fill the drive, he’s going to buy me a case of beer. So talk as long as you want, Isla the Mystic Matchmaking romance novelist. Tell us a story!”
“But I look like hell,” I protest. “I just got off a long flight.”
“Not true, Lady!” the driver laughs, and I see the flash of a gold tooth reflected in the rearview mirror, “You look like a beautiful tropical flower. What’s gonna happen when all them boys fall in love with you, Mystic Isla?”
“And you look like a man who really wants a case of beer,” I laugh back.
