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Iputmybagon the bed as another gust of wind rattles the window. The weather has gotten worse since we got off the plane. How we managed to fly when this was bearing down on us, I have no idea. I’m just glad that I wasn’t the one flying the plane.
Now we are here, and this isn't feeling very relaxing. I’m glad we’re not in Boston, though, given everything that’s been going on. Mr. Evans was right about getting away for a few days, but I’m beginning to wish that I’d taken my vacation days somewhere sunny, with no chance of a storm on the horizon.
But Mr. Evans is being really kind, and I couldn’t really turn that down. It would not be polite, and I’ll feel guilty for refusing such a generous offer. After all, who wouldn’t want to spend time in Martha’s Vineyard? When the weather is good, the island is just stunning.
The times I’ve been here with Mr. Evans’ family—I swear he doesn’t know how to have a proper break himself—I’ve been like a little girl at Christmas. My parents didn’t do too badly, but they weren’t rich. We could never afford a house here.
A knock at the door has me turning, and Mr. Evans appears in the doorway. I have to stop myself from licking my lips as I give him the once-over. He’s changed into jeans that fit his thighs nicely, and a bulky red sweater that somehow doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. He has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and I note the tan he’s been sporting for some time now. This man doesn’t believe in sunbeds; he’s constantly outside. And it goes really well with his attire.
How is that possible? What is wrong with me thinking about my boss in this way?
“Hey,” Mr. Evans gives me a smile. “I’m about to make something to eat. Do you want anything?”
“Oh, is Simone here? I didn’t see her when I arrived,” I say, wondering how I could’ve missed his personal chef.
Mr. Evans laughs, his eyes gleaming. “I don’t think you heard me right—I’mmaking something.”
I can’t help but stare. In all the time I’ve been working for Mr. Evans, I’ve never heard of him cooking anything. I didn’t think he knew how to. My expression must have conveyed my feelings, because Mr. Evans is now chuckling.
“You seem surprised that I know how to use a stove,” he says, amusement in his voice.
“Well…” I shrug, biting back a smile of my own.
“You’re not the only one. I know I have Simone, but she’s at her relative’s wedding this weekend, so we’ll be on our own.” Mr. Evans gestures at me. “And I’m not about to put you to work in the kitchen. You’re not my slave.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I don’t know what to say other than that. I’m still trying to get used to the fact that my boss knows how to cook.
“So?” Mr. Evans prompts. “What would you like to eat? I’ve got steaks, ravioli, chicken…”
“What were you thinking?” I ask, trying to gather myself. My heart is fluttering with the way he’s smiling at me.
“Whatever the lady wants,” he makes a slight bow. “I’m easily pleased.”
Now that shouldn’t have been erotic, but it goes straight between my legs and leaves me with a throbbing that I try to push away. God, now is not the time! I swallow and try to get my words into an order that makes sense.
“How about steak?” I suggest, hoping the mundane topic would quiet down my body’s inappropriate response to my boss. “I don’t often have that, and if you’re offering…”
Mr. Evans’ smile widens, wrinkling the corners of his eyes in the most attractive way. “Of course. Medium?”
“What? Oh, yes.” I resist the urge to fidget. Why am I behaving like a high school girl who doesn’t know how to talk to men? “That’s fine.”
Mr. Evans looks pleased. “Then steak it is. No allergies, right? Nothing you can’t eat?”
I shake my head, “I pretty much eat anything. Go wild, if you want.”
“Don’t say something like that, Megan. That could get you into trouble.” He turns away. “Give it half an hour, and I should have dinner ready.”
He leaves, and I sink onto the bed. Oh dear, this is sounding more like a date than a boss asking an employee what she wants for dinner. And I’m behaving like it is. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Just because we’re the only two here for the weekend doesn’t mean anything is going to happen.
Another gust of wind howls, and it draws my eye to the window. The sky is now just a gray blanket; I can’t see any blue anymore. Getting to my feet, I head over to the window and look out across the garden. My bedroom is on the side of the house that faces the ocean. Beyond the trees is a small strip of beach that Mr. Evans owns, and then it’s the Atlantic Ocean. On a good day, the whole thing is stunning, and the view is marvelous. It’s still marvelous, but it also looks scary and dangerous with the waves rolling angrily, tossing and turning to the point where I’m beginning to wonder if there’s going to be a tsunami.
Beautiful to look at, but scary at the same time.
Get a grip. You’re going to work yourself into a panic thinking like that. It’s safe here.
My thoughts are taken away from the view when I hear my phone buzzing. I can hear it in the room, but I can’t remember where it is.
I rummage around in my purse and find it at the very bottom. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but that’s nothing new. I answer before it goes to voicemail.
