11. Chase

ELEVEN

chase

I toss and turn, trying like hell to forget that the woman I'd let waltz out of my life twice is sleeping under my roof.

And in my bed.

While I sleep on the sofa.

Because I'm a gentleman like that.

I turn over, my shoulder protesting like the little whiny ass it is.

Between the hammering all day and it just being fucked-up, I'm in misery.

I finally manage to fall asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of pounding rain and howling wind lashing against the thick, heavy sliding glass doors.

I glance at my phone to see it's a little after six in the morning but looks like the dead of night.

The weather app shows the storm hasn't quite made it to shore yet, meaning conditions on the island are going to get worse before they get better.

We still have power, but I don't expect that to last much longer before the generator will have to kick in .

After using the bathroom, I step into the hallway, and the smells of coffee and breakfast fill my nostrils.

Eden is cooking?

My stomach rumbles, my ham and Swiss sandwich long gone. And as much as I should avoid her, a man's got to eat.

I round the corner to find her standing at the stove, flipping an egg and singing along—terribly off-key—to Bob Marley.

Damn it all to hell, I do not want to be charmed by her or be reminded of days gone by.

But fuck if she doesn't paint an entertaining picture.

I lean against the bar and watch, a smile twitching my lips. She's so lost in the song, she doesn't even know I'm there.

She's been wound tight, trying to make her way in the event planning world in a place like New York City.

I can tell because I know what being wound tight about one's career looks like and how it can suppress anything fun in your life.

Lightness spreads through my chest seeing her loosen up and the Eden I once knew starting to emerge.

My gaze slides from the blonde messy knot on top of her head down to the snug tank top that covers her breasts, to the flat belly that flares into curvy hips.

The curve of her hips is one of my favorite things about Eden. She's all woman, not a stick figure. The flimsy pajama shorts cover her ass but just barely, stopping high on her thighs.

I shift the growing tightness in my pants and bite back a groan.

She turns around, her head bobbing, hips swinging—shit, she needs to stop doing that right now—and freezes, her eyes wide as saucers when she sees me.

I smile. "Good morning."

Her eyes dart away, and she reaches for a couple of slices of bread before turning back and moving toward the toaster. "Morning."

"Smells good. Looks like you remember your way around a kitchen."

"Yeah. Want some coffee?"

"Sure, thanks."

"Still take it light?"

I nod. She moves around my kitchen as though she's cooked in it for years. Within moments, she sets a mug of steaming coffee in front of me. I sip and hum in approval.

It's exactly how I like it.

"That's good."

The smile on her face makes her look like she did back in college. "Well, you have good coffee and a rocking coffee maker. Hard to screw it up."

Bacon pops and she moves to tend to it. It smells amazing.

Eden always made incredible meals. But they weren't always appreciated in her house.

I clear my throat.

"When did you start cooking again?"

A pang hits my gut when the smile on her lips is as tight as the little top she wears. She keeps her gaze fixed on the sizzling strips of pork.

"When I moved to New York. I know I said I'd never cook again after everything with my mother. But that was silly. It just wasn't feasible to eat out all the time in the city. Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I had to actually use my oven."

She glances over at me with a smirk. "I bet you ate out all the time when you lived there."

I shake my head, sipping my coffee. "Not so much. Especially during the season since I didn't have much time. I had a cook though. "

"Ah, yes." She points the tongs at me. "So you still didn't have to cook."

I chuckle. "No, I didn't."

She shakes her head and then looks around the kitchen. "I haven't cooked in a kitchen this nice since I left home. The last time, that is."

I study her face, letting her words sink into the silence. "I'm sorry about your mom."

To say those kind words when her mother was such a rotten human is like licking a sweaty jock strap.

Still, it had been her mother.

She half turns to me, her mouth softening a bit. I hold her stare and something passes between us. An understanding of sorts.

"Thanks. She's better off now."

I hear the words she doesn't say.

She's better off now too.

Eden and her mother's relationship had been rocky at best and downright toxic at worst.

Josephine Mitchell had made it her mission in life to make Eden's life miserable just because she could.

Especially when it came to me.

The woman hadn't liked me since the first time she laid eyes on me.

The only thing I've ever been able to figure out is I messed with Josephine's whacked-out plan to keep Eden on a tight, choking leash.

And I made Eden want to break free.

In the end though, the leash had proved to be too strong.

With her chin, Eden gestures toward the living area's floor-to-ceiling windows. "It's gotten worse, I see."

Change of subject. That doesn't surprise me.

I recognize the shuttered emotion in her eyes. It's the same look I see in the mirror every day, and have for the last several years.

"The forecast is calling for it to get worse before it gets better. We're going to take a decent hit from it. I expect the power to go out anytime now."

"You said you have a generator, right?"

I nod, sipping my coffee. "Yep, whole home. You won't miss a beat. Not much of one anyway."

She takes a bite of bacon and nods. "Good."

With a flick of her slim wrist—how long has she had that half-moon tattoo?—the gas flame goes out. "I hope you're ready to eat. I'm hungry and went a little overboard."

She plates the bacon, eggs, and toast, sliding it over to me before plating her own. I lift a brow at the scrambled eggs topped with cheese.

She remembered.

It makes something in my chest pinch, and I don't want that feeling. It keeps me from being pissed off at her.

I scoop up some eggs, letting the mixture of flavors mingle on my tongue before swallowing. "Damn, that's good."

She chuckles. "Thanks."

We eat in silence for a few moments, the noise of the rain and wind and the scrape of forks against the plates the only sounds around us.

We do our best not to look at each other, but I find it nearly impossible to keep my gaze from wandering her way.

It's an odd feeling to know the woman sitting two feet away so intimately and yet not know her at all.

There are two sides to her.

The New York, type A businesswoman dressed in heels that cost more than some people on the island make in a week.

And then there's the casual, laid-back woman in cutoff shorts and flip-flops bought at a drugstore.

Both of them drive me crazy for vastly different reasons.

"So, I guess this wasn't part of your plans for this week, huh?"

She sighs, looking out the windows again. "No. I definitely wasn't expecting to be stuck on an island during a hurricane. Then again,"—she pushes her food around with her fork—"nothing has turned out how I'd planned lately."

Guilt settles in my gut. I've done nothing but put her off since she's shown up on the island, and I know I play a part in her being stuck here. "I have to apologize."

"Apologize?" She tilts her head and takes a bite of her eggs.

I wrap my hand around the fork like I want to strangle it. "Yeah, I feel responsible for you getting stuck here."

Eden chews but doesn't respond for a moment. "It's not your fault entirely. It was my choice not to head back to the mainland. I knew the bridge would get shut down, but I thought I had time."

"Yeah, but I know how tenacious you are, and I could have just let you get out whatever it is you need to get out so you could head back."

Her head tilts from side to side. "Yeah, you could have. But where's the fun in that?"

She's keeping it light and I'm grateful for that. But it still doesn't change the fact that I helped put her in a dangerous situation by letting the old hurts and fears get the best of me.

"I don't know if this will help you or not, but I'm ready to listen."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

She tosses her napkin onto her empty plate and turns on the stool toward me. "My company was hired to manage a charity ball fundraiser, and I've promised them an amazing keynote speaker that would bring in some dollars." She blows out a breath. "I had Mason Jackstone all lined up and ready to go."

I wish Mason Jackstone no ill will, but the man is a tool. He doesn't need to be anywhere near Eden.

My brows draw down. "Didn't he just have a motorcycle accident?"

Her eyes widen. "You heard about it?"

I shrug. "Well, yeah. Everyone did." I smirk. "We might be an island and an isolated one right now, but we do get satellite TV out here. Hell, we can even get Google out in these parts."

She rolls her eyes, rubbing her temples. "Ha, ha. You're a funny guy, Hanover. How did everyone know about this before me?"

"My guess is that you don't watch TMZ."

"My assistant already lectured me on the merits of watching entertainment television when dealing with entertainers."

"That's probably helpful."

"Probably."

"So, now he's out, and you're left with no keynote speaker," I say, pushing my plate away.

"Exactly."

"And you want me to be your new speaker."

She taps a finger on the counter. "Yes."

It's my turn to look out into the storm beyond the windows. Water runs in sideways rivers along the glass, caused by the lashing rain and winds.

"When is the event?" I ask.

"Two weeks from today."

My brows lift. "Two weeks?"

She nods, a sheepish look crossing her face.

Well, shit. I can't be ready for that.

Not only will I have to write some motivating speech to get high rollers to spend their money, but I'll have to be ready to face what I know will be a shit show of paparazzi when they hear I'm back in Manhattan.

There's no way I'll be ready for all that.

I don't want to be ready for all that.

She stares at me for a few moments, waiting for me to have some sort of reaction.

"What are the details?"

"Well, it's being sponsored by Drake Morgan, Graham Easton, and Hudson James. Know any of them?"

I nod, sipping my coffee. "Know all of them actually."

She raises a brow. "Get along with them?"

I grin. "Yeah, I do."

"Oh, good!" She smiles. "They'll probably be happy to have you there."

I hold up a hand. "Slow down, Mitchell. I haven't agreed to this."

"I know, I know. I'm just saying I'm sure they'd be happy about it."

I frown. "What else?"

"You need to give some sort of inspirational speech."

"Obviously."

"Your expenses will be covered and you'll be paid a speaking fee."

She tells me the fee, which is generous but means little to me. I'll only turn around and donate it to something on the island.

"What's the charity for?" I ask.

"Childhood cancer. It's near and dear to their hearts."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. It's one of the few causes that I can really get behind.

Truth be told, I love kids and want my own someday.

I'd been so close to having that dream come true .

But everything changed four years ago.

More like ten years ago when I lost the woman in front of me.

God, this sucks.

I sigh. "So what happens if you don't find a speaker?"

She slides off the stool and gathers our plates and cups. Without another word, she begins cleaning the kitchen, avoiding my stare.

There's more to the story here.

Given our history, it took guts for her to find me and ask me for anything.

And yet she did.

"What are you not telling me, Eden?"

She glances up at me for a moment before focusing back on scrubbing the bacon pan. "What do you mean?"

"What happens if you don't find a speaker?"

Her shoulders slump, and when her gaze meets mine, shadows cross her eyes. "I lose everything."