Page 2 of A Crush at Christmas
But Linc, Walker, and Kai value familiarity and spend months at a time here on a flexible rotation they work out among themselves. In the lead up to Christmas, they’re all here, and after Tom’s wedding on Christmas Eve, I’ll spend a day with my brothers before flying back to the mainland.
The sooner the better.
As I crest the hill where the beach shack sits perched like a shag on a rock, I glimpse formidable storm clouds gathering on the horizon. A slow-moving cyclone has been hovering on the edge of the Great Barrier Reef for two days, but meteorologists forecast it to move north and avoid the islands of Airlie Beach, including Ceto.
As a pilot, I pay close attention to meteorologists but have learned that the weather can be unpredictable, and I’ve hit more unexpected turbulence than I’d like over the years.
That’s all I need: to be stranded here with my bozo brothers and their unswerving, unnerving optimism.
I trudge towards the kitchen attached to the shack, the tempting aromas of sautéing onions, ginger, and lemongrass making my stomach rumble and reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.
Maybe I can persuade the caterer to sling me a sample or two and make this trip to deliver the ham worthwhile.
However, as I heft the Esky up the steps and stick my head into the kitchen, I baulk.
Emery Powell, Tom’s sister, twerks and shimmies at the stove, brandishing her wooden spoon like a microphone, singing some lame eighties song at the top of her voice.
Engrossed in her performance, she doesn’t see me until she twirls, and I grin as she jumps like a scalded cat and yells, “Fuck!”
3
EMERY
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Not my friendliest greeting, but mortification scorches my cheeks as Weston Spade, of all people, witnesses my impromptu performance.
With his arched brow, smug grin, and casual stance leaning against the doorjamb, he looks as supercilious as I remember.
“Now is that any way to speak to your knight in shining armour?”
His grin widens as he saunters towards me, and I struggle not to gawp at his all-round gorgeousness. Tall, tanned, and terrific, his blue eyes deeper than the ocean lapping the island, his dark brown hair skimming the collar of his white pilot’s shirt, the gold and black epaulets highlighting the breadth of his shoulders.
“What do you mean…?” My gaze lands on the Esky at the door and I can’t help but smile. “If that’s my ham, then you really are a knight in shining armour.”
“Your ham?” His eyebrow arches higher, if that’s possible. “You’re the caterer?”
He makes it sound like I’m stripping for the wedding guests.
“Why is that so unbelievable?”
“Because the one time you made scrambled eggs for me and Tom, I ended up with food poisoning.”
I roll my eyes and curse my brother for not mentioning to Weston that I’m the caterer. “Bull.”
“Okay, so that might be a small white lie.” He holds up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “But last time I heard, Tom mentioned you were enrolling in a sommelier’s course.”
“Turns out I like food more than wine.” I shrug. “And catering pays the bills.”
“Good for you,” he says, sounding like he means it. “By the way, whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.”
His stomach growls and I laugh. “Hungry?”
“Just a tad.”
I point at a stainless-steel bench that’s so clean I can see my reflection in it. “Take a seat and I’ll fix you something, if you’re lucky.”
“I’m feeling very lucky,” he murmurs, and our gazes lock, something indefinable arcing between us, something I don’t want to identify because it might resurrect memories of that Christmas night I’d rather forget.
