Love on Lavender Island (A Lavender Island Novel Book 2) Read online

She didn’t know what was wrong with her—it felt like raw, animal fear. She didn’t know if it was from his being nothing like she expected or from her being launched right back into her thirteen-year-old self: stomach jumping, hands shaking, words turning to cotton on her tongue. He smelled like wild grass and whittled wood. And took up so much space in this kitchen. And looked amazing in that hat and those jeans. She took another deep breath and had a strange, nagging thought that if she could get out of this room, she’d regain some of her sanity. Maybe being on Mason-Grant land again was part of the problem.

  “I’d like to talk to you but would like to talk somewhere else,” she said, willing her voice to stay steady.

  He turned and gazed at her. “What’s there to talk about? I’ve almost made my own deal, but you’re free to do as you please.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “I’d just like to talk to you about a few things.”

  Adam crossed his heavy forearms and fixed his attention on her. “What things?”

  Her heartbeat continued to escalate, but she told herself to breathe deeply. She wasn’t going to let this guy intimidate her. Their families had had long, messy involvements with each other—the Masons and the Grants were like two wild vines, weaving in and around each other’s thorns over the generations, sometimes strangling the other vine and sometimes caressing it. The Masons had continued to be nice and polite to Helen, but there was certainly no love lost on other generations, especially her mother, Ginger—Adam definitely had reasons for hating her. And many of the Masons were probably already suspicious of Paige—the next generation of complication.

  She would just have to be firm. And convincing. Greta Garbo . . . Joan Crawford . . .

  She squared her shoulders. “Maybe we could meet this evening in your family’s lobby?”

  His family resort would be the impersonal, removed space she could use. Plus, it would give her enough time to clean up and look somewhat like a professional, like her mother had begged her to do. At least she could dust the dirt off her face and run a comb through her hair. She pushed her hair back now and tried to face him with an expression of confidence. She knew she must look like a crazy person.

  Adam hadn’t moved an inch—his legs were spread in a gesture of obstinacy, his jaw set. The only movement that gave away the fact that he was still breathing was his jaw muscle.

  “I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” he murmured. The hardening of his eyes clued her in that memories were starting to come back to him.

  “Let’s meet anyway. For old times’ sake.” She tried to keep her voice light.

  Adam, however, didn’t look amused. Instead, his face hardened even more, if that were possible, and he glanced out the window.

  “My staff doesn’t know all the details,” he said in a deep monotone. “I’d rather not meet in my lobby.”

  His lobby? Damn. It really hit her for the first time that Adam was the new patriarch of this place—all this land, the ranch, the airport, the orchard, the pond, the resort. She’d been told that, of course. But it was a different story viewing it firsthand—seeing how much property this was, how much work this was, and how pulled together he was at only thirty-four. She’d been selling him short, thinking he was up here wasting away. He was up here hanging on to an empire.

  She tried to meet his eyes, but too many emotions were making it hard—shame that she’d misjudged him, embarrassment that he might remember too much from that summer, anger that he didn’t remember her at all, and a frustrating chemistry that was making her blood race in a way that apparently her body hadn’t been able to shake for sixteen years.

  He shifted his stance. “If you insist on talking, let’s meet at the Castle this afternoon,” he said. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Of course I know where it is. I’ve only spent a million summers on the island.” She looked away. Facing Adam Mason again also caused a regression to her snappish, nervous thirteen-year-old self, too.

  But everyone who lived here knew where the Castle was. It sat at the very top of Castle Road, the steepest of the five main roads leading out of Carmelita and into the unpopulated interior of Lavender Island. It was where island visitors went to catch romantic panoramas, and where locals went if they didn’t want to be seen.

  She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. When she glanced back up, he was studying her carefully. She squinted at him. “You do remember me, don’t you?”

  He waited too many beats to answer, but he finally gave a slight nod.

  She didn’t believe him. He didn’t remember her specifically. He remembered her family—probably Olivia, definitely Ginger—but he didn’t remember her. Story of her life. He hadn’t paid any attention to her then, and he was probably looking right through her now. But that was fine. She needed to make this deal. And memories and feelings would just get in the way. It was like her mom always said: Don’t play the fool, in business or in love.

  Paige’s mom—along with Dorothy Silver and probably Gram in heaven—was counting on her. She needed to keep her wits about her.

  Paige motioned with her hand toward the door. “Thanks for letting me into Gram’s place, then. I’ll meet you at the Castle. What time?” As soon as she saw how badly her fingers were shaking, she snatched her hand back and put it on her hip.

  “How about two?”

  Paige nodded. That would give her a chance to clean up a little. And run that comb through her hair. And get her feelings in check. And remember what decade her hormones belonged in.

  A movement to her left caught her eye. “There you are!” She leaned down to get the kitten to come toward her, but it stalled in the living-room doorway. “She jumped in here and I didn’t want to close the window on her.”

  “That’s Click.” Adam bent down and scooped the kitten up in one swift move.

  Paige tried to ignore how easily the cat went to him. And how sweet his enormous hand looked cradling it. He’d been half terrifying her here—looking huge and scary and much too controlled. But seeing him holding that kitten reminded her of the boy he’d once been, the one she’d crushed on, the one with the vulnerability softening his edges. She cleared her throat when the man met her eyes.

  He stared at her, waiting another five uncomfortable beats—three of which seemed to be him contemplating whether she really was who she said she was—then maybe another two where his brain seemed to be registering a few more memories. Finally, he strode toward the door.

  “See you, Calamity June,” he said, with his usual note of dismissal.

  Paige’s back stiffened.

  He did remember.

  CHAPTER 2

  Paige chose a table in the Castle dining room that had beautiful views of the sunlight-dappled patio and fire pit.

  Since she’d never lived a life of intrigue, she’d never stepped foot in here. Who in a million years would have dreamed that the first time she’d visit, she’d be sneakily meeting none other than Adam Mason? Insanity.

  She adjusted the table lamp, straightened the tablecloth, smoothed her cotton maxi dress—which had felt great to slip into after a morning of sweeping and scrubbing—and stole a quick look at the mahogany-paneled bar. He wasn’t here yet. Just how she liked it. She always tried to be early. It was one of the many business strategies her mother had taught her—to have the advantage of getting settled before the client walked in.

  Ginger had been imparting all this business advice with the hope that Paige would follow in her footsteps. Paige didn’t have the heart to tell her she wasn’t interested. And now, with her mother ill, it was even harder to come clean.

  Her mom had always bemoaned the fact that Paige scrambled around, working clusters of part-time jobs. She currently worked part-time at the Hollywood Film Library, part-time finding roles in commercials, and nights at the corner yoga studio. Her mom would tsk and shake her head, saying Paige should give that up and become the businesswoman she was meant to be—maybe take over Ginger’s ev
ent-planning business that catered to celebrities.

  Paige really didn’t want to. She used the acting thing and the Hollywood Film Library as her decoys—everyone knew she loved movies and had been appearing in commercials since she was fifteen. But what she really loved was the yoga studio. She didn’t look like a typical yoga teacher. She wasn’t long and lean, or even particularly graceful. She didn’t go barefoot all the time, wasn’t a vegetarian, and didn’t have a perfect behind. But teaching yoga part-time made her feel whole and fulfilled. The problem was she couldn’t figure out how to transform it into a career that her mom thought justified her college degree, so Paige simply kept quiet. For the time being, she’d help her mother. With the cancer diagnosis, Ginger needed Paige right now.

  Paige pored over the menu and ordered a bottle of red. Her mom was definitely right about this arriving-early thing. Paige was able to calmly read the menu and have a drink to tamp down her Adam jitters. She pictured him again and let out an involuntary sigh. She truly hadn’t expected him to be so . . . normal. Better than normal, really. She thought about the fact that he’d never married. And the rumors that he never left the mountain. Now she wondered about that. What had gone on all those years up here? Had he just lived a solitary life, with his brother and George and a few old ranch hands, and that was it? Working like a plow horse every day and doing nothing else? Sure, he was some kind of land baron now, with all that property he’d inherited, but had the cost for that been a hermit’s life?

  The waiter brought her bottle, and she waited as he poured. She didn’t recognize him. The staff and chefs for the Castle were said to live off the island, coming here for four days at a time and staying in the hotel itself until they were ferried back to their homes in Los Angeles. It was all part of keeping the island’s secrets.

  She sipped the wine, nodded to the waiter, then waited until he walked away so she could gulp down half the glass. As soon as she felt the first buzz of relaxation, she was able to sit back and take in the beauty of the place without her nerves going into overdrive. The dining room was nearly vacant, but her favorite view was outside: those interior island peaks were gorgeous and mysterious.

  After a few minutes, and a little more Zen buzz, she decided she was missing the best views, and some good sun, and asked the waiter if she could move outside.

  After she was reseated among the pine trees that surrounded the flagstone patio, enjoying the scenery and the way the sun danced through the oak leaves across the patio, Adam walked in.

  Paige straightened her back and twirled the wineglass between her fingers, trying to look as unruffled as possible. He was just so ridiculously good-looking—so unfair for a guy she’d hoped would amount to nothing. He’d thrown on a dinner jacket over his blue jeans—to meet the restaurant’s dress code, she supposed—and the effect was disarmingly sexy. He took his hat off as he made his way past the tables, the sun backlighting him, and his amble seemed to gain strength—as if he absorbed it from the trees, the stones, the smoky scent of the fireplace on the patio. He nodded to the waiter who stood by the bar. He was clearly at home here. Her disadvantage.

  “Glad you found a seat,” he said, glancing at the surrounding empty tables.

  She attempted a smile, but her lips got stuck on her teeth, and she quickly took another gulp of wine. “This was a good choice to hide from your staff. Come here often?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering what kind of a secret life you’re living these days.”

  He glanced up from underneath his eyebrows as he slid smoothly into the chair across from her but didn’t bother to address that accusation.

  She needed to knock this off. Her nervousness with him was making her say crazy things. She tried to relax her shoulders and sink into her chair like Bette Davis might, but worried she wasn’t pulling off the look exactly. She probably looked drunk.

  “I guess I owe you an apology,” he said.

  She did a double take—not quite ready to hear those words—as her heart rate escalated. “An apology?”

  “For not remembering you.”

  She straightened in her chair. That wasn’t the apology she’d been hoping for. Not that she’d lain in bed awake at night thinking about apologies from Adam Mason, of course. For something like sixteen years. But whatever. He was at least being polite.

  “At first.” He cocked his head. “Then I did.”

  Up this close, at this tiny patio table, a citron candle flickering under his chin, Adam exuded a strange mixture of strength and relaxation. Every element of his body had a solidity about it, as if his muscles were rocks from the earth. His jeans, his shirt, his jacket, his windblown hair—they all had the same natural air, as though he were one with this place. As if he came from its soil. Which, she supposed, in some ways he did. The strength was the part that made her nervous.

  “Do you remember a lot from back then?” Her voice came out in a too-high octave.

  His frown became suspicious. “What are you asking?”

  “Nothing. It was a strange summer.”

  He gave her another of those looks from behind now-furrowed eyebrows, this one with something that might be irritation.

  “What’s done is done,” he said. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?”

  Paige focused on the candle. No, there wasn’t. She didn’t want to get to know him again and stare into those blue eyes while she heard his story—everything that had happened since that summer. She didn’t want emotions to enter the scene. And she didn’t want him to remember, exactly. She tried to repeat another of her mother’s favorite rules to herself about never letting hearts get in the way of business, but she quickly gave it up for another gulp of wine.

  “Not really,” she said. “I’m just here to do business with you.”

  He nodded. “Great. Let’s talk business, then.”

  The waiter came over to pour another glass, but Adam ordered a scotch instead. She studied him as he tossed his jacket over the back of an adjoining chair and rolled his sleeves up. Dang, he had beautiful forearms.

  “So why don’t you start?” he asked.

  “I’m sure you’re getting lots of offers to sell your property.”

  “I am.”

  “We are, too.”

  “I imagine.”

  “We heard you were close to making a deal with Dave MacGregor. He offered to buy from us, also.”

  “He’s offering the fairest price so far—beyond fair, really. I’d advise you to take it.”

  “Well, that’s the thing. We want to keep the land for a little while longer. For an event. An important event.”

  Adam kept his gaze steady. The brief glimpses of friendliness and professionalism he’d shown a minute ago had already slipped away. Now he was wearing his old scowl—the one all the Masons tended to wear when dealing with the Grants.

  “You’re welcome to do whatever you want with your land,” he said.

  “The event is the wedding of Dorothy Silver to Richard Crawford—their second marriage to each other, actually. She wanted to re-create the wedding they had on Nowhere Ranch in the 1950s. Remember, the one from the movie—”

  “Last Road to Nowhere,” he filled in for her. “Yeah, I got it. But what does this have to do with me?”

  Of course. He was probably all too familiar with the movie that had made his family’s ranch and airport famous and brought in visitors from around the world. She was losing him. He sat back with a barely lassoed impatience.

  “My mom runs a wedding-planning business now, and this wedding could put her over the top. We want to do this for Dorothy. She made friends with my grandmother when she was here filming, and she’s a regular at the Hollywood Film Library, and—”

  “I’m familiar with Dorothy Silver,” Adam said edgily. “But what does this have to do with me?”

  “We’re hoping you’ll supply the ranch.”

  He frowned again. “What’s wrong with your property?”
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  “Dorothy wants all of Nowhere Ranch, where they did a lot of the filming.”

  “You could use your building and the yard around. Should be plenty of room. The views are the same—you can see the ocean from anywhere.”

  “She wants the whole thing, like the old movie set. She already brought us blueprints. She wants the horse stables and the airport and the resort and everything. And especially the orchard.”

  “The orchard? Why the orchard?”

  “She found it romantic.”

  Adam barely suppressed an eye-roll. “MacGregor might be interested in loaning it to you once he becomes the new owner.”

  “He’s not. We brought that up when he offered to buy our piece.”

  Adam shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t wait. I want out of here, and I need to take this deal.”

  “But if you—”

  “Look, I’d like to help you out, Miss Grant, but—”

  “Oh, I’m sure you want to help.” She couldn’t help the snap that came out in her voice.

  She slumped in her chair. This was pointless. Adam was exactly how she remembered him—so in his own little world, so unconcerned with anyone else that he couldn’t even let her get her explanation out of her mouth. When she was a thirteen-year-old gawking girl, his introversion seemed mysterious and movie-star-like. But as she got older, and was able to look back on it, she recognized it as selfish and uncaring. Especially after what happened that summer.

  The waiter brought Adam’s scotch, and he quickly downed about half of it before giving her another of his scowls. “Honestly,” he said, “your grandmother meant a lot to me.”

  The comment felt like a reprimand. She looked away.

  “But I’ve had this deal under way for some time now,” he went on in his measured voice, “and I need to leave.”

  “Why do you need to leave?”

  The frown he gave her made it clear it was none of her business. And, in business, that was true. But she wanted to know for personal reasons. Maybe he would find it funny that she’d had such a crush on him. Maybe she could tell him she’d followed him around that whole summer. But—given the way her heart was still palpitating now, and the fact that it had been a terrible summer for him with long-lasting consequences—she decided she’d better not start confessing. He probably wouldn’t find it funny at all.