Personal Geography by Tamsen Parker Read Free Book Online

while we talk.” I take charge, placing a slight emphasis on the word talk .
    “Sure.” He looks relieved. I don’t blame him. What is the protocol for dealing with the man who’s escorted your potential rent-a-sub to your doorstep? I don’t think Miss Manners ever wrote a column on that. “Ms. Isles, shall we?”
    I’m pleased when he lays a hand at the small of my back. He is going to touch me. Excellent. His fingers are warm through the fabric of my dress, and his touch is sure as he leads me in the direction from which he came.
    “There’s lunch in the house if you’d like. Or if food isn’t…appealing, right now…”
    I try to contain my smile.
    “Do you think I’m squeamish, Mr. Ardmore?” I glance up at him, the lightest mocking in my tone. “That I have a weak stomach? That you’re going to offend my delicate sensibilities?”
    For god’s sake, we’ve brokered an agreement that includes the word dildos . I’m hardly a shrinking violet.
    He colors under tanned skin and stutters, “No, I…”
    Oh, he’s adorable. This is freaking adorable . I could have some fun with him and make him squirm, but I like him. I’ll throw him a line.
    “If it helps, Mr. Walter and I discussed the contract over ceviche.”
    His brow wrinkles for a second before he laughs. Oh, my. Something liquefies in my stomach. No one’s laugh has ever done that to me before. It’s better than I imagined.
    “You know, that does help. Ceviche, huh?”
    “Sea bass. It was delicious.”
    “Okay, Ms. Isles, lunch it is. It’s no ceviche, but I hope it’ll meet with your approval.”
    Cris Ardmore shows me into the largest hut, and when I enter, I freeze. It’s bigger than I thought it would be and beautiful, all warm wood and light. There’s a long dining table set with ten chairs, a seating area with off-white couches and benches scattered with bright throw pillows, and a shiny kitchen against one wall with some kind of stone countertops. That would be a pleasure to cook in, unlike the barely serviceable Formica nightmare in my apartment.
    There are also some bookshelves (filled with books and not dusty knickknacks, I note with satisfaction) and solitary chairs with ottomans in corners supplied with small side tables and lamps—places made for reading. There are doors recessed off the walls that must lead to the other huts and probably a bathroom. I could look around forever, but to be honest, I’d rather peruse the shelves, find something familiar, and curl up in one of the chairs.
    I realize he’s staring at me, and I’m embarrassed.
    “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. You have a lovely home.”
    There’s the slightest shrug of his broad shoulders before he responds. “It’s my parents’ house.”
    What?
    I must look some shade of horrified because he volunteers, “They don’t live here. It’s just me. They built this place a long time ago, thinking they’d retire here, but my father’s health isn’t good. They live in Kona, much closer to civilization. I’ve lived here since I finished school. Added a couple things, redone the place. I’ve thought about leaving, having them sell—”
    “No, don’t!”
    He looks surprised by my outburst. I am. Why the hell do I care?
    “You shouldn’t. It’s a beautiful spot, and…”
    “You haven’t seen the best part. I’ll show you after lunch.”
    After lunch, huh? We both realize what he’s said and regard each other shyly. Really? Ceviche, people—there’s no room for shyness here.
    “Come, eat. You must be hungry.” He takes my hand and leads me to one end of the large dining table. The places are set, simple but pretty. There’s even a bowl with white and yellow plumeria floating in water. Whoa. I’m being wooed. Courted. Flowers. Lunch. It’s like a date. I haven’t been on a date in…
    He pulls out my chair and gestures for me to sit. When I have, he wanders off toward the kitchen, and I take a sip from the glass of water at my place. I