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

make the request, like this—muddy boots, butt in a window, twigs in her hair, with him barely remembering her. And damn, why did he have to look so good?
    He seemed to tire of waiting for an answer and turned to take in the surroundings: the tchotchkes on the floor, the neglected wall paneling. He glanced toward the window and pulled the curtain back with an index finger. “I assume you’re here to talk about the offers we’re getting?”
    She willed her heart to beat normally. “Yes.”
    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