“Enjoy, Michael. Let me know if you need anything on this end.”
“I will.”
Michael hung up and dialed another number. “Hey, Ryder, it’s Mike.”
Val half expected Meg to show up in a bikini, high heels, and red lipstick. As it was, she managed a sundress and simple sandals.
The red lipstick was a bonus.
She was alone.
Gabi greeted her at the gate; from the instant pout from his sister, Val knew Michael wouldn’t be joining them.
Wind kicked off the ocean, spraying the smoke from the barbeque right into his face. Val waved it away and managed his grill. He lowered the heat and closed the lid. When he glanced up, he noticed Margaret’s eyes on him.
She did the sweeping thing he’d done to her earlier in the day and offered a slight nod. Short-sleeved silk and cotton pants might seem overkill for a lunch barbeque, but it was cool and unstarched. He’d have to ask Carol how much starch was used in his suits and if it was really needed.
A hand slapped his back, snapping him out of the Margaret Rosenthal thrall. “You didn’t tell me you’d have so many beautiful guests.”
Val looked into the eyes of an old friend. “All my guests are beautiful.”
“And young . . . too young for my old ass.”
Val smiled. He’d met Jim the first six months after he’d opened the resort. Rest and relaxation were a tall order for the man who had said I don’t to his fifth wife. Problem was, the man didn’t know how to be single . . . didn’t know how to wait for the right woman. He was only in his early sixties, he’d raised a few kids, not all of them his, and had more experience in life than Val had in his big toe.
“Not all my guests are in their twenties,” Val told him.
Jim nodded toward Meg. “That one is.”
Yeah, Val knew . . . Margaret Rosenthal was a few months away from her twenty-seventh birthday. She looked it, too. The memory of her in a bikini staring up at him wouldn’t leave his brain anytime soon. How he’d managed to string two coherent sentences together by the pool, he’d never know. Still, he’d invited her, wondered if she’d bring her roommate, and planned on getting to know her a little better. He needed to know if she was behind the pictures, or if someone else was watching her.
Val heard the meat on his grill sizzle and lifted the lid to make sure he wasn’t charring their lunch.
“Oh my God, you’re Jim Lewis.”
Margaret had managed to cross the room in a breath. Only she wasn’t looking at Val, she was looking at Jim with star-filled eyes.
“And you’re my future wife.”
Margaret Rosenthal blushed. Her cheeks grew crimson in a flash, her smile more radiant than Val had yet seen. The green-eyed monster known as jealousy smacked him upside the head.
“Holy crap. Seriously? I meet Jim fucking Lewis on Fantasy Island and I can’t even take a picture?”
Jim let loose a belly laugh . . . and the man had a serious belly to offer a baritone that would rock Carnegie Hall.
“Those are the rules, Miss . . . ?”
“Meg. Holy shit.”
She extended her hand, blushed even further when Jim kissed the back of it.
“Meg? You just met him and he’s allowed to call you Meg?” Val couldn’t come up with anything else.
“I’m having a fan moment here, Masini. Let it go.”
Val watched her fan moment and realized he was seeing the real Margaret Rosenthal. This woman, the one with the unfiltered tongue and wide eyes, was the woman determined to make her way onto his island.
This woman Val wanted to know . . . thoroughly.
“You’re too young to know about Fantasy Island.”
“My parents had tapes. I keep looking for the Mini-Masini, but he’s not here.”
Jim tapped his chest and roared with laughter. “That hurt. I’m so old.”
Meg giggled . . . looked around and lost part of her grin. “Sorry. Of all people, I should know not to jump on a celeb.”
“Of all people?”
It was Val’s turn to step in. “Margaret is here with Michael Wolfe.”
“The actor?”
“Yeah,” she offered. “Wow . . . I’ve listened to you since . . . forever.”
Val noticed that Jim hadn’t let go of Meg’s hand. His back teeth ground together.
“You’re a blues fan?”
“I grew up with all kinds of music. Blues stuck. Soulful, music with purpose . . . worthy of singing.”
Val found himself pushing between them, felt a smile when Jim let loose Meg’s hand.
“You’re a singer?”
“Yes. No . . .” Meg glanced at Val, quickly looked away. “I work in an office.”
Jim tilted his head. “But you sing.”
“Not like you.”
Jim smiled.
Something popped, and all three of them looked at the grill. “Mini-me isn’t here, Masini . . . you might want to get that.”
Jim shoved him, laughed.
Val pulled the meat from the grill in record time to save their lunch.
“Cooking skills?” Meg asked.
Val shoveled lunch on a ready platter. “And I’m not wearing a tie.”
Meg lifted the plate full of food and grinned. “When you’re in shorts and barefoot, we’ll talk.”
Jim let loose a laugh. “This one has your number, Val.”
“Jim freaking Lewis,” Meg mumbled as she walked away. “What are the odds?”
Meg got it . . . really got what it was to have crazy fans meet their icons. Jim Lewis had been a part of her life since she played the first notes on the piano. Sure, he was shorter, rounder, and a whole lot grittier than she’d pictured him to be, but it was Jim Lewis.