Love Island

Chapter 1

Fatima Wilson wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and tied her quarter zip pullover around her waist. Why hadn't anyone warned her how humid Miami was in June? 

If she'd known, she would have at least put her hair up or go natural so it was off her neck. And traded the jeans and baby blue suede Pumas for khaki capris and a cute pair of hermes sandals, which would have had the added benefit of showing off her new pedicure, a shimmery beige pink with the strangely poetic name Cozu melted in the Sun.

She hoisted her weekender tote over her shoulder and scanned the sidewalk for the car that was supposed to be waiting to take her the two plus hours to Zac Taylor's remote estate in Florida Keys. The guy owned his own Island and lived there alone. How much more reclusive could you get?

Finally, she spotted a distinguished looking man with graying dark hair standing next to a Maybach S Class and holding a sign that read Wilson on bold bloodred script.

“Miss Wilson?” He asked as she approached.

“Yes.” She extended her free hand, but he ignored it and reached for her bag instead.

“Is this all your luggage?”

“Yes.” Much more of this and she'd sound like a broken record. She raised herself up to her full height— an unimpressive five two, thanks to the multiple rounds of chemo and radiation that stunted her growth. Normally she wore at least four inch heels to compensate, but she'd left most of them at home. She might have learned to work the dining room in stilettos on the rare occasions she turned control of the kitchen over to her sous chef. It was good for morale and helped bridge the gap between front and the back of house, and she liked seeing the smiles on the customers' faces but they wouldn't be much good for chasing an active toddler. “I had most of my things shipped ahead.”

She preferred to travel light. Plus, if her things were already down there, she couldn't chicken out at the last minute, could she?

“Right.” He popped the trunk and carefully placed her bag inside before slamming it shut. “Mrs. Worthington has them waiting in your quarters.”

“Mrs Worthington?”

“The housekeeper.”

The recruiter had told Fatima she'd be part of a small staff, all living on site. At least she'd have someone to talk to besides her four year old charge. Her boss wasn't what anyone would call the chatty type, as she'd learned from their brief phone interview. They'd talked a grand total of maybe five minutes, presumably because the agency had already grilled her to his satisfaction.

“What about you?” She asked the driver. “What's your name?”

“I'm Jakes, Mr Taylor's chauffeur, business manager, and general man of all trades.” He held the door open. “If you don't mind, Miss. We've got a bit of a drive. I'd like to get moving so we're there before dark.”

“No problem.” She stepped into the car, a blast of cold from the air conditioner hitting her in the face. “And please, call me Fatima.”

“Yes, Miss.” He closed the door behind her.

Okay then. Miss it was.

Jakes— apparently the man had one name, like Beyonce and Ludacris— slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Fatima relaxed into the leather seat, her hand landing on a manila folder beside her. “ What's this?”

“A little reading for your trip.”

“Light reading?” She picked up the folder.

“A few things you should know before you arrive.”