Someone Else's Ocean

“Mrs. Osborne?” Jasmine checked her lipstick in a compact she produced from her purse. No matter the time of day, her makeup was flawless. She gathered her hair into a self-adhesive bun. “Cinco de Mayo is coming up,” I joked, as she curled her lip at me. “Should we celebrate with a margarita?”

The first time I met her, in fact, the first time anyone met Jasmine, they assumed she was Mexican or of Spanish descent, which always led to her favorite line, “I’m half filifuckingpino.” Jasmine was raised in ‘bumfuck’—her words, not mine—Minnesota and sounded like one of the cast of Fargo. There were a lot of ya’s for yeah’s, soda was pop, etc.

St. Thomas was an eclectic mix, even with the natives the accents were different, including the neighboring islands. Jasmine had moved to St. Thomas with an ex-fiancé and stayed after he decided he wanted to return to the States, without her.

“You know it was Mrs. Osborne and she’s a pain in the ass,” I said, typing a note on the property file. DO NOT RENT TO THESE PEOPLE.

“That commission is worth it,” she scolded, before I reluctantly backspaced my note with a single finger, one key at a time. I added a death glare in her direction for good measure.

“You’re checking them in next time.” Curling my lip at her, I picked up the phone to fetch Mrs. Osborne her water.

“So, I had sex in a tractor last night.”

With a raised brow, I paused my hand on the number pad and looked above my screen at her. “A… tractor. How is that even possible? How many tractors are on St. Thomas that you could have sex on?”

“At least one,” she said, sitting back in her seat. “I feel a little dirty about this one, I will admit.”

“Really?”

She stood and walked over to the coffee pot to refill her cup. “No, not at all. No regrets, my friend. And now that I think about it, I’m sure it was a backhoe.”

I shrugged. “Well, as long as it was a backhoe.”

“Exactly,” she turned to me, hands propping her up on the counter behind her. Our office was a shoebox, but Jasmine insisted we rent a small space when we managed enough properties to make us more “official.” Yet we never met any of our renters in the office and no one had ever occupied the two chairs we had waiting for clients. Jasmine claimed having a place to show up to made us more accountable. I agreed to a point because if I had it my way, I’d live as a happy recluse and work within the confines of my beach house. She started the company herself, heartbroken and determined to survive in St. Thomas without the man that lured her here and left her to fend for herself while licking her wounds. Our work hours could be grueling at times but, she paid well and after a year of being out of corporate hell, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.

“Will you be seeing this one again?”

“Meh, I don’t know.” She pulled up her skirt to show me her thong clad, purpling-brown ass. “But man, is this a sign of a good time or what?”

Sighing, I held up my hand to block the view of her tan globes. “It’s 9 a.m. Do I really need to see your ass this early?”

“I’ll sing you the “Thong Song,” come on.” She giggled, flexing her cheeks to make them bounce.

“Oh, you just go straight to hell.”

I grabbed my phone and purse as she resumed her seat and gave me a wink. “Best video ever.”

I stopped in my tracks. “You have video?”

“Just remember I love you, and I have only good intentions for keeping this.”

Panic raced through me as I thought of the night I’d let all my inhibitions go and I mean let go. The slow spreading smile on her lips revealed she was playing with me. There was no video.

“Where are you off to?”

“I’m getting new neighbors today.”

“Oh, right. The Kemps’ are booked, I forgot.”

“Yep, two weeks. Newlyweds.” I was excited about the idea of newlyweds. My parents and the Kemps bought our neighboring houses within a year of each other when I was five. They both purchased the properties for vacation houses/investment rental homes. And while the Kemps still rented theirs out, my parents were stuck with a daughter who had fled to theirs from New York costing them a year’s worth of profits. While my dad insisted the house had paid for itself tenfold and it was mine as long as I needed it, my mother kept her tongue idle. I knew it would eventually become a bargaining chip. I always felt guilty about taking away some of their retirement income, not to mention th

e small fortune they wasted on a degree I no longer used. While my mother was no stranger to money, Ryan Vaughn had been a scrapper and worked hard for his fortune.

But in a way, even with my mother’s grudge about my current situation, I think they knew that house had saved my life.

Or at least, helped me find a new one.

“Take it easy out there,” Jasmine chimed, as I refilled my coffee. “Careful of those chickens, though we both know you could use a little cock.”