by Serena Bell
It was too easy. There was a catch.
“But—”
Here it came.
“—it’s on my terms until then.”
From her pocket, she produced a sheet of paper and held it out towards him. He took it.
“‘This is an agreement entered into by Trey Xavier, henceforth XAVIER, and Carl Philburn, henceforth PHILBURN.’ Who wrote this?”
“I did,” Auburn said.
“Did a lawyer even look at it?”
“Just read it.”
“‘XAVIER agrees to be a guest at Beachcrest, arriving June 30, checking out July 8. XAVIER agrees to attend every breakfast and every afternoon tea.’ Afternoon tea? Of course you have afternoon tea.”
“Beware the power of afternoon tea,” Carl said. “You’re out of your depth, my son.”
Trey rolled his eyes.
“‘XAVIER agrees to participate in the following activities: one beach bike ride, the Tierney Bay July street dance, one Beachcrest-sponsored campfire with hotdog roast and marshmallows, the 4th of July parade viewed from in front of Beachcrest, the second annual Beachcrest-Cape House 4th of July barbecue, the 4th of July fireworks viewed from Tierney Bay Beach, and one beach hike, time and place to be determined. XAVIER agrees to participate to the extent dictated by Auburn Campbell (henceforth CAMPBELL) and to be reasonably polite to the other people involved.’”
He raised his eyes at that. “I’m always ‘reasonably polite.’”
“I beg to differ,” Auburn said.
“We can agree to disagree.”
“‘If XAVIER fails to carry out his part of this agreement, PHILBURN will sell Beachcrest to CAMPBELL for a going-concern value set by a mutually agreed-upon appraiser.’”
Jesus. “This is your big play? I’m going to go on a bike ride? To a parade? You think this is going to change my mind about anything? Look—” He thrust the paper back at her. “You know what a bike ride is to me? An Expresso Fitness S3R Novo in a climate-controlled gym with a personal trainer standing by. And a parade? That’s something that happens when the WNBA team I own wins the championship.” He omitted the fact that he’d had to sell his WNBA team—the point still stood. “And the only fireworks I have time for are the ones I give a woman in bed. So if you think a few breakfasts and teas and a bike ride and a parade is going to change anything, you are barking up the wrong fucking tree, sweetheart.”
Carl had coughed midway through his speech—at the fireworks comment—but Auburn hadn’t even flinched.
“If it won’t change your mind anyway,” she said, sweetly, “why not just sign the agreement?”
“Because it’s a waste of my time!”
“Not as much of a waste as a lawsuit.”
“Look, darlin’. I know you think I’m just some kind of rich asshole—”
The expression on her face told him he’d picked exactly the right phrase.
“—but I’m not just doing this to piss you off. The development my friend is building? It’s a retirement community. A beautiful, luxurious retirement community. The perfect place for my grandfather to live out the rest of his days in peace and contentment.”
It was his trump card, and thank the Lord, he could see on her face that he’d gotten through to her. All her certainty had vanished. She looked—confused. She bit her lip, and oh, God, he wished she wouldn’t do that. It made his mouth go dry.
“I don’t want that,” Carl said.
Auburn turned to face him. He was sitting up in bed, arms crossed, stubbornness written across his face.
“Beachcrest is the perfect place for me to live out the rest of my days in peace and contentment. I don’t want some prison cell for dying rich assholes. You can build it, Trey, but I won’t live there. Not while I can hold a pen and sign my own name.”
Now Auburn wasn’t even attempting to hide her smile. “You heard the man,” she told Trey. “He doesn’t want it. So all of this has been for nothing anyway. Let’s just cut to the chase, and you can sell Beachcrest to me.”
Trey shook his head and addressed his grandfather. “You’ll change your mind when you see it. Huge hurricane glass windows—140-degree ocean view in all the units.” He felt an unusual twinge of desperation. Why were his family members so opposed to being in clean, beautiful living quarters? Why were they all so determined to resist his attempts to keep them safe and happy?
“I’m not selling it to you,” he told Auburn. “I’ll change his mind.”
“Ha!” Carl said. “You will not.”
Auburn pursed her lips. “I might though,” she said slowly.
He and his grandfather both froze.
“Carl. If Trey takes this deal with me, the one to give Beachcrest a real chance, you have to agree you won’t fight him on the sale. And that you’ll live in the new place.”
Carl looked from Trey to Auburn and back again. And something like a smile spread over his veiny old man face. “I see what you just did there.”
She was clever. Quick. Savvy. Trey had to grant her that. She’d—
Well, she’d outmaneuvered him.
Except for one thing.
There was no way she was going to convince him to fall in love with Beachcrest, no matter how much time he spent with her.
Apparently, his grandfather didn’t feel the same way because he snorted. “Hell, yes, I agree.” He turned toward Auburn. “Make it so.”
She laid the “agreement” on the side table and scribbled something, then showed him what she’d added. “‘If XAVIER carries out the terms of this agreement, PHILBURN agrees to yield to Trey’s wishes in the matter of the sale of Beachcrest.’”
She handed the pen to Trey.
One week. One week of attending events while being ‘reasonably polite.’ He could do that in his sleep. And if he gave up the next seven days of his life, he could get this deal signed, save Home Base and a hundred and fifty jobs, sell the shit out of his company, and hang onto the wealth that would guarantee his sister’s, nephews’, and grandfather’s safety and well-being. It was a no-brainer.
He scrawled his name, then watched as Carl did the same. His grandfather beamed at his protege.
“You’ve got this, girl. In the bag.”
Then Carl turned back toward Trey. “And you? You have no effing idea who you’re dealing with.”
Trey’s gaze met Auburn’s, and she smiled, a wicked, knowing quirk of lips. Her gaze held level with his, all challenge and confidence. He felt that look, all the way down to where his dick was growing heavy.
All at once, he wasn’t nearly as certain as he’d been when he’d signed his name.
Looking at Auburn, her generous curves barely contained by the restrained lines of her businesswear, her hair like its own creature, he had to admit to himself that it was possible Carl was right.
11
Trey Xavier was wearing a suit to breakfast.
Of course he was. She hadn’t put dressing like a normal person in the agreement, so he was taking advantage of whatever loophole he could to show her he was still in control … of something.
It irritated her. Made her itchy and combative. But it also had another effect on her, one she was trying hard to ignore.
She liked it. Not just how good he looked in the suit, but the power it highlighted. The unyielding strength.
As furious as she was with him, she still couldn’t help reacting to him.
The only fireworks I have time for are the ones I give a woman in bed.
It was just a stupid line.
But her body had believed it, a hundred percent.
Trey was fiddling with his phone. Like, hadn’t looked up from it once, despite the easy flow of conversation all around him. Apparently, he was too important for them.
The rest of the guests had, of course, noticed the misfit in their midst, and were eyeing him like a cat in a dog park. Everyone else was in some variation of beachwear—bathing suits and coverups, shorts and Ts, capris and Ts—or in the fisher
men’s cases, coveralls and tanks. One of the fishermen gave Trey a thorough once over, while the other glared daggers at both of them.
Auburn bit her lip to hide a smile.
She sidled up to him. “Put your phone away, Xavier.”
“You didn’t specify that in the deal. You said I had to come to breakfast, not that I had to participate in breakfast.”
She couldn’t detect even a note of teasing. Was it possible he was serious? Yes, given what she knew of him, it was. He was going to split every hair in their agreement and drive her nuts. Maybe he even thought he’d get her to back down that way.
“You agreed that you’d do my activities the way I wanted them done, and that you’d be polite to the other people present. It’s rude to be on your phone at the table.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but after a moment he shrugged and tucked the phone away. “I thought you wanted me to like Beachcrest. Making me put my phone away when I’m trying to do important business isn’t going to accomplish your goal. And—speaking of doing business, you might want to give some thought to the comfort of your business guests—which is just about everyone these days. The room you’ve got me in is not well set up. The desk’s too small, there aren’t enough outlets or charging stations, and the Wi-Fi drops constantly.”
“Noted.”
She didn’t show her anxiety, but getting Trey to slip out of business mode and into vacation mode was starting to feel like an insurmountable task. You could lead a horse to water, but you couldn’t make it drink … you could lead a grumpy businessman to breakfast …
But you couldn’t make him eat it, apparently. And if he wouldn’t taste her food—she was definitely at a disadvantage. “You haven’t touched your plate.”
“I ate my eggs.”
“And left your biscuit, fruit, and bacon.”
“Indeed,” he said.
“Is that the diet you’re on? Avoid anything that would give you pleasure?”
His eyes met hers, dark and ravenous, and she immediately regretted her words. “I wouldn’t say that.”
Her stomach took a dive. “So what’s the deal?” She gestured at his mostly untouched plate.
“I don’t eat carbs. Or gluten.”
“Of course you don’t. What about the bacon?”
“Fat. Nitrates.”
Deja, Lindsey, and Aria reached across the table and helped themselves to a slice each. “Don’t mind if we do,” Aria said. “Oh, wow. That is seriously good bacon. Smoky. Crispy.”
Auburn caught the hunger as it moved across Trey’s face, as quick as a flash of lightning. So he was restrained, but he still wanted the things he deprived himself of. Interesting.
She’d love to see him eat. Like, really eat. And not just because she was a damn good cook and food was the best tool she had to make someone fall in love with Beachcrest. But because, well, it would be satisfying to watch him indulge.
All his appetites, a little voice whispered.
Shut up, she whispered back.
“These biscuits,” Lindsey said, leaning across the table with hers in hand. “You’ve got to take a bite. A few carbs won’t kill you.”
He eyed his biscuit like it might leap up and corrupt him, then picked it up almost gingerly.
“You have to butter it,” Auburn said. It hurt her heart to see her biscuits eaten without plenty of hot melting butter and—preferably—lots of strawberry jam. Although she wasn’t going to push her luck on the jam.
He glared at her.
“What? Butter is good for you now. I just read an article about it.”
“Food fads,” he muttered, but he took a bite.
The look that flashed over his face made Auburn’s belly heat. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, but she’d seen it. And she wanted to bring it back, somehow, and keep it there.
“Do you share the biscuit recipe?” Aria asked. “I can never get mine to come out.”
“I’m putting together a Beachcrest cookbook,” Auburn told her.
Aria clapped. “That’s so cool!”
“We’re going to give the ebook free to everyone who stays here and sell the paperback online. It should be out by Christmas. If you gave your email address when you booked the reservation you’ll automatically get a copy without having to do anything else.”
“Oh, my, God, really?” Aria said. “Su-weet. When you’re ready to sell the paperback, let us know and we’ll pimp you on social media.”
“Wow, thank you so much.”
Auburn’s peripheral vision was sharp, or she might have missed Trey reaching for the biscuit.
She turned in time to catch him in the act of taking another bite, and their eyes met. She raised her eyebrows.
“What?”
She took the biscuit from him, buttered it liberally, and handed it back. She could feel his eyes on her face the whole time.
“If I risk my arteries like this, you have to do something for me.”
“That biscuit is its own reward.”
“For an early death? You need to look at my plans for the retirement community.”
“Then you have to eat bacon the next time I serve it.” She met the challenge in his gray gaze, unflinching, and she felt something unspool in the pit of her belly.
“Don’t push your luck.”
He edged his chair away from the table and got up.
She turned away, but she saw, out of the corner of her eye, when his hand snaked out and snatched the biscuit.
12
When Auburn came into the kitchen, he was up to his elbows in hot soapy water.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“The dishes.”
“You don’t have to do that. And especially not in your nice clothes.”
“I know I don’t have to.” But his mama hadn’t raised him to let someone else do all the cooking and then walk away from the mess. Even if the someone was currently doing everything in her power to make his life difficult.
“It’s an inn. You’re a guest.”
“Actually,” he said pointedly, “I’m the owner.”
The softness that had come over her at the sight of him doing dishes vanished, and she straightened up. “So this is about asserting control. Of course.” She crossed her arms.
It had been, at least a little—but it still galled him to be called out on it. “This is about doing the right thing.”
“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “At least let me get you an apron.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Your shirt costs, what—?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Matters to me,” she said. All the warmth had vanished from her voice. Which was for the best. Her soft look when she’d first seen him doing dishes had caused an answering softening somewhere in the center of his chest, which he didn’t like. She stepped across the kitchen and rummaged in a drawer.
She was wearing a sundress and an apron of her own. The apron had cupcakes on it, each topped with a cherry. The cupcakes looked a lot like tits, a fact that had distracted him mightily at breakfast. Unfortunately, it hadn’t kept him from noticing the way her eyes lingered on his mouth.
She’d just been watching him eat, that was all.
He was craving another one of those buttered biscuits. Holy shit, that thing was lethally good. This was why he avoided carbs. Once you went down that path …
She emerged from her search of the drawer and handed him a Beachcrest apron with a cartoon picture of a plate of bacon and eggs on the front, watched him with an amused expression while he put it on, and turned away to begin loading one of the industrial dish trays.
He plunged his hands back into the suds and set to work.
Work—that was what he was good at.
“More dish soap?” he asked.
“Under the sink.”
He knelt to get it, and— “Shit—you’ve got a leak.”
“Yeah. That’s been going on a while. It’s slow. Not a
big deal.”
“You should fix it.” He knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it until he’d found a toolbox and repaired it himself. It was his greatest strength and biggest weakness as a business owner—a streak of perfectionism he couldn’t shake.
She heaved a sigh. “Carl was going to fix it, and then— He’ll get to it when he gets back.”
“You know, it’s that kind of thinking that makes Beachcrest look the way it looks.”
“And how exactly is that?” Auburn asked, crossing her arms over her chest. His eyes kept being drawn to the gap where her pink lace bra barely managed to restrain the creamy curve of her breast.
“Shabby. Like someone will ‘get to it’ in a few days or a few weeks.”
Pink heated her face, and her eyes flashed. “Look, asshole, we don’t have an infinite amount of money! We have to triage. If you cared so much about the upkeep of Beachcrest, you could have showed up at any point and contributed to repairs.”
“I tried to give Carl money for upkeep,” he said with a shrug. “He wouldn’t let me. He didn’t want me any more invested than I was.”
Her mouth opened. “Oh. I guess that makes sense.” She bit her lip. “Sorry I, um, called you an asshole. About that, anyway.”
He waved a hand. “I’ve heard it before.”
After a moment, she said, “Shabby, huh? You really hate this place?” She didn’t sound angry anymore. Just curious.
“I don’t hate it. I just—don’t see what you see in it. To me, it’s just … plain Jane.”
A bemused expression passed over her face. “Which is part of what I love about it. It’s comfy. Cozy. Like a good friend. You say shabby, I say comforting. Besides, what’s wrong with plain Jane? I’m plain Jane.”
He raised an eyebrow. It was true she wasn’t model beautiful. She wasn’t expensively dressed, or buffed and coiffed, smoothed and polished, by trained professionals. She wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, except maybe for her hair.
And yet, he’d picked her out from a bar full of women, and the last few days had done nothing to mute his interest. Those goddamn cherries looked more and more like nipples to him as the morning wore on, and he had to keep shutting down his brain as it trundled off to imagine what hers looked like …
