“The label?”
“Don’t worry, King of Branding. You’ll get final approval before we even start testing the focus groups. In fact, I’m going up to marketing now to get some ideas rolling.” He turned to Jenna and threw her another easy smile. “Great to talk to you, Jenna. Good luck with the book. I know you’re in good hands with this guy here.”
With a casual salute, he slipped out of the conference room, leaving them alone.
“How goes the crisis?” Jenna asked, closing her notebook and standing.
“It’s solved for the moment.” He took a few steps closer, searching her face as if looking for something there. “Did you get anything out of this meeting other than charmed by my cousin?”
“He is charming,” she agreed. “And I learned a lot about what goes into creating a new line of whisky. But…” She let out a sigh. “That’s not really a big part of what I want to write.”
“You’re worried about that proposal.”
“The clock’s ticking,” she agreed. “I really hope I can spend some time with your family and long-term employees, rather than being mired in corporate stuff. I need to get to the heart and soul of this family, or I’m going to fail.”
“I know that, so let’s get you back to the hotel to pack.”
Seriously? “I’m not ready to leave yet. I haven’t even started.”
“That’s why we’re leaving.”
Now she was totally confused. “To go where?”
“King Harbor, Maine.” He put a hand on her shoulder, leading her toward the door. “You wanted to visit it, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“The Blackthorne Estate is the heart and soul of the family. We can drive up there, grab lunch in a little place on the coast I love, and have time to see the sunset.”
She eyed him, considering this new twist and what it could mean to her writing and information gathering. “As lovely as that sounds, I’m not really on a mission to have lunch and see sunsets.”
“You just said you don’t want to be mired in the corporate stuff.”
“I want to talk to the people who make up the family.”
“Exactly. There’s plenty of family in Maine, including my nana, who knows and, with enough to drink, tells.”
“That sounds…promising.”
He laughed and added a little pressure to steer her down the hall toward the elevator. “You go to the hotel to pack, and I’ll go home, do the same, and pick you up in an hour. Wear a jacket. It can get windy with the top down.”
“Hoyt has a convertible in that fleet?”
He laughed. “I’m driving, Jenna. We’ll get there faster, windblown and happy.” He inched closer to whisper in her ear, “Added benefit, I’m way more David than I am Brock up there.”
She tried to shoot him a warning look, but his smile was downright devastating, so she just had to laugh. “All right, David. Let’s go to Maine.”
Chapter Nine
He hadn’t been kidding about David, Brock realized as they got farther from town and traffic. He’d always known that when he saw Boston in the rearview mirror and headed north toward Maine that a switch clicked in him that took the edge away, but he’d never really noticed how marked a difference it was.
With the wind in his hair, the sun beating down, and the smell of sea salt heralding “home,” Brock was more than content with the decision to leave Boston. He and Jenna didn’t talk much over the roar of the Porsche 911 motor, but the silence was comfortable, and his passenger seemed as relaxed as he was. The magic of Maine, he thought, the moment they left New Hampshire and reached the outskirts of Kittery. That would mean…food.
“We have to stop for lobster rolls,” he announced, leaning close so Jenna could hear him and also because she smelled good. “And ice cream.”
She laughed, brushing back a strand of blond hair and tucking it behind her ear. “I thought we were going to King Harbor to research my book.”
“This is research. Lobster rolls at McMathers and ice cream at The Crazy Cow are in our family DNA. You can’t know how the Blackthornes lived until you’ve been to all our hangouts. And tonight, in King Harbor, we’ll drink at The Whisky Vault, or the Vault, as locals and family call it.”
“More research?” she asked on a laugh.
“The best kind. Seriously, you can’t drive up to King Harbor and not stop at these landmarks, Jenna,” he told her as he pulled off at the next exit. “It’s Blackthorne tradition.”
He drove a few familiar miles down a windy, thickly wooded road until the brush opened up to reveal a small lake and two ramshackle buildings that served some of the best food on the East Coast. No surprise, the small parking lot had at least two dozen cars, and many of the picnic tables were full.
McMathers was no more than a one-window, gray, weathered shack with a faded sign that had to be from the sixties, owned by a family known for making the best lobster rolls on earth. About fifty yards away, on the other side of a grassy area, stood the white clapboard ice cream store called The Crazy Cow.
As they climbed out of his car, Jenna slipped out of the denim jacket she’d been wearing, looking from one notorious place of business to the other. “Somehow, this is not how I imagined Blackthornes eat.” She shook her hair out of a ponytail into a wild blond mane, her eyes bright from the ride.
“My aunt Claire discovered this place when I was really young.” He took a slow breath, letting his gaze travel what, for Brock, was hallowed grounds full of memories. Not all happy, but they were solid, and they made him who he was. “We used to all come up together, my mom and dad with Phillip and Jason and me in one car, and our cousins with Uncle Graham and Aunt Claire in the other, always in tandem for some reason I’ll never understand. Of course, someone was always hungry or had to go to the bathroom, so we’d stop here. After a few years, it became tradition.”
He ushered her toward McMathers, slipping further back in time with each step.
“That tradition didn’t change after your parents died?” she asked, her voice gentle enough for him to know she realized she was treading on sensitive ground.
He smiled to assure her that the topic was fine and that time had made it easy for him to talk about Julie and Mark Blackthorne. “In some ways, everything changed, but my aunt and uncle made sure that, in other ways, nothing changed.”
They reached the window, and she let him order their lobster rolls and drinks, which were served on paper plates and in plastic cups that they took to one of the picnic tables bathed in sunshine.
“Too bad the tables were replaced in the last ten years,” he said as they sat down across from each other. “One of them had all our names carved with a knife my brother Phillip got grounded for carrying.” He shook his head and laughed at the memory.
She picked up her lobster roll, but set it back down in a move he was beginning to recognize was a prelude to a question. Her questions always took precedence over food, drink, or any other distraction. He knew what was coming, though, and how long it would take to answer, so he took a few bites of the sweet chunks of lobster and buttery bread.
“Logan said you have a story, and I think he was talking about your parents’ deaths. You were really young. I can only imagine how that affects a child.”
Yep, she’d want to know that. He took a few minutes to chew and wipe his mouth with the rough paper napkin, then sipped the lemonade that was as much a part of this meal as the sandwich and sunshine.
“I was nine,” he finally said. “My parents got into a private plane one afternoon to get Phillip who, no surprise to anyone, was in trouble at a sleep-away camp for a prank he’d pulled. My dad was a great pilot, instrument-rated, but they hit a storm that blew in out of nowhere and…” Now, this, he didn’t like to talk about. The worst part of his parents’ deaths was imagining what those last few minutes must have been like.
Her face reflected that she was thinking the same thing. “Storms,” she murmured. “I hate them.”
“We think the plane was hit by lightning, and my dad lost control.”
“Oh my God.”
He just nodded and covered any emotion with a deep drink of lemonade, but this time it didn’t taste like summer and sunshine. It tasted bitter, like that summer that started with two parents and ended with a whole new normal.
Jenna reached across the picnic table to put her hand over his. “I’m so sorry for you. That’s heartbreaking.”
He let his gaze settle on her fingers and the comfort they offered. “It’s been twenty years,” he said. “Of course, not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what life would have been like if they’d lived. And I’m a little ashamed that my memories are not much more than snapshots and wisps of moments that I can barely hold on to. But I can tell you this, I didn’t ever feel like I was an orphan, and that was thanks to Claire and Graham and my four cousins. In any other family, that would have been a tragedy that the three of us might never have recovered from, but being a Blackthorne…”
Being a Blackthorne was what had saved him from being lost and alone.
“There was no question you and your brothers would live with your aunt and uncle? Your grandparents didn’t have a say?”
“My parents left a very clear will and the whole transition was…seamless.” Dark, scary, and definitely the worst summer of his life, but it could have been so much worse. “We were up in King Harbor when it happened, and in the summers, everyone lived at the estate. Even my dad and uncle, though they’d go down to Boston to work during the week. But the seven of us and my mom and Aunt Claire were up there from Memorial Day to Labor Day. So it wasn’t like we were alone.”
She nodded, listening with her whole body leaning closer. Her gaze was intent, her attention sharp. For the book? Or was this just an intimate conversation between two people who’d already been as intimate as possible? He didn’t know. And right then, he didn’t care. He wanted to tell her.
“When September rolled around that year, my brothers and I moved into the big Weston house like…” He shook his head so she wouldn’t misunderstand him. “Obviously not like nothing ever happened, but I never lived a day thinking I didn’t have a family. I missed my mom and dad, God, yes. But my aunt overcompensated and really made all three of us feel like we were her sons, too. Come Halloween, she sewed my costume. She went to our sporting events and cheered like a mom. She and my uncle wrapped their arms around us literally and figuratively. We already all went to the same private school, so life just went on, mostly thanks to Claire Blackthorne.”
She’d taken a few bites while he talked, but she set her sandwich down again and leaned a little closer. “Have you talked to her since she left?”
“And here I thought you were digging through my emotional land mines, not looking for family secrets.”
“So there is a secret?”
God, he had to remember who he was talking to. Trust and confidential revelations were huge risks he couldn’t take. “Listen, Jenna, my aunt was just blowing off steam when she said that,” he told her.
“But she was mad when she left?”
He shrugged. “It was her sixtieth birthday, so she was probably a little melancholy or having some kind of crisis about getting older. And she felt ignored by a husband who puts work above all else, since my uncle turned what was supposed to be a birthday party into a work event. So she got ticked off and took off. I don’t think it means she’s not coming back.” At least, he hoped it didn’t.
She searched his face. “Who said anything about her not coming back?”
Every word had to be watched with her. “No one.” But they had passed the two-month mark, which Jenna would probably figure out just by researching Claire Blackthorne’s birthday. “I just don’t want you to think that’s what’s going on. That she and Graham aren’t…fine.”
“Are they?”
“Of course.”
“Because when I talked to him, he—”
“You talked to him?” How could he not know that?
“In the express elevator. Hoyt gave me the code, but please don’t be mad at—”
“What did you talk to him about?”
She didn’t answer right away, but held his gaze with a question in hers. “Are you scared of me talking to him, Brock?”
“I’m not ‘scared’ of you talking to anyone. I just want to maintain consistency in the messaging.”
She rolled her eyes at the phrase, which told him all he needed to know about what she thought of messaging. “We had a four-second encounter, and I asked him exactly one question, which is a question I usually ask almost anyone I’m interviewing, to start the process.”
“Which is?”
“I asked about the single moment in his life that gave him the most joy.”
For a moment, he tried—and failed—to imagine how his uncle, a man obsessed with his business and bursting with pride over everything he presided over, would answer that. His first million-dollar deal? Taking the business from his father? The day Blackthorne Gold won a World Whiskies Award? “What did he say?”
“He didn’t,” she said. “But he pointed to the keypad where I’d pressed eleven-o-eight.”
“Their anniversary.” It hit him hard, right in the gut. Why the hell didn’t his uncle go to France and get that woman, then?
Because of that…secret?
Whatever it was, it had to be big.
“Were your brothers as grateful to be adopted by your aunt and uncle as you were?”
He drew back. “Rapid-fire conversation switch. Is that a trick your mother taught you?”
She gave a guilty smile. “She was a great interviewer, and, yes, keeping your subject off guard can be effective. And speaking of subjects, my dear subject, don’t change this one. This isn’t about me, this is about you.”
He put his hand over hers. “Did you just call me your subject? Now there’s a cold and unemotional way to describe your personal escort and Blackthorne door-opener. Not to mention your…”
“Don’t.” She flipped her hand and gripped his to stop him from saying lover, because they both knew that he had been that for only one night. “Anyway, not that many doors have been opened yet.”
After a beat, she laced her fingers through his, holding his gaze, making his mouth go bone-dry and his whole body unnaturally tight. Well, it was natural, he supposed. This close to a woman he knew tasted and felt like heaven? The rush of blood was more than natural.
“I’m still waiting for one more door to be opened.” Her voice was low, sultry, and damn it, everything was getting tenser and…hard.
“Let me guess.” He lifted their joined hands, bringing them closer to his mouth. “The door to ancient family secrets?” Or more recent ones?
“We’ll get to that, but, no, not the door I want to go through right now.”
Right then, the only door he wanted to take her through was the one to his bedroom. How the hell could he do that? He brought her hand to his lips, but didn’t kiss it. “So what door do you want me to escort you through, Ms. Gillespie?”
He saw a little shiver roll her shoulders and shutter her eyes, confirming her body was reacting exactly like his was. “The Crazy Cow,” she whispered. “Ice cream is my weakness.”
He laughed and gave that kiss to her knuckles. “Vanilla or chocolate?”
“Salted caramel with fudge.”
Yes, he needed cold ice cream, too. Because much longer and he’d need a cold shower instead. Pulling her up from her seat, he tipped his head toward the creamery. “Now that’s one door I will open for you.”
Chapter Ten
It was easy for Jenna to forget she was working while she was with Brock. The laughter and conversation were never forced, even when she threw him a tough question. The not-so-casual touches and one-heartbeat-too-long looks were thrilling enough that she would be lying to deny the attraction was as strong as the night they met and made love in the dizzying space of a few hours.
&nb
sp; And that memory bubbled like a volcano deep inside her, threatening to erupt at any moment. Somehow, she’d have to hold off for three weeks.
But how? Three days would be a challenge with this man.
An hour later, they pulled into the small waterfront town of King Harbor, driving down a quaint main street with brick buildings and gingerbread Victorians on every corner. Jenna could only sigh with that delicious feeling of…letting go.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Brock slowed at a light in town, stopping at a corner in front of a darling bed-and-breakfast, glancing toward the lacy wood railing and wooden rockers.
“Am I staying there?” she asked hopefully.
“You’re staying at the Blackthorne Estate,” he replied.
“Your house?”
He gave a quick laugh. “It’s not exactly a ‘house,’ and there are more bedrooms than bars, which is saying a lot in my family. I meant this town is something.”
“Oh, it is,” she agreed, watching a few tourists cross in front of them and head into an art gallery. “I feel like I just stepped into…vacation.”
“Right?” He gave her a satisfied look. “I knew you’d get it.” Shifting into gear, he took the sports car at a respectably slow speed down the road, carefully avoiding groups of tourists and shoppers. “The minute I’m here, I feel different. All the edge of life fades away, and it’s just…” He gestured toward the harbor, where boats bobbed on the moors with the sparkling Atlantic behind them. “Take a deep breath.”
She did, getting a nose full of salt and sea and clean fresh air. “It’s glorious.”
“Put it in your book,” he said, tossing her a smile. “It’s the smell of…”
“Blackthorne?” she guessed on a laugh.
“Without the baggage,” he replied, stopping at the next light and looking at her. “Without the branding and the business and the bottom line. This, to me, is the best part of being a Blackthorne.”
Brock Page 8
