by Vi Keeland
“Women’s shit. I don’t know. You must know better than me. Pull something together.”
Millie looked like she was seconds away from walking over and feeling my forehead to see if I had a fever.
Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe I was sick instead of losing my mind? It damn well better be one or the other. I dragged a hand through my hair. A committee on women’s initiatives? I wanted to be part of that almost as much as I wanted someone to grip my nuts in their fist and twist. Yet here I was, apparently spearheading the group.
What the fuck?
Ireland Saint James. That’s what the fuck. In my entire life, I’d never had to go out of my way to talk to a woman, yet this woman had me calling her to check how her day was going and then inventing a fucking committee when she asked the reason for my call. Stress, too much work—it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that I could be experiencing a breakdown.
While I debated a quick trip to a therapist, my assistant was still standing in my office, looking at me like I had two heads. I picked up a file and looked at her pointedly.
“Do you need anything else from me to get it started?”
“Umm... No, I don’t think so.”
“Good. Then that’ll be all.”
Millie stopped in my doorway and turned back. “The mail came. Would you like today’s letter—”
“Throw it out,” I barked.
“I’ll get right on it. And don’t forget about the photo shoot tonight.”
The confused look on my face told her I had no fucking idea what she was talking about, so she filled in the blanks.
“You have an interview and photo shoot for Today’s Entrepreneur magazine. It was scheduled a few months ago, and it’s on your calendar.”
Shit. Photo shoots and interviews were right up there with committees on women in the workplace on my list of crap I had zero interest in being part of. “What time?”
“Four thirty. At Leilani.”
I looked at my watch. Great. I had an hour to finish up six hours of work.
***
A half dozen people were already sitting on the dock in front of Leilani when I parked at the marina. It was four thirty, right on the nose. They must’ve been early.
A familiar-looking redheaded woman smiled as I approached.
“Mr. Lexington. Amanda Cadet.” She extended her hand to me. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
Again. Well, that explained why she looked familiar. Though I had no idea where we’d met. Probably some industry function. “You, too. Please, call me Grant.”
“Alright. And please call me Amanda.”
I looked around at a shitload of equipment. “Are you moving in?”
She laughed. “We brought a lot of camera and video equipment, because we weren’t sure of the setting. To be safe, we even packed some props and a few canvas backgrounds. Though we can obviously put that all back in the truck.” She turned to eye my boat. “This sailboat is stunning, and the scenery is better than any movie set.”
“Thank you. It was my grandfather’s. First sailboat he ever built in 1965.”
“Well, you could have told me it was brand new.”
I nodded my head toward the Leilani May. “Why don’t I show you around, and you can decide where your crew wants to set up.”
I gave Amanda a quick tour. The sixty-foot ketch was eye candy, even to non-boaters. Navy hull, satin finish teak wood, cream upholstery, stainless steel galley, an owner’s stateroom more luxurious than most apartments, and three guest cabins made it look more like a Vineyard Vines ad than a sixty-year-old sailboat.
“So…what do you think? Where should we do this?”
“Honestly, anywhere would make for a great shoot. The boat is beautiful.” She lifted a painted nail to her bottom lip, calling my attention to it. “And the subject is flawless. This cover is going to pull big numbers.”
Amanda Cadet was attractive, and she knew it. She also knew how to use it to get what she wanted. Though whatever she thought she was getting from me—a story with some major revelation or my mouth between her legs—she wouldn’t be. Because business and pleasure don’t mix. I almost laughed at that thought after the way I’d been acting around Ms. Aruba Tits.
I held out my hand to indicate she should exit the cabin first. “Why don’t we go out on the rear deck and set up on the left side with the marina in the background?”
“That sounds perfect.”
I posed for pictures for the better part of an hour, hating every moment of it, but keeping my contempt to myself. When they had enough shots to plaster the walls of my office, Amanda told everyone to pack it up.
“Do you want me to video the interview?” her cameraman asked.
The piece she was putting together was for print, but it wasn’t uncommon to record a session so the reporter could go back later and listen for things they’d missed in their notes.
Amanda’s eyes swept over me. “No, that’s okay. I think I’m good taking care of this one all by myself.”
After the crew left, we sat alone on the back deck.
“So how often do you get down here to go boating? My brother is an orthopedic surgeon with a fifty-foot Carver down in San Diego Bay. I think he used it twice last year.”
The truthful response to that question was every damn day. But I preferred to keep my private life private. The fact that I lived on the Leilani May was none of her business, and definitely not something I intended to share with her readers.
I nodded like I could relate to her brother. “Not often enough.”
“I love that you still have your grandfather’s first boat. I think the things a man holds on to say a lot about him.”
If she only knew the half of it. “This boat built my family’s company.”
“How so?”
“This was his first model, and he used it to take the initial orders for Lexington Craft Yachts. Thirty years later, Lexington Craft went public, and my family used the proceeds to expand into different entertainment-related businesses. My dad had started a sports magazine, and my grandfather bought a few more publications. Eventually that led to buying a news station and chain of movie theaters. So without this boat, you wouldn’t be interested in interviewing me today.”
She flaunted a flirtatious smile. “Something tells me I’d be interested in interviewing you whether you were the CEO of one of the top 100 growing companies in America or your job was to clean this boat.”
“I’m not that interesting.”
“Humble, too, huh? I like it.” She winked. “Tell me about your family’s foundation. Your mother started it, correct?”
“That’s right. It’s called Pia’s Place. My mother was put into the foster care system because of abuse when she was five. She moved around a lot, so it was difficult for her to keep the same therapist for too long. She had a different counselor every year at Child Protective Services, because those people are underpaid and overworked, so they tend to have a revolving door. She always felt different than the other kids in school, most of whom didn’t know what foster care was. So it was difficult to connect with someone who understood what she was going through. Pia’s Place is sort of like a big brother program for foster kids, except all of the big brothers and sisters are former foster children themselves, so they can really connect with the kids they’re assigned to. The foundation trains the volunteers and covers the cost of all of their outings, meals, and entertainment when they spend time with their Little Sister or Brother. It also pays down a chunk of any student loans the volunteers have or helps them pay for a college education.”
“That’s amazing.”
It was amazing, and that’s because my mother was a very special person. But all this shit was readily available online. So if this was news to Amanda, she hadn’t done her homework.
I smiled. “My mother never forgot where she came from.”
“And you and your two sisters were adopted from foster care, right?”
I nodded. More shit anyone with access to Google could find in two minutes. “That’s right. My parents became foster parents when I was five. I was first, and then my sister Kate, then Jillian. We were all originally foster placements. My mother continued to take in children until she became sick.”
“I’m sorry about your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“And do you have a Little Brother? I mean, in the program. I know you don’t have an actual one.”
“I do. He’s eleven, going on twenty. My sisters are paired up, too.”
She smiled. “What’s his name?”
Finally, one probing question. Though I wasn’t about to give her Leo’s name. The relationships between a Big and a Little were private—especially mine and Leo’s tangled one. “I prefer not to divulge anything about kids who are part of the program.”
“Oh. Sure. Yeah. I understand. They’re minors. I wasn’t thinking.”
Over the next half hour we talked about more things that would find their way into the puff piece she’d write—who runs what at Lexington Industries, how well the company is doing, and the direction I’d like to take things in the next few years. Then she attempted to get some personal questions in.
“Are you single?”
I nodded. “I am.”
“No special someone to take sailing on the weekend on this beautiful boat?”
“Not at the moment.”
She tilted her head. “That’s a shame.”
My phone started to buzz. I looked down. “It’s the office. Please excuse me for a moment.”
“Of course.”
I swiped to answer, knowing full well who would be on the line, and took a few steps away from Amanda.
“Hi, Mr. Lexington. It’s Millie, and I’m about to head out for the day. It’s just about six o’clock. You wanted me to call and let you know when it was six.”
“Yes, that’s great. Thank you.”
I held the phone up to my ear for a minute after my assistant hung up, and then turned back to my interviewer. “Sorry. I have an overseas call I’m going to need to take in a few minutes. Do you think we can finish up?”
“Oh. Of course. No problem.” She stood. “I think I have everything I need for now anyway.”
It’s gonna be one hell of a dull article. “Great. Thank you.”
Amanda packed up her notepad and dug a business card out of her purse. Writing something on the back, she extended it to me with a tilt of her head. “I wrote my home number on the card.” She smiled. “I love to sail.”
I smiled back like I was flattered. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m going out.” Which will not likely be anytime soon…considering the boat hasn’t moved from the dock in close to a decade.
Offering a hand, I helped Amanda over to the dock.
She lifted the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and looked down at the name painted in gold across the back of the navy hull. “Leilani May,” she said. “Who’s the boat named after?”
I winked. “Sorry. Interview is over.”
Chapter 7
* * *
Grant - 15 years ago
I couldn’t stop staring.
The snow was coming down pretty heavy, and the new girl stood out front with her mouth open, tongue sticking out, and no shoes on as she spun around with her eyes shut. She laughed as she caught snowflakes in her mouth.
Lily.
Lily. I needed to get some of those flowers to see what they smelled like. Not that I was dumb enough to think Lily would actually smell like a lily, but I somehow knew the smell was going to be the best smell ever.
I had a gnawing ache in my chest as I watched from the window. The logical reason for it was the grilled cheese and tomato soup Mom had made for lunch earlier. But I knew that wasn’t it. Even at fourteen, I knew what love felt like. Well, I hadn’t until an hour ago when the doorbell rang. Yet now I was absolutely certain of it.
Lily.
Lily.
Grant’s Lily.
It even sounds right, doesn’t it?
Grant and Lily.
Lily and Grant.
If we have kids, maybe they’ll be named after flowers, too—Violet, Poppy, Ivy. Wait. Ivy isn’t a flower. It’s a damn weed. I think?
Whatever.
It’s not important.
I leaned closer to the window in my father’s office, and my warm breath fogged the view. Raising a hand, I wiped it clear with the cuff of my sweatshirt. The movement caught Lily’s attention down below. She stopped spinning, cupped her hands around her eyes to shield them from the snow, and squinted up at me. I probably should’ve ducked so she didn’t see me, but I was frozen—completely and totally mesmerized by this girl.
She yelled something I couldn’t hear with the window shut. So I unlocked it and slid it open.
I had to clear my throat to get words out. “Did you say something?”
“Yeah. I said, are you some sort of a creeper or something?”
Shit. Now she thinks I’m weird. First I’d practically run out of the room when my mother introduced her to us, and now she’d caught me watching her like some sort of stalker. I needed to play it cool.
“No,” I yelled. “Just watching to see if any of your toes are going to turn black and fall off from frostbite. Didn’t you see The Day After Tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been to a movie.”
My eyes widened. “You’ve never been to a movie?”
“Nope. My mom doesn’t believe in television or movies. She thinks TV makes us believe stupid things.”
“But if you’d watched The Day After Tomorrow, you might have shoes on.”
She smiled, and My. Heart. Literally. Skipped. A. Beat. It felt like it had done a quick somersault the moment she flashed her pearly whites. I rubbed at the spot on my chest, though it didn’t hurt at all.
Looking down again at Lily, I yelled, “Hey, do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Smile.”
And there it was—an unmistakable skipped beat inside my chest.
Lily turned to look all around her. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Bells jingling?”
Maybe we were both imagining things.
“No. No bells.”
She shrugged. “Maybe it’s Santa Claus. I heard you rich people believe until you’re, like, thirty because you keep getting gifts every year.”
Suddenly the outside motion detector light flashed on, and I heard my mother’s voice. “Lily? What are you doing out there? Come inside before you catch a cold.”
“Yes, Mrs. Lexington. I was just checking out the snowflakes. I’ve never seen snow before in person.”
“Oh, my. Okay. Well, come inside, and let’s get you properly dressed. Kate has a snowsuit and boots that should fit you…and a hat.”
Lily looked up at me and smiled one more time.
My heart squeezed inside my chest. Again.
Damn…who knew love could be so painful?
***
The next morning I couldn’t find her anywhere. Mom usually made the new kids take the bus to school with me on their first day, and then I’d walk them to the office where she’d already be registering them and talking to the guidance counselor.
I poured cereal into a bowl and grabbed the milk out of the refrigerator, but when I went to put the container back, I heard a loud bang coming from the door that led to the garage. I scooped up a mouthful of Golden Grahams and went to see what was going on, carrying my cereal bowl.
Opening the door, I halted mid-chew.
“What are you doing?”
Lily’s brows drew tighter. She seemed legitimately confused by my question.
“Painting. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks more like you painted yourself.”
Lily stood in front of an easel, her arms and legs covered in a dozen different colors of paint.
She had on a long T-shirt that covered her ass, but barely. My eyes snagged on her legs, which had less paint than the top half of her, but were so long and smooth. I’d never seen a girl with such long legs before. I had the strongest urge to pick her up and see if she could cross her feet at the ankles behind my back.
I didn’t realize how long I’d been staring until she spoke again.
“You’re dripping.”
My eyes jumped up to meet hers. “Huh?”
She smiled and nodded her chin toward my cereal bowl. I’d been holding it crooked and milk was dripping onto my shoes.
“Shit.” I righted the bowl.
Lily laughed. God, this girl was beautiful. Long, black hair, naturally tanned skin in the dead of winter, and the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. And she was tall—only a few inches shorter than me. Ever since the summer of eighth grade, when I grew four inches in just a few months, most of the girls didn’t come up to my shoulders. But Lily did. And it felt right that she was tall—like she was meant to stand out over all the other girls.
I shook my head and snapped myself out of it. “Does my mother know you’re in here painting? The bus comes in, like, fifteen minutes.”
Her button nose wrinkled. “Bus?”
“Yeah, you know…school. It’s seven o’clock.”
“In the morning?”
Now I was as confused as her. “Yes, the morning. You thought it was still nighttime?”
“Yeah. I guess I painted all night. I must’ve lost track of time.” She shrugged. “That happens sometimes.”
I walked over and looked at the canvas. “You painted that?”
“Yeah. It’s not that good.”
My brows rose. The painting, which was some sort of abstract of a bunch of intertwined flowers, looked like it belonged in a museum, if you asked me. “Umm... If that’s not good, I hope you don’t see the crap I make in art class.”
She smiled. And again, my chest tightened.
“My mom took me to Hawaii once. The flowers there were so beautiful. It’s the only thing I like to paint.” She shrugged. “I’m sort of obsessed with doing it. I name them all. This one is called Leilani—it means heavenly flower and child of God in Hawaiian. It’s a popular name there. My grandmother was Willow. My mom is Rose, and I’m Lily. So we’re all named after flowers and plants. Maybe when I have my own little girl someday, I’ll name her Leilani.”
