She giggles and I peek an eye open so I can see her. Because it’s after ten in the morning and you’re still in bed.
She sets her hands on my chest and starts shoving and shaking me until I’m flopping around like I’m having a seizure.
“Alright, alright.” I open an eye again. What can I do for you, your highness? I sign, doing a little wave with my hands.
She laughs again.
I wanna go see Ben. Can we do that and get lunch there today? I’m in the mood for some cheesy pretzels.
I smile. Any day that Ivy is in the mood to see our brother and fill up her tiny frame with some food is a good day.
That sounds like something I can definitely make happen.
Yay! Okay, I’ll go get ready. And then she’s sprinting out of my room and out of the guesthouse, to do god knows what.
I roll over and push my face back against the pillows, wishing I could have gotten just one more precious hour of sleep.
Especially after the last few days.
I should have known when I came back and things with my mother were so easy that first night that it was too good to be true. That her previous promises of a quiet family summer at home were bullshit attempts at something I have no interest in.
As real and open as she was with me when I first got home, the woman just can’t help herself. Even in the wake of our family’s troubles, even with the very scary shit storm headed our way, she still wants to showboat and schmooze with the socialites of Hermosa Beach.
After I got back Friday night, I woke up Saturday morning to my mother standing over me in bed, that plastic mask back on her face, letting me know I’d be attending a fundraising dinner with her and Ivy at the marina.
She didn’t care that I might not want to go.
She didn’t care that Ivy might not want to go.
All she cared about was the fact that it was a Calloway Foundation event and that dad couldn’t be the only one getting the attention for something helping the community.
I roll my eyes just thinking about it. The last thing I’d wanted to do after getting back to town was deal with the insufferable members of the local yacht club.
But I didn’t really have a choice. Because there’s only one person keeping this family together right now. It’s definitely not my brother Ben, who isn’t allowed at our house. And it’s definitely not my dad, who thinks it’s completely acceptable to attend a yacht club function with his ex-wife, his children, and his new twenty-something-year-old child bride.
So it has to be me.
Most of the dinner had been exactly what I thought it would be. Black tie. Stuffy, unbearable conversation with people who don’t give a rat’s ass about anything but money and status.
That might have been the world I was raised in. It might even be the world I’m the most comfortable in. But that doesn’t mean it’s the world I envision for myself in the future. It doesn’t mean that’s what I enjoy.
In San Francisco, I can be a nobody. I throw on a pair of jeans and a graphic t-shirt, and I’m just another hipster trekking through the city. Anywhere else, I don’t have to be a Calloway. The second son of one of the wealthiest business moguls in the South Bay. I get to just be me. Wyatt. The guy who enjoys riding motorcycles, spending time in the company of beautiful women, and building up my business portfolio.
But at home, I have a role to play.
Caretaker.
The prodigal son.
I think my dad still assumes that one of us – me or my brother Ben – will finally step up and start working for his company. But I don’t see that ever happening. I’m far too independent, and have too much self-respect to ever grovel at the feet of a man who saw our family as inconsequential.
My presence at the Hermosa Beach Yacht Club was strictly for my sister, since it was her first invitation to the annual event. Technically, she didn’t need me there. She’s been to enough Calloway Foundation functions to know how they work. But after I’d told my mother that I wouldn’t be going, Ivy begged me to reconsider.
Imagine my surprise when I saw Pier Girl, her bright eyes just as shocked to see me. I could have sworn something larger was at play. To see each other three times in less than twenty-four hours is… not plausible. In any environment.
This might be a little beach town, but it’s also the real world, not a Hallmark movie, and my earlier wonderings if I’d see her again had been followed with a very reluctant acceptance that it was highly unlikely.
And yet… there she was.
She’s one of those women who leave an impression. Not in the way she looks, though God knows I was trying to recite baseball stats to myself when she’d bent over to pick up her shoes and I’d caught an accidental peek down the front of her dress. She’s a bombshell, and I don’t think she has any clue.
No. The impression she left had everything to do with who she is, not just what she looks like.
My heart stutters as I remember her translating for Ivy. Making sure she wasn’t left out.
Even Lucas, who loves Ivy to death, would never have thought of something like that. Something so simple. So small.
But then, the floor had fallen out from beneath me.
I grit my teeth at the memory.
She’s Hannah fucking Morrison.
How?
How?
I never thought it would actually happen.
That she would be here. In this town.
I should be mad at Lucas.
Fuming.
For his scheming. How he manipulated this. Twisted everything up.
But really, I’m mad at her. She shouldn’t be here. Infiltrating the locations we go. Probably making friends with the people I’ve known since childhood.
I never looked her up. Even after all these years. And there I was, checking her out, wondering – or, worrying, rather – if she was dating Lucas or was free game.
And now she’s here. In my face. Making friends with my sister. I had to deal with Ivy’s incessant pestering yesterday. All Sunday long, she kept asking about Hannah, how I knew her, whether I could call Lucas and see if Hannah wanted to hang out.
Like they could ever be friends.
I force myself to roll out of bed and stumble in the direction of the shower, hoping to find the pick-me-up I need to wake my ass from its severely hungover state.
I don’t need to be thinking about how fucking hot Hannah Morrison is. About her wavy blonde hair or how green her eyes were when she looked at me. How red her face flushed when she got embarrassed.
I crank on the shower, chuck off my clothes, and step under the spray before it’s even gotten warm, letting the frigid water drench my body and wake me up in my bones.
It heats quickly, and I spin to let it pound against my back, bracing my hands against the shower wall.
This is my favorite shower in the whole property, and one of the reasons I enjoy staying in the guesthouse instead of the main. I smirk, thinking about the fun I’ve had in this shower. The privacy is definitely appreciated.
I stand in silence for a few minutes, trying to force my mind to turn off. The roving thoughts that seem to keep me up at night and stressed and on edge all day don’t seem to want to go away, though. So eventually, without even washing, I just turn the water off and step out.
I’m drying off when I hear a knock on my door. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I head out to the entry, curious about who would be knocking on my door this early on a Monday. Everyone I know is either asleep, hungover, or already at work for the day.
To say I’m surprised when I see Lucas standing on the other side of the door when I open it is an understatement.
Surprised and irate.
He gives me a smile that oozes with arrogance, that self-satisfied look that he so often has that always seems to crawl under my skin.
“You have a lot of fucking nerve coming by here,” I bite out, spinning around and heading back to my room, but leaving the front door open.
I slam my bed
room door, though it doesn’t actually make me feel any better. Glancing around, I grab my duffle bag and dig around, grabbing a pair of boxers. Then I step over to the closet.
I had a company send down a bunch of my stuff, including most of my clothes, before I got here. It’s a mix of things I want for while I’m here, as well as the things I’ll be taking with me when I leave for London at the end of the summer.
The good thing about hiring someone else to handle it is that I don’t have to deal with everything myself. The shitty part is that it means I never know where anything is for the first few days as I sort through things that have been tucked into the dresser, hung in the closet, or organized onto shelves and around the house.
Once I’ve picked out some jeans, a dark blue shirt and gotten changed, I take a deep breath, letting the air out slowly, and then emerge from my bedroom.
Lucas stands in my kitchen, his back to me as he mixes himself a drink.
“A little early for that, don’t you think?” I say.
He glances over his shoulder to look at me, scoffing. “Coming from you, I can’t take that seriously.”
I cross my arms. “What are you doing here, Lucas? I can’t imagine we have anything to talk about.”
He stays quiet, taking a sip of his drink, assessing me from over the top of the glass.
The rage I’ve been feeling since I saw him at the club with Hannah begins to boil under my skin.
When he continues to stand there, silent, an almost amused expression on his face and sipping from that damn glass, I finally spit something out.
“Lucas, I’m not kidding.”
He sets his drink down on the counter. “I’m not here for any specific reason other than to try and convince you to give this a chance.”
I clench my fists. “Give what a chance?”
He shrugs. “Everything.”
I don’t know what to say in response, so I stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Lucas always has something else to say. But another minute goes by and he doesn’t add anything, so I say what I’ve been dying to get off my chest since the minute I realized it last night.
“You like her,” I say, remembering the easy way they’d interacted, the loving way he’d looked at her.
He shrugs, but continues to stay silent. It reminds me just how much I hate that stupid shrug.
There was one time in junior year of high school when Lucas and I got into a fight. What was it over? His stupid fucking shrug. Well, that and Amie Hanover. But it was mostly the shrug.
I’ve never met someone who seems so incredibly indifferent to everything. I hate it.
“Time for you to go,” I say, picking his drink up off the counter and dumping it into the sink. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“Come on, man,” he says. “You had to know this day was coming. I tried to talk to you about this, but your stubborn ass wouldn’t fucking budge.”
“So you just took matters into your own hands? Is that it?”
He sighs. “Wyatt, we’ve been friends since we were kids…”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Lucas,” I say. “We’re not friends. As far as I’m concerned, both you and Hannah do not exist.”
He looks away, and I grit my jaw. Then I head over to the front door and open it, standing next to it, glaring at him.
“I hope you feel differently someday,” he says. “That you realize nothing is worth throwing away a friendship. A relationship with someone you care about.” Then he turns and heads to the door. He stops right in front of me and slips his sunglasses back on. “I’m taking Hannah to Mary’s for Monday Mournings with everyone. Any way you’ll consider joining?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
He nods his head a few times, adjusting the watch on his wrist. “Like I said. I hope you feel different one day. And that you let me know when that day comes.”
And then he walks out, leaving me angry and unsatisfied, and the door wide fucking open.
But that’s Lucas. He thinks he knows everything. Thinks he controls everything. But he’s wrong about this. This isn’t some game he can play. Lives aren’t a game. And that’s what he’s doing.
And that includes Hannah.
I run my hand through my hair, tugging on the short, damp strands, enjoying the tiny little bite of pain that hits my scalp.
Then I turn and finish getting ready for the day.
Mondays used to be a sacred day for me and my friends. We’d stumble our hungover asses to Mary’s and have Monday Mournings. Commiserate about the weekend. Talk about hookups and hangovers, and the girls would catch up on gossip and family drama.
I grit my teeth.
Well, not me. Not anymore. I have other priorities this summer, and they don’t include playing whatever fucking game Lucas is trying to bait me into.
Once I’m done getting ready, I head over to the main house, finding Ivy in pajamas, putting on makeup at a mirror set up on the kitchen counter.
I step in front of her and wait until she glances at me.
Since when do you wear makeup? I ask, certain that she hadn’t been wearing any the last time I saw her when she and mom came to visit me late last year.
She rolls her eyes and continues to put on more mascara. Once she’s done, she closes the tube and sets it down. Only since forever. Duh.
I blink.
Well then.
When I turn to grab an orange juice from the fridge, I see Vicky walk into the kitchen with a rag and spray bottle.
“How long has Ivy been wearing makeup?” I ask her, keeping my back to my sister so she can’t try and read my lips. The little runt is good at it and it has bitten me in the ass more than a few times.
“She’s been wearing makeup for the past year,” Vicky replies, spraying one section of the counter and starting to wipe it down.
That can’t be right, but I guess it’s more likely that I’m wrong than for Vic to misremember something like that.
“She’s only twelve,” I say, as if that means anything. “That’s too young to be wearing makeup.”
“I know you’re talking about me,” Ivy says from behind me.
I spin to look at her.
Don’t talk about me when I’m right here and can’t hear you. It’s really rude.
I nod. You’re right. I’m sorry. I pause. I was saying you’re too young to be wearing makeup.
Mom said it was okay.
Yeah and we both know what mom says is always a good idea.
Ivy glares at me, the cute smile she gave me earlier long gone. But that lightning quickness of emotional change is just what being a pre-teen is all about, if I remember correctly.
I cross my arms. I’m not saying you can’t wear it. I just don’t like it, is all. You’re growing up too quickly.
She smirks at me, then looks back at the mirror resting on the counter in front of her.
Well, hurry up with your face, short stuff. We have a brother to see and delicious lunch to enjoy. We’re leaving in five minutes.
She whoops and hops off her stool at the counter, leaving her makeup and mirror behind. Then she bolts up the stairs with more energy than I thought she had in her tiny little body.
“You don’t actually think that’s a good idea, do you?”
I glance over at Vicky. “Well, Ben needs to know I’m in town and Ivy wants to see her brother.”
Vicky rolls her eyes. “I’m sure Ben already knows you’re in town. If you were riding your motorcycle around, and spending time at the marina, everyone knows you’re back in town.”
I smirk at her. “I’ll see you later Vicky.”
Heading to the stairs, I lean against the wall with my arms crossed waiting for Ivy. I can hear her upstairs, thundering around like she weighs three hundred pounds, trying to get ready.
I glance at the clock that hangs above the entry table. Sure enough, with just ten seconds to spare, Ivy comes sprinting down, taking the stairs two at a time, coming so fast she nearly c
rashes into the wall at the base of the stairs.
I reach out to catch her but she braces herself. Then she looks to me with a smile.
Alright, mister, I’m ready. Let’s go!
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up behind Bennie’s in the loading dock, parking off to the side to allow for delivery trucks to still get in and out.
Ivy looks at me. You’re not supposed to park here.
Well we get special privileges, I tell her.
She rolls her eyes and opens up her door, slamming it behind her before I’ve even turned the key.
I sigh.
I love my sister to death. But it really is amazing how much she changes each time I see her. It makes me feel old when I’m barely in my mid-twenties.
Powering off the car, I open my door and step out of my own seat, following in her wake to the entrance.
The Escalade my mom bought last summer, when she was going through a car-buying phase along with her friend Joyce, is my favorite car to drive when I’m in town.
Mostly when I’m visiting, I just stay on my bike. I don’t need a car, and if I’m hooking up with someone, they ride bitch.
But when I’m driving my sister around, safety is priority number one.
Of course, driving a behemoth of an SUV around makes parking in Hermosa a bit more difficult. Which is why I take advantage of the fact that no one is going to call HBPD on a Calloway vehicle parked at Bennie’s.
When I finally meet Ivy at the entrance, she gives me a smile –these mood swings are going to drive me up a wall – and loops her arm with mine before I open the door and we head inside.
I pull off my sunglasses, letting my eyes adjust to the interior of Bennie’s, tucking them into the neck of my shirt. Glancing around, I spot Hamish in the corner.
I lift a hand, giving him a wave.
He smiles at me and heads over from where he was at the bar.
“Wyatt Calloway, as I live and breath.” We clasp hands. “Good to see you, friend.”
We’re not friends, but I don’t say that to him.
I’m not friends with people who treat my sister like she’s invisible. I know I might be the one people want to talk to, but she’s a person too, and it pisses me the fuck off that I’ve been in here with Ivy a handful of times, and not once has he even acknowledged her.
Promise Me Nothing (Hermosa Beach Book 1) Page 12
