Island Road: The Billionaire Brothers

by Lily Everett

  Butterflies swarmed around Greta’s insides. Tracing a decades-old water ring stained into the wooden table, she whispered, “But what if I don’t want to resist?”

  Penny’s brows went up. She knew more than most people did about Greta’s situation, but she didn’t scoff. Instead, she stretched her arm across the corner of the table to lightly clasp Greta’s strong wrist in her slim, sturdy fingers. “Protect your heart, sweetie. That’s all I’m saying. I don’t know that you can trust Miles with it.”

  “Trust me with what?”

  The deep, smooth voice had both women popping up straight in their chairs and turning toward the doorway.

  Lounging against the doorjamb like something out of a magazine Mrs. Gooch would insist on selling wrapped in brown paper down at the general store, Miles Harrington hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his sinfully tight, borrowed jeans and smiled a cool, inquisitive smile.

  The jeans obviously came from Logan’s suitcase, since the two elder brothers were about the same height, but Logan was built slightly leaner than Miles’s powerful bulk. Greta swallowed hard.

  Miles’s T-shirt, on the other hand … That was all Dylan. Tight enough in the sleeves to strain against biceps Miles sure as hell didn’t acquire from typing away on a computer, the clinging black cotton showed every slab of muscle banding Miles’s chest, every line corrugating his abs. And when he breathed in, the hem rose above the waist of the dark denim, baring a strip of tanned belly and the enticing shadows of two divots on either side of his hips.

  “No one had a T-shirt that would fit you, huh?” Greta knew she sounded odd, her voice hoarse and thick, but hell, she was proud of herself for being able to string a full sentence together.

  Miles tugged briefly at the hem of the shirt, then shrugged, exposing another brief flash of washboard abs. “All of Logan’s were even tighter. Plus, they had nerdy slogans on them. This one might be short, but at least it’s plain. What’s this about not trusting me?”

  Casting Penny a furious, shushing glance, Greta leapt out of her chair and herded Miles down the front hallway and out the door. “Nothing! We weren’t even talking about you. Not every conversation two women have is about you, Harrington.”

  “Mmm,” Miles hummed, obviously unconvinced, but thankfully he let it go. “Dylan mentioned he’d been into your store and bought a full tool kit when he first arrived on the island. We should check the shed in the backyard, but he didn’t think we had the right kind of screws to support the weight of the swing. And there might be issues in the ceiling structure, so we should grab the ladder and check that out before we head to the store.”

  Relieved to have a clear set of tasks—and ones Greta could perform in her sleep, after growing up hearing her mother advise their customers on home repairs—she hurried down the porch steps and around the side of the house.

  The heady perfume of rosebushes in full bloom filled her lungs, and the steady beat of the sun made her glad to slip into the darkness of the tiny shed.

  “It’s already hot out there,” she remarked, then felt stupid. The weather—what a fascinating conversationalist she’d turned out to be!

  “The heat feels different here than it does in New York,” Miles replied, ducking down to rummage through the clutter piled against the shed’s walls. “Softer, wetter, saltier—but somehow cleaner.”

  His words caused an answering heat to beat through Greta’s bloodstream. Clearing her throat, she said, “At least I remembered to slather on the daily moisturizer Mama’s always after me to wear. The one with sunscreen in it.” Greta rubbed a self-conscious finger over the bridge of her nose. “I don’t need any more freckles. I already look like a ragamuffin as it is.”

  Miles leaned across her in the small space, the breadth of his warm chest blocking the light from the open shed door for a moment so that Greta felt utterly surrounded by him. Heaving the stepladder up off the floor and over his shoulder with a soft grunt of effort, Miles said, “I don’t know what a ragamuffin is—if I check my phone, will I find it in Webster’s dictionary?—but I like your freckles. They’re like specks of cinnamon in cream.”

  “I’ll cream you,” Greta said nonsensically, then cringed. “Sorry. Autopilot response drilled into me by years of dealing with brothers.”

  Even in the darkness of the shed, she could see the way his eyes lit with laughter, tinged with a bit of wistfulness. “You have brothers, too? Sounds like you’re close.”

  Close in a way Miles clearly wished he could be, with Dylan and Logan. Heart squeezing in empathy, Greta helped him carry the stepladder and the other supplies they’d gathered around the house to the front porch.

  But as she followed the tall, wide-backed, lean-hipped form and watch the play of muscles under that sexy black T-shirt when he twisted his torso to deposit the heavy metal ladder on the porch, Greta had to take a moment to remember her friend’s words of wisdom.

  Protect your heart.

  No matter what else she yielded to Miles Harrington in her quest to live a little, for however long it lasted—she had to defend the one part of her he definitely didn’t want, and wouldn’t know how to care for.

  Chapter 4

  Being right usually felt more satisfying.

  Miles browsed through the shelves of Hackley’s Hardware and contemplated the leaden weight that had descended on his gut when he’d walked in on Penny Little cautioning Greta about trusting him.

  Penny obviously had something to hide. Something Greta knew, and hadn’t told him.

  Yet, he promised himself, picking a bottle of grill cleaner off the shelf at random. He stared blindly at the label for a moment before setting it back down next to a stack of gardening gloves.

  She hadn’t told him yet. But she would when he stepped up the intensity on this seduction campaign.

  If she ever comes back out here. He sent an impatient glance toward the back of the store, where she’d disappeared behind the counter and into an interior office as soon as they walked into the empty shop.

  In the five minutes Greta had been gone, no one else came into the cramped, rabbit warren of Hackley’s Hardware. Old wooden shelving units stretched up to the ceiling, forming narrow aisles broken up by the occasional item that was too large to fit on a shelf. He wandered closer to the front of the store to peer out the large display window at the bustling small-town street, and found himself gazing straight into the curious stares of the old men who’d been playing checkers out front when Greta and Miles arrived.

  The skinny, whiskery one in flannel scowled, almost as if he were warning Miles off, but the jolly-looking guy wearing the battered gold-painted crown gave him a jaunty wave.

  Waving back bemusedly, Miles didn’t hear Greta come up behind him until she was close enough to put a light hand against the small of his back. Her fingers slipped below the hem of the slightly too short shirt, and brushed hot, sensitive skin.

  Accidental slip? he wondered with a pleasurable shiver. He hoped not. He hoped Greta was as into this as he was.

  “Are they your store mascots?” he asked, gesturing at the unabashedly interested old men.

  Greta laughed. “Pretty much. King and Pete set up their checkerboard out there most every day during the summer, until it gets too hot. They do more gossiping than playing, though. They know everything that happens on this island, and they spread news better than the Sanctuary Gazette.”

  “Nothing much to see in here—we’re the only customers.”

  Greta opened her mouth to reply, but before she could say a word, a soft voice drawled from the rear of the shop. “Bless your heart. Aren’t you funny? Why, surely you know that your sudden arrival by helicopter yesterday is the biggest thing to happen on little old Sanctuary Island in years.”

  Miles turned to see the petite, trim figure of an older woman with Greta’s velvety brown eyes behind the pitted wooden counter. When she hoisted herself onto the stool situated by the cash register and smiled at him, the expression made her
look exactly like her daughter.

  Because who else could this be, but Mother Hackley?

  Rushing forward with hands outstretched, as if to help with balance or support, Greta confirmed it by saying, “Mama, wait, let me…”

  “Pssh.” Mrs. Hackley waved her away gently. “I’m fine. The day I need help climbing up onto my throne, here, is the day you can put me out to pasture. Until then, remember your manners and introduce me to your friend.”

  Glancing over her shoulder as if unsure the term “friend” truly applied, or wondering if Miles would be offended by it somehow, Greta said, “Sure. Um, Mama, this is Miles Harrington. Miles, this is my mother, Esther Hackley.”

  Sparing a fleeting wish for the comfortable armor of his three-piece bespoke suit and perfectly broken-in wing tips, Miles put on the smile he used on the wives and family members of his board of directors.

  “Mrs. Hackley,” he said, stepping forward to envelop her papery-skinned hand in both of his. “I’m glad to meet you. Your daughter has been so hospitable, showing me around the island.”

  Mrs. Hackley fluffed her silvery blond curls and tilted her chin up proudly. “Of course, any tour of Sanctuary Island would have to include this place. It’s one of the oldest businesses on the square, been in our family for generations.”

  “Mama,” Greta cut in, her voice slightly muffled with embarrassment. “Miles already knows all about Hackley’s, I told him on the way over. Don’t fuss.”

  “Don’t fuss?” Esther spread her thin arms wide to encompass the store. “This place is your history and your future, Greta. You should be proud.”

  “I am.” Darting him a glance, Greta hooked her arm through Miles’s elbow and started tugging him toward the front of the shop. “You know that. But Miles and I have a lot to see and a few errands to run, so we’ll just grab a couple of eye bolts and be on our way.”

  Because he was watching the interaction with interest, on the principle that any information he learned about Greta Hackley could be useful in his plan, Miles saw the way Esther’s gaze sharpened. Hopping off the stool, Esther rounded the back counter and barreled straight over to them.

  “What sort of errands?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and staring her daughter down, like a military general in a pink, fuzzy cardigan. “And what do you need the hooks for?”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hackley.” Miles studied the woman’s tense face. “We’re just rehanging the porch swing at my family’s house on Island Road. Nothing nefarious.”

  “Esther,” she snapped, without even glancing at him. All her attention was focused on the stubborn set of Greta’s jaw. “Tell me, Mr. Harrington. Will this repair require my daughter to climb around on a ladder?”

  Feeling as if he was missing something, which was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation, Miles glanced back and forth between mother and daughter. Locked in a silent battle of wills, neither woman seemed to remember he was even in the store with them.

  Sticking out a careful feeler, Miles said, “Not necessarily. I could be the one up the ladder, with Greta directing from below.”

  That surprised a look from Greta, her wide brown gaze snapping to his face. “You’d take direction from me? I would’ve thought you’d be a macho, arrogant know-it-all.”

  “Greta.” Esther’s shocked voice made her daughter wince. Finally looking away from Greta, Esther said, “I apologize for my daughter, Mr. Harrington. I’m the one she’s angry with. She shouldn’t be taking it out on you. And she shouldn’t be angry with me, either, I might add—since all I want is what any mother wants. To keep her safe.”

  “Mama, nothing is going to happen to me.” The pleading note in Greta’s voice surprised Miles, but he was by no means an expert on parent-child relationships. Was it normal for an adult daughter to still be subject to so much worry?

  Esther was shaking her head. “I never would have agreed to mind the store today if I knew you planned to spend your time off recklessly climbing up ladders and attempting repairs you have no business making.” Brightening, she turned to Miles. “Why don’t you call one of my boys, Mr. Harrington? They’d be much better suited to helping you with your porch swing.”

  Aware that he’d somehow stumbled directly into the middle of a long-standing mother-daughter battle, Miles held up his hands to remind them both that he was an unarmed combatant.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Ha—Esther.” Miles corrected himself at the glint of swift annoyance in the older woman’s frown. He wasn’t here to make enemies. And even though he didn’t fully understand the subtextual ramifications of this conversation, he was a CEO. Smoothing over personnel problems and getting people on the same page was basically his entire job. So he smiled blandly and said, “I’ll take care of the repair myself.”

  “I’m not a child,” Greta gritted through clenched teeth. “And I’m not suggesting that I help him roof his house, followed by a rousing game of tackle football. I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t you minimize my completely valid concerns, young lady.” Esther put her hands on her round hips and stared at her daughter as if calculating whether Greta was too tall to fit over her knee for a good spanking. “You know you have to be careful. If I can’t trust you to take care of yourself…”

  Greta went pale, her bloodless lips an unhappy curve, and Miles didn’t even stop to wonder why he hated the sight so much. He simply rushed into the fray. “I have an idea, Esther. What if you hand over the care and safety of your daughter to me, just for one day? I promise not to let her fall from any ladders, and make sure she enjoys her day off in a completely safe, responsible manner. You have my word.”

  The look Esther gave him let Miles know she wasn’t at all sure his word was worth the oxygen he’d used to form the sentence, but before she could turn him down, Greta huffed out a shuddery breath and stalked out of the store.

  Miles started after her at once, but the light touch of Esther’s hand on his shoulder made him pause. He glanced back to find her offering him a handful of large silver hooks ending in long screws, and a sad smile. “Here, on the house. You’re going to have your hands full with my daughter.”

  “You’ll trust me with her for the day?” Miles accepted the hooks with a sense that he was signing off on a contract he hadn’t read.

  “I’m trusting that Greta has been reminded that she needs to take care of herself. She’s not like everyone else, Mr. Harrington. There are things she can’t do, ways that she needs to be careful, but she hates to admit it. Even to herself.”

  In the short pause that followed, Miles was torn between the urge to demand Esther be more specific, and the intense need to follow Greta. In the end, the invisible tether connecting his rib cage to Greta Hackley pulled taut, and he started for the door.

  “Thank you for the hooks,” he said over his shoulder. And even though he had no idea what Esther thought could happen to her daughter on this sleepy little island, he said, “I promise I’ll keep her safe.”

  “Just bring her back to me in one piece,” Esther called. “I’ll take it from there.”

  Miles didn’t have time to question why the thought of handing Greta back over to her mother released adrenaline to tighten his muscles. Greta was halfway down the block already, and he had to catch up with her.

  Wrestling his phone from the back pocket of his borrowed jeans, Miles swiped open the lock and scrolled through his recent contacts for the number he wanted.

  He had plans to make.

  Chapter 5

  Anger fizzed and bubbled through Greta’s veins like anesthesia, numbing her to every other emotion.

  Except, of course, embarrassment.

  You’d think she’d be used to the way her mother wanted to cocoon her in endless layers of bubble wrap, but somehow, it had felt different to be told how helpless and fragile she was in front of Miles Harrington.

  But since she couldn’t bring herself to get mad at her mother, Miles was the one who got the br
unt of Greta’s embarrassed rage when his long, loping strides caught up to her at the corner of Main Street and Island Road.

  “I don’t appreciate you ganging up on me with my mother,” she snapped out, whirling to face him. “And I certainly don’t need you to take care of me.”

  “Of course you don’t,” he agreed.

  But Greta was on a roll. “And if you think I’m too delicate or weak to help get that swing rehung—”

  “Here,” Miles interrupted, grabbing her flailing hand and dropping a couple of heavy metal hooks into her palm. “Peace offering to prove I don’t think you’re weak. Please don’t take a shot at me with those in your fist. I like my nose the way it is.”

  Closing her fingers over the cold metal, Greta deflated. “Sorry. God, my mother knows me too well. I am taking it out on you. I apologize, and I promise your nose is safe.”

  Of course that led to Greta thinking about the other things her mother might be right about, and the surge of frustration at her body’s limitations was almost comforting.

  She’d been dealing with it ever since she could remember, in one form or another. And no matter how strong she felt or how she pushed herself to gain the strength others took for granted, Greta could always count on her mother to slap her in the face with reality.

  She glanced up to see Miles studying her expression, head cocked inquisitively to one side like a panther trying to understand the nonsensical flailing of its prey. “There’s no ticking clock on that repair back at the house,” he said slowly. “Let’s take our time, see a little more of the island.”

  Sighing, Greta said, “You mean my prison? Sure, great.”

  “Prison.” Miles frowned. With the light growth of beard after one day without shaving shadowing his hard-edged jaw, he looked piratical. Dangerous, like Penny said.

  Greta shook her head, ignoring the tingle of desire. “Forget about it. My mother turns me into a crazy person. So!” She gestured expansively at the wide, flat swath of green grass dotted with flowering tulip poplars and dogwoods.