All My Tomorrows

by Rochelle Alers

  Vaughn gave the beautiful stranger one final intense stare. Long silky dark hair. Expressive almond-shaped eyes. Tawny brown skin slightly kissed from the sun. Although she was wearing a sleeveless dress, it was a bit too formal and didn’t fit with the unusually warm spring afternoon. Her only admission that she knew she was at the beach was the fact that she’d kicked off her pumps and they lay partially submerged in the sand. Maybe that was why she stood out.

  But there was something sad about her though. And as much as Vaughn would love to find out her story, he was late. He purposefully trudged through the sand toward the locker room so he could get changed into business attire. Today was important for the San Diego chapter. Today, the Moguls had visitors. Joshua DeLong and Daniel Cobb, co-presidents of the national chapter in Miami, were in town.

  There were rumors that San Diego could be awarded Chapter of the Year. Vaughn certainly hoped that was the case; it would be a prestigious honor. The chapter had been successful in attracting younger members to the organization, but it hadn’t come without drama. Some of the older members of Prescott George were less enthused. They felt like they were being pushed out to make room for a younger, hipper generation, which simply wasn’t true. Vaughn believed in the Moguls motto: From generation to generation, lifting each other up. If they didn’t pull in the next generation, how could they possibly continue providing college scholarships to needy students and funding to inner-city organizations?

  All of these thoughts coursed through Vaughn’s mind as he took a quick shower, changed into a designer black suit with pinstriped tie and headed for his Ferrari California T in the parking lot. He smiled when he saw the expensive sports vehicle with its turbocharged engine and drop top. For such a new company, Elite had done quite well in the marketplace and afforded Vaughn the luxury of a fancy car, private jet and a beachside mansion in La Jolla. Before turning on the engine, he glanced back at the beach, wondering why a woman as beautiful as that stranger looked so forlorn. He shrugged. Wasn’t his problem. He had bigger fish to fry. He turned the ignition, the Ferrari roared to life and Vaughn sped away.

  * * *

  The San Diego Prescott George chapter was located inside a historic brewery near the East Village. Vaughn parked outside the renovated, environmentally friendly building and strode inside. He walked through the offices, glancing around at the exposed brick, loft ceilings and state-of-the-art canopy lighting that made up the Moguls club as he headed to the all-glass conference room. As in other Prescott George offices, pictures of their founding members, Prescott Owens and George Rollins, hung on the walls, reminding them of who started the organization. The meeting was already underway and multiple sets of eyes glowered at Vaughn as he made his way near the head of the table where Christopher Marland, the chapter’s president, sat next to two strangers who Vaughn could only assume were Daniel Cobb and Joshua DeLong.

  Vaughn gave a halfhearted smile as he sat down. “Sorry. I was unavoidably detained.”

  “By what? A wave?” Another member guffawed.

  Several other members at the table chuckled softly at the joke, but they immediately stopped when Vaughn glared at them.

  “You might want to wipe off the evidence,” Christopher concurred as he reached across the table and brushed sand off Vaughn’s shoulder.

  Darn! He thought he’d caught it all. It wasn’t easy changing into a suit at a beach locker room. Perhaps he should endow the county with a new state-of-the art facility to ensure something like this didn’t happen again?

  “Getting back to business,” Christopher said, returning his focus to the meeting. “We’re pleased that the chapter is being graced with such an honor.”

  “So, it’s true?” Vaughn interrupted him. “We’re Chapter of the Year?”

  “That’s right,” one of his Miami brethren replied. He was tall and fair-skinned with striking blue eyes. Vaughn didn’t know brothers could have eyes that color. “We feel that San Diego has shown not only the vision, but the gravitas necessary to propel Prescott George into the future.”

  “Daniel Cobb.” The other gentleman reached across the table to shake Vaughn’s hand. “And that’s Joshua DeLong.” He inclined his head to the fair-skinned man beside him. “We know it couldn’t have been easy. There had to be opposition to change, probably as much as we’ve encountered in Miami.”

  “You mean when you ousted a Rollins?” an older member asked from the far side of the table.

  “No!” Daniel responded hotly. “Ashton realized it was in the best interest of Prescott George to have some new blood with fresh ideas at the helm. He’s still very much involved in the Miami chapter.”

  “I doubt that,” the man muttered underneath his breath.

  “If you have something to say,” Joshua DeLong responded, “by all means, speak up. We welcome feedback. Good or bad.”

  Daniel grabbed Joshua’s arm and whispered something in his ear.

  Vaughn couldn’t resist smiling. He liked Joshua DeLong. He was his kind of guy. Just look at his appearance. He wasn’t wearing the customary suit like the rest of the members of Prescott George, Daniel included. He wore trousers and a T-shirt with a blazer he’d probably haphazardly thrown on at the last minute to show he was making an effort. Vaughn understood wanting to dance to the beat of your own drum. It was what he’d been doing for years now that he was no longer an officer in the United States Navy.

  The older member remained mum.

  “Good then,” Daniel said. “Then, if it’s alright with you—” he turned to Christopher “—we’d like to announce your selection as Chapter of the Year at your annual benefit in a few months.”

  “Sounds like a mighty fine idea,” Vaughn chimed in. “It would be great press for the organization and chapter. Don’tcha think?” He glanced around the table at the other members.

  “My skills at handling the press are fully at your disposal,” Joshua DeLong said.

  “Skills?” Another member laughed. “Infamy is more like it.” Several other members expressed their amusement.

  Vaughn stepped in. “It’s those very same tweets, Instagram posts and Snapchats that have helped connect us with new members.”

  “You mean the young whippersnappers who can’t be bothered to be here?” The older man glanced around the room.

  “They aren’t on the board,” Christopher responded tightly and Vaughn noticed the firm line across his mouth. “That’s why they have mentors to groom them into becoming leaders. It doesn’t happen overnight.”

  “I’d love to hear more about this mentorship program,” Daniel responded. “Do you both have time to discuss after the meeting?” He directed his question to Christopher and Vaughn.

  “Absolutely,” they both said in unison.

  The chapter meeting concluded soon after and Vaughn watched the other members shuffle out of the room. Once the room had cleared, Joshua spoke first. “Looks like you face the same resistance to change that we’ve encountered in Miami.”

  “We do.” Christopher nodded.

  “How do you combat it?’ Daniel inquired.

  Vaughn chuckled, but Christopher responded. “Clearly, we haven’t squashed it entirely. We’ve just had to push forward with our agenda.”

  “Attracting younger members?” Joshua offered. “Talk to me about this mentorship program.”

  “Let’s retire to the lounge for cigars.” Christopher gestured for the men to walk ahead of him.

  The lounge housed several large chocolate leather sofas surrounded by modern and edgy furnishings. The men sat in a semicircle and discussed the future of Prescott George. Christopher offered their guests expensive cigars which another member had brought back from Cuba. Eventually, conversation returned to San Diego’s progress with millennials.

  “We’ve had some great events like beachside barbecues, art gallery openings and wine tastings, specifically geared to a select group of young millionaires,” Christopher said. “We have a great artist in our midst, Jordan
Jace. You may have heard of him?”

  Joshua nodded. “I have his work. It’s cutting-edge.”

  “Jace is like a lot of our younger members. They like being part of an organization in a limited capacity,” Christopher responded. “Of course, I know our small-time events are a far cry from the charity galas you have in Miami.”

  “Hey, that’s how you have to roll in South Beach,” Joshua replied with a chuckle as he leaned back and puffed on a cigar. “Go big or go home.”

  “Our chapter does plenty of good work. We just do it in a less traditional format,” Christopher intervened and Vaughn couldn’t help but notice how uptight the man always was. But that was Christopher; he certainly wasn’t Vaughn’s favorite person after he’d dumped his baby sister Eliza all those years ago. Vaughn didn’t think she’d ever truly recovered. He suspected it was why she’d moved to New York, to have a fresh start and get over Christopher. She was back now and keeping a low profile.

  Hours later, after they’d shaken hands with their Miami brethren and given them their best advice, Christopher returned to his office to work on an architectural project, but Vaughn was restless. He hadn’t had nearly enough time at the beach today. He’d gone into Elite’s office early that morning and taken care of some pressing business and hadn’t been able to get out to the beach until the late morning. Then, he’d had to cut his surfing time in half because of the Prescott George meeting. He needed to breathe in some fresh, salty ocean air. Hopping into his Ferrari, Vaughn headed back to his second home, the beach.

  * * *

  Miranda Jensen sucked in several deep breaths. She was glad the surf god who had majestically surfaced from the Pacific Ocean wearing a snug-fitting wet suit was gone. She colored when she thought about how she’d stared so openly at the magnificent specimen of a man. Unabashedly, she’d watched him glide the zipper of his wet suit down as he’d shaken off the excess water. He had a sculpted torso which had revealed hard, defining muscles underneath and eight, yes eight-pack abs, that were impossible to ignore.

  The man was ripped!

  His chest had been surprisingly smooth and hair-free and Miranda would have loved to flick her tongue across the brown discs of his nipples.

  Sweet Jesus!

  What was wrong with her?

  She’d struggled to gulp in air as he’d walked straight toward her, never taking his eyes off her. At first, she’d thought he was going to make a pass at her. There was obvious interest lurking in those penetrating dark depths. He’d seen her giving him the eye, but instead of talking to her, he’d kept moving, leaving Miranda to wonder if it was because of her man curse. She was still hypersensitive when it came to men these days. How could she not be? She had a bad track record when it came to the opposite sex and the broken heart to prove it.

  Since her breakup with Jake, whom she’d thought was the love of her life, Miranda had had a series of unsuccessful relationships. Jake had unceremoniously kicked her to the curb in a favor of a promising career in Japan with a pretty something co-worker he’d met abroad. Her rebound guy Anthony was a womanizer and notorious cheat. She’d caught him in bed with one of her supposed friends. The last joker Chris she’d dated had only been after her money, ingratiating himself into her family in the hopes he’d hit the jackpot. Thankfully, she’d gotten hip to his real agenda before she’d married him; otherwise it would have been a disaster of epic proportions.

  And now all Miranda could hear was the sound of a clock ticking in her head.

  No, it wasn’t her biological clock.

  It was the timer on her fortune, which was about to slip through her fingers if she couldn’t find a groom. She had her grandfather to thank for putting her in the predicament she was in. He’d passed away a couple of months ago and as a condition of his will, he required that his only grandchild, Miranda, marry by the age of thirty or forfeit her inheritance altogether. If she didn’t marry, the huge sum of money that was rightfully hers would go to one of her grandfather’s charities and forever vanquish Miranda’s dream of opening her own upscale bed-and-breakfast by the ocean. Or at least postpone it.

  Fury boiled inside Miranda’s veins.

  She valued her independence but perversely, she needed to be tied to a man in order to achieve her personal goals.

  But this time love would have nothing to do with it.

  Miranda didn’t know if she’d been trying too hard to find Mr. Right. Or whether she was just one of those people who were destined to be alone. Nevertheless, the rejections and lies of her former lovers had hardened her heart. She’d vowed that no man would ever hurt her again. If they were after her money, so be it.

  But it would be on her terms.

  She’d taken a leave of absence from her job as a hotel administrator in Chicago to go husband shopping. She was hoping to find a man and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse: a marriage of convenience with a huge cash payday.

  After her Adonis had come out of the sea, Miranda had left the beach and gone to a nearby café for a cool beverage. It was casually chic and she hoped offered a good drink. It wasn’t like she’d been dressed for the beach anyway. Her lace sheath dress was definitely not beach attire and as for her pumps, she was still trying to get the sand out of them.

  “Can I get you another drink?” the bartender inquired. “It’s happy hour now and cocktails are half priced.” When she didn’t answer quickly, the bartender walked away to help another customer.

  Miranda glanced down at the pomegranate martini she’d been nursing since she arrived. She’d only been in San Diego for twenty-four hours. Her best friend Sasha Charles had picked her up from the airport last night and deposited her at her hotel. Sasha had offered Miranda to stay at her place, but Miranda had been adamant that she didn’t want to put her friend out. That wasn’t the real reason. She didn’t want to share her real plans with Sasha because she knew Sasha wouldn’t approve. And so she’d opted to stay at a hotel instead. It was an elegantly appointed hotel that would suffice for what she hoped was a short stay.

  Miranda was hoping that she could find Mr. Right quickly enough that she would meet the one-month deadline looming over her head, before her inheritance was given away. Her parents, Tucker and Leigh, were just as upset as she was by her grandfather’s stipulation. She’d been hoping to find a loophole, but her attorneys had been unsuccessful. And now desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She was just about to order another martini when the surf god from this morning came strolling into the café. He sat down at the far end of the bar away from her and talked to the bartender. Given the easy rapport they shared, they must know each other.

  She allowed herself a few minutes to adjust to seeing him fully dressed. But this time, he was no less potent than he’d been on the beach earlier. In fact, she’d say he was more so. Her devastatingly sexy stranger had closely cropped black hair, an angular face that held bushy eyebrows and facial hair that was more than a five-o’clock shadow, but not a full beard, and the dreamiest eyes she’d ever seen. He was dressed in distressed jeans that clung to a gloriously tight behind, from what Miranda recalled, and a graphic T-shirt that hugged his defined biceps. Miranda couldn’t forget how delectable his body had looked earlier and licked her lips in remembrance.

  Why was she having such a reaction to this man?

  He clearly didn’t have a nine-to-five job. Why else would he have been at the beach when most people were at work? And here he was again, which told her that he could be exactly the sort of man who could be compelled by the promise of a hefty cash payout.

  Decision made, she slid off the bar stool with as much modesty as she could in a dress, grasped her purse dangling from the stool and moved toward her mysterious stranger. What was the worst he could do? Brush her off? He’d done that earlier and she was no worse for the wear.

  “Ahem.” Miranda coughed loudly, bringing her right hand to her mouth.

  He glanced up from his conversation, but didn’t make an
y effort to speak. Instead his dark eyes gleamed like glassy volcanic rock as he boldly raked her from the top of her hair to her now aching feet. Pumps were definitely not made for all the walking she’d done today. “Are you done with your appraisal?” Miranda inquired. Flirting could work to her benefit if it garnered his interest. Though he would soon find out she had an agenda.

  “Nearly.” He continued to scan her critically for several more moments before he beamed his approval and looked her dead in the eye.

  “And?”

  A perplexed look crossed his features. “And what?”

  “Do you like what you see?” Miranda inquired.

  “Yes. Yes, I do very much.”

  Miranda’s insides jangled with excitement as she slid onto the bar stool beside him. The bartender came to her immediately. “Have you decided if you’d like another?’

  “Actually, I’d like something stronger.” She turned to her companion. “What would you recommend?”

  He grinned a delicious stomach-curling smile. “Max, get her a bourbon, same as me.” He swiveled around to face her. “It’s a bit strong, but I think you’ll like it.”

  “I like strong,” Miranda countered. “Men, that is.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  She smiled coquettishly. “It is indeed. I noticed you earlier surfing.” She inclined her head toward the beach that was about a hundred yards away.

  “And did you like what you saw?”

  She raised a brow. He’d seen her watching him, so she answered honestly. “You know I did. It was quite entertaining watching you out there.”

  “And afterward?”

  An image of him in the wet suit flashed across Miranda’s mind. “The view wasn’t bad either.”