by Tawna Fenske
“Huh.” Mark’s quiet for a second. “You keep your doors locked?”
“Um, mostly?” I laugh, but it’s an uneasy laugh. “I should probably be better about it. I grew up here when there were like thirty-thousand people, and no one ever locked their doors. It’s a hard habit to get into now that the population’s tripled.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, and I feel dumb. “I’ll do better,” I tell him.
“I want you to stay safe.” There’s something soft and comforting in his voice, and I’m not sure we’re talking about my security habits.
“I am,” I assure him. “I’m a big girl, Mark. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
He gives a muffled grunt, and I flip the lock on my front door and throw the deadbolt. “I should probably go.”
I don’t want to. I want to stay up all night talking with Mark about cupcakes and food porn and families.
“Yeah,” he says. “Probably smart.”
But neither of us hangs up, which probably proves my mother was right about me having the world’s worst judgment.
Right now, I don’t care. Right now, I want to snuggle back on the couch and tell Mark a bedtime story about Grandma’s monster cookies and the red vinyl stool she’d let me stand on to stir the mixing bowls.
And so I do.
Chapter 4
MARK
I know it was dumb to stay up ‘til midnight talking on the phone with Chelsea. Dumb, not just because I swore I’d keep my distance, but because I’m fighting like hell to stay awake in this meeting.
Not that this is new.
“If you’ll all turn to page sixteen in the business plan…”
James is in full-on CEO mode, but I do what he says, grateful he’s in charge and not me. When we divvied up our roles at the start of this whole crazy resort project, everyone had a place. Bree’s got the fancy marketing degree and Sean’s a world-famous chef, so it was clear where they belonged. James, with his law degree and business sense, was a good fit to be in charge, plus no one else wanted to do it.
And then there was me.
I’m good with my hands and have a general contractor’s license and the know-how to do everything from electrical work to framing to golf course irrigation. It’s what I’m happy doing, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice that—in the words of that old Sesame Street jingle—one of these things is not like the other.
I glance around the table at all those matching green eyes and business-mode postures and wonder if they’ve ever noticed.
“What do you think, Mark?” James studies me over the top of his sheaf of papers. I stare back, wondering what the hell he’s just asked.
“Uh—”
“Mark and I actually met last week to discuss this.” Bree smiles as she throws me a rope. “If he can get those last two cabins built by end of summer, I’ve got a reporter from Sunset Magazine who’s dying to write about them.”
I telegraph my gratitude to Bree as James flips another page. “And you think that’s doable, Mark?”
“Yeah.”
My brother waits only half a breath before forging ahead with the meeting. None of us exactly grew up together, but everyone’s gotten used to each other’s quirks. Mine are many, but mostly the fact that I don’t feel the need to spew a hundred words when one or two will do just fine.
As James keeps talking about Q4 goals and benchmarks, I survey my brothers. Sean is scribbling notes, but odds are good it’s a recipe for grilled salmon, or maybe a dirty note to his fiancée.
Next to him is our brother Jonathan. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since our dad’s funeral, and it’s freaking me out how much he looks like the late, great Cort Bracelyn. Same eyes, same hair, same jaw—hell, even the chin that looks like someone whacked him with a hatchet. Cleft, that’s what it’s called. Bree says he’s good looking, and I can’t argue with her.
But it’s fucking eerie seeing the late Cort Bracelyn sitting across from me at the table. Dad.
My heart balls up in a painful knot, and it’s not because I miss the old man. I mean it is, but that’s not what’s getting to me now as I think about dear ol’ Dad.
It’s the thought that maybe he wasn’t. My dad, that is.
That’s my big secret, okay?
Odds are good Cort Bracelyn wasn’t really my father, even though he claimed me from day one. I’ve got a whole heap of reasons for thinking so, but I haven’t said a goddamn word to anyone.
“Does that timeline work for you, Mark?”
I have no idea what James is asking, but I nod anyway. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Great.” The knowing look in his green eyes tells me he’s not buying my act for one second, but he also knows I’m good at getting shit done. If he had doubts, he’d tell me.
“So, Bree, you can go ahead and let the media know about the senator’s visit,” James says as he flips to the next page. “Sean’s already got a menu prepared, so from here we can move ahead with—”
Shit, what did I just agree to?
Ah, hell, it doesn’t matter. I’d stay up for three weeks straight moving boulders with my bare hands if that’s what my siblings said needed to happen. I’m committed to this resort thing, just like I’m committed to every person at this table, which is cheesy as hell. It’s not like we grew up together. We’re probably not even related.
I scan their faces, wondering how it’s not obvious to everyone. How can anyone look around this conference room and believe the same guy sired all five of us? Yeah, we had different mothers, but everyone else shows signs of Cort Bracelyn’s genes. Green eyes, where mine are brown. We’re all hearty stock, but my brothers are more of that chiseled quarterback physique, where I’m more of a linebacker who swallowed a Mack truck. And that head tilt—they all do it when they talk, but I don’t. Could be the boarding school thing, but I doubt it.
Who was the biological father?
Those are Chelsea’s words, not mine, but they echo in my head now. We were talking last night about intrusive questions; things customers ask as she fills their bakery boxes. I guess since she’s dealing crack cocaine in the form of sugar-laced treats, people think they have the right to pry.
I bit my tongue instead of asking how she answers them, but damn, I wanted to know.
“That’s lousy,” I said instead. “Why the hell is it anyone else’s business who supplied the batter if you’re the one with the oven and the baking skills.”
She laughed, quelling my fears that I’d just crossed some line. Polished, profanity-free communication has never been my thing, but I try not to be a dick.
“Oh, Mark,” she said, voice shaking with laughter. “You’re a funny guy. I wasn’t expecting that.”
Yeah, I’m a barrel of monkeys. Mister Personality.
Except with her, I almost feel like I could be. I’ve known the woman less than twenty-four hours, and I already feel like she gets me. Makes me a better guy. How the fuck did that happen?
“Are you on board with that, Mark?”
Jonathan’s voice jars me back to the meeting, and I stare across the table into our father’s face. His eyes are kind, and I’m sure he knows damn well I lost track of the conversation again.
“The plan to start phase three development early, if we hit our Q2 benchmarks next year,” he prompts. “That good for you?”
Like I remember what the fuck phase three and Q2 are, but I nod and flip my packet until I’m on the page all the others are staring at. “Yeah,” I say. “That sounds good.”
“Why don’t we take a break?” Sean suggests. “I can throw together grilled trout with roasted corn cream sauce, truffle au gratin potatoes, and some killer beet salad with arugula.”
“Dear God.” Bree pretends to swoon. “You’re my favorite brother.”
The rest of us ignore her, since she’s bestowed that honor on each of us at one time or another.
Sean does a mock bow. “I can have it on the table i
n less than thirty minutes, and we can crack a bottle of Pinot.”
That gets a frown from James. “We still have the financials to get through this afternoon. Everyone needs to be clearheaded.”
“A glass of wine, James,” Sean says dryly. “Not suggesting we bust out a case and start chugging straight from the bottle.”
James sighs, but the rest of my sibs look damned relieved for the break. From across the table, Bree shoots me a smirk. “I have it on good authority that Mark’s got a secret stash of cupcakes,” she says. “Maybe if we’re nice, he’ll share.”
Hell. That means she talked to Chelsea this morning, or maybe she just saw the bakery box yesterday. Anything’s possible with my sister. She doesn’t miss much, and she’s always meddling in everyone’s life. I’d be annoyed if I didn’t secretly like it. Like that I’m part of something bigger, part of a family.
Don’t fuck that up.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll grab the cupcakes.”
I stand up and push away from the table. As I make my way to the door, I feel my siblings’ eyes on me and wonder if they know I’m an imposter. That I’m not one of them.
That I’m scared shitless I don’t belong.
The meeting finally wraps up about twelve-billion hours later, and my brothers and sister push back from the table like it’s a prison break.
“Gotta run,” Bree says. “It’s girls’ night.”
Sean stops shuffling his papers into a pile and looks up. “That’s right, my wife mentioned it.”
He’s not married yet, so I think he just likes saying the word “wife.” Can’t say I blame him. I’ve seen how he acts around Amber, and it’s pretty damn sweet. Part of me envies the guy.
“You could have that, too, you know.” Bree smirks at me, then James, then Jonathan. In other words, the single brothers. “Just say the word, and I’ll hook all three of you up with the town’s most eligible women.”
“No.”
All of us respond in unison, but somehow my voice is loudest. Bree rolls her eyes, then pins me with the look.
“Just wait,” she says. “One of these days you’ll get bitten so hard by the love bug that you’ll break out in hives.”
James winces. “With an endorsement like that, I think I’ll stock up on insect repellant.”
“Ditto.” Jonathan grabs his jacket off the back of a chair and looks at me with eyes so much like our dad’s that the breath leaves my lungs. “You feel like grabbing a beer in town?”
I hesitate. It’s rare to see Jonathan at all, since he spends most of the year running around the globe doing humanitarian work. Lately, he’s used his yacht club background captaining a vessel in the Mediterranean, rescuing refugees fleeing horrific conditions in places like Libya and Tunisia. More than 23,000 people have drowned since 2000, but Jonathan’s trying to change those odds.
He may be the spitting image of Cort Bracelyn, but in a lot of ways, he’s Dad’s polar opposite. Dad seized business deals by the balls and twisted, taking what he wanted out of life. The quintessential capitalist.
But Jonathan’s using Dad’s money for the greater good, putting himself out there to make the world a better place. I admire the hell out of him.
Plus, he’s got the bloodline. He’s not a fraud.
“How about Sunday night instead?” I suggest. “There’s something wrong with the air duct for room one-seventeen. Gotta get it fixed before guests check in.”
“Deal.” Jonathan turns to James and Sean. “You guys in?”
“Sure.” James shoves a stack of papers into a briefcase. “Can we make it later, though? I’ve got a conference call that evening with Senator Grassnab’s team about the campaign launch.”
“Need me to chime in?” Sean asks. “In case they have questions about the catering.”
“Nah, we’ve got it covered.”
“Excellent,” Sean says. “I told Amber I’d bring Jonathan over for dinner that night. They haven’t gotten to meet yet.”
There’s some muttering about bars and meetup times as my brothers amble away. Bree trails after them, both thumbs fluttering over her phone screen. When she reaches the door, she turns back to me. “Oh, hey, don’t forget there’s a light out in the Fireside Lounge.”
Forget? I’m pretty sure she never mentioned it. “How many marketing VPs does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“Ha ha.” She tosses her dark curls. “It’s electrical, I think. Maybe you could take a look?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, and I know she’s definitely up to something. “Sometime tonight would be awesome. There’s a meeting in there first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Sure,” I mutter. “I’ll do it after I tackle that air vent.”
“You’re the best.”
She scurries off, still texting. Probably her fiancé, who was just promoted to police chief. Good guy, and I don’t say that lightly. It takes a pretty kickass person for me to deem him worthy of my sister.
I wander back to my cabin and grab a sandwich, tempted to polish off the last of the cupcakes. But no, they’ll be there later. Grabbing my toolbox, I head back to the lodge and take the stairs to the corner room with the air duct problem. The last guests complained it made a funny, wheezing noise when the heat kicked on, so I need to figure out what’s up.
It doesn’t take long.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, snaking my arm into the vent to pull out a blueish-purple plush creature. A horse or a cow or something. I flip it over in my hands, remembering my own favorite stuffie as a kid. A dinosaur—brontosaurus, I think. My father bought it for me the summer I turned seven, and I came out to spend the whole month with him at the ranch.
“Got this for you since you’re turning out to be such a big guy,” he said, tapping the rim of my baseball cap. “You’re gonna be a tall one, aren’t you?”
I wonder if he knew then. If he suspected I wasn’t really his kid.
Pushing aside the memory, I screw the cover back on the vent and pack up my tools. I shove the grungy stuffed animal under one arm, grab my toolbox, and trudge out of the room and back down to the first floor. Voices chatter from the direction of the Fireside Room, and I try to recall what Bree told me about the meeting tonight. I could have sworn she said tomorrow, but whatever. Might as well duck in and see if I can fix the damn light.
Halfway down the hall, I spot a crooked wall sconce. I can’t just leave it, so I set down my toolbox and get to work tightening the screw. Once I finish, I notice the one across from it has the same problem, so I amble over with my screwdriver and get to work.
I’m almost finished when an eruption of female laughter stops me in my tracks. I glance toward the Fireside Room, where my sister’s voice rings out plain as day.
“Girl, we need to get you laid.”
Jesus.
I don’t need to hear this. I edge back slowly, eager to reclaim my toolbox, as a female voice I don’t recognize chimes in.
“Seriously, Chelsea—going too long without a big dose of vitamin D is bad for your health.”
Chelsea? Wait—
I stop moving as another voice responds.
“Give her a break, Lily.” That’s Amber, I think. “Single moms have a little more on their plate than chasing dick.”
Shit, that’s what vitamin D means?
Which is hardly my biggest question here. Does Bree have more than one single mom friend named Chelsea?
I get my answer in the next breath.
“It’s been a while, okay?” Her voice makes my whole body seize up. I stand frozen in the hallway, not sure whether to move backward or forward. It’s her, and Christalmighty, I feel like someone’s plunged my whole body into one of those warm chocolate fountains they have at weddings.
I hold my breath, waiting for her next words. I know that makes me a creeper, but I can’t seem to make my legs move.
“Actually, you know what I miss?” Her voice is softly breathy, a
nd I wonder if it’s embarrassment or champagne.
“Orgasms induced by something that doesn’t require batteries?” That’s the other girl, Lily, I think. She sounds like a total firecracker, but it’s Chelsea’s voice I’m listening for.
“That, yes.” Chelsea giggles, and it’s the sweetest fucking sound I’ve ever heard. “Don’t laugh, okay?”
“Oooh, this sounds good.” My sister’s voice is followed by the pop of a champagne cork. “No laughing, we promise.”
“Okay, well.” There’s a splash of liquid in a glass, and someone—Chelsea?—takes a shuddery breath. “Not like I’ve hooked up with a lot of guys since I had Libby, or even before that—”
“Honey, we don’t care if you’ve banged the whole town.” Lily again, of course. “We’re your posse. Your girls. Friends don’t slut shame.”
Okay, this Lily is growing on me. Not my type, but I love that she’s got Chelsea’s back.
“Right,” Chelsea continues, voice still airy. “So, the couple times I’ve been with anyone lately, it’s like they handle me with kid gloves. All gentle and romantic and afraid I’m going to break in half or something. Which is nice, don’t get me wrong, but—”
“Sometimes you just want to be fucked hard.”
Oh, Jesus. I did not need to hear my sister say those words.
I start backing up again, knowing I need to get the hell out of here. I’ve already eavesdropped too much and am in danger of being a serious stalker. I’ve almost reached my toolbox when Chelsea speaks again.
“Exactly! Like it’s not going to offend me if we mix it up. Can you just do me doggie style or something?”
Holy crap on a cracker, I’m not hearing this. I mean I am hearing it, but I shouldn’t be. I know that, but I can’t seem to move away fast enough.
“I know a guy or two who’d be game for giving it to you a little rougher.” Lily again, and I take back what I said about her growing on me. The thought of some other guy with Chelsea—
“Thanks, but flings aren’t really my style,” she says. “Anyway, I just met someone I think might have potential.”
