Beefcake for Breakfast

1. Gwendaly

GWENDALY

I ’ve been in Napa for precisely four hours, and I’ve already decided that “Mandatory Cooling-Off Periods” are just a legal euphemism for house arrest with better wine.

My father’s legal team—a group of men who wear suits even on vacation—insisted that my brain was a hard drive nearing its storage limit.

They want me “refreshed” before I sign the acquisition papers that effectively double the Luckett footprint in the global shipping industry.

I don’t need a deep-tissue massage or a guided meditation session. I need a signature pen and a clear shot at the CEO chair. But here I am, trudging through the manicured greenery of the Auberge du Soleil, clutching my sketchbook like a shield.

I march toward Cabana Six—my pre-booked sanctuary—with the intention of sketching out the new structural plans for the Port of Savannah. It’s my happy place. Steel, logistics, and efficiency. But when I pull back the heavy linen curtain, my "sanctuary" has been invaded.

A man is sprawling across my lounger. He isn’t just sitting; he’s taking up space with an arrogance that feels like a physical weight.

He’s all long limbs and charcoal-colored linen, looking like he stepped out of a luxury watch editorial titled Men Who Own the World and Know It .

A laptop is perched on his thighs, his fingers flying across the keys with a rhythmic, aggressive precision that makes my own fingers itch to grab his screen and slam it shut.

"You’re in the wrong zip code," I say. I don’t wait for him to look up.

I drop my tote bag on the side table with a heavy, deliberate thud that rattles his half-empty glass of iced espresso.

"This cabana is reserved under Luckett. There’s a lovely communal lounge by the towel station if you’re looking to loiter. "

The man doesn't flinch. He finishes a sentence, clicks a key with finality, and then slowly—infuriatingly slowly—tilts his head up. His gaze has an Arctic temperature. It’s observant, unblinking—like he’s scanning a line of code for a bug .

"Luckett," he repeats. He speaks with a quiet authority that makes the air in the cabana feel suddenly scarce. I hate how instinctively I want to lean in to hear him. "A legacy name. Usually comes with a sense of entitlement, but I didn't expect the volume to be turned up this high before noon."

"It’s called a reservation," I counter, stepping into the shade of the cabana and crossing my arms. "I pay for things I want. Right now, I want you to vanish. Do you need a map, or can you find the exit on your own? I hear the lobby is quite nice this time of day."

He leans back, crossing one ankle over his knee.

He looks me up and down—not with the usual hungry appreciation I’m used to from men in this bracket, but like he’s evaluating a startup he’s about to liquidate.

He notices the heirloom pearls at my neck, the sharp tailoring of my silk cover-up, and finally, the way I’m gripping my sketchbook.

"The resort double-booked. I already spoke to management," he says, his tone completely flat. "Since I was here first, and my server is currently rendering a three-billion-dollar simulation that requires a stable connection, I’m staying. You’re welcome to the lounge chair on the left.

I promise not to blink too loudly while you.

.. whatever it is you do." He gestures vaguely at my sketchbook. "Doodle flowers?"

"I don't doodle. I design structural logistics," I snap, sitting on the edge of the opposite lounger because I refuse to be bullied out of my own space. I’m not leaving.

If he wants a war of attrition, I have three generations of Luckett stubbornness backing me up.

"And I don't share territory. Especially not with a tech-bro who looks like he’s about to lecture me on the benefits of bio-hacking and his latest venture-backed epiphany. "

He actually smirks. It’s a tiny, sharp movement of his lips that makes me want to scream.

"I prefer private equity and vintage espresso machines, actually. But points for the stereotype. It’s almost as creative as your choice in footwear for a pool day.

Are those Louboutins? To walk ten feet across stone? "

"These Louboutins cost more than your first three startups combined, I’m sure." I snap my sketchbook open and grab my 4B charcoal pencil. I start drawing with aggressive, jagged strokes. "If you’re going to stay and ruin my peace, at least be useful. Shut up and let me work."

"I was silent until you started bark-ordering me like a stray," he says, returning his gaze to his screen. His fingers start dancing again, a frantic click-clack that mimics the sound of my rising blood pressure. "Try to keep your sketching quiet. Some of us are actually moving the world forward."

"The world was moving just fine before you decided to automate it into a coma," I mutter.

We sit in a state of vibrating hostility for the next hour.

I try to focus on the Savannah port blueprints, but my eyes keep wandering to the man across from me.

He’s focused. Terrifyingly so. He has a habit of tapping his stylus against his lower lip when he’s thinking, a rhythmic movement that draws my attention to the sharp line of his jaw.

He looks like a person who has never been told 'no' in his entire life.

I find myself sketching him. I can't help it.

His face is a series of interesting angles—too much bone, not enough softness.

I draw him as a gargoyle—magnificent, made of stone, and completely devoid of a human soul.

I give him wings made of motherboard circuits and eyes that look like cold LED lights.

"Is that me?"

I jump, my pencil skidding across the page and leaving a dark, ugly streak across the "gargoyle's" forehead.

I didn't even hear him move. He’s leaning over, his shoulder inches from mine, peering at the page.

He smells like sandalwood, expensive paper, and something crisp—like the air right before a storm.

"It’s a conceptual piece on the death of humanity via Silicon Valley," I say, shielding the page with my arm. "Don't flatter yourself."

"The proportions are off," he observes, completely ignoring my insult.

He reaches out, his fingers hovering just an inch above the paper.

His hand is large, his skin a shade of pale that suggests he spends more time in server rooms than in the sun.

"My nose isn't that sharp. And my eyes are significantly more tired than you've depicted. If you’re going to insult me, do it with technical accuracy. It’s the least you could do for stealing my peripheral vision for the last sixty minutes. "

I turn to face him, my chin tilted up. He’s too close. The space between us is charged with a friction that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "I’ll worry about the art. You worry about your 'simulations.' Are we done here? Or do you have more critiques for things you don't understand?"

He looks at me then—really looks at me. The clinical distance in his eyes flickers, replaced by a spark of genuine curiosity that feels far more dangerous than his arrogance.

"I understand more than you think, Gwendaly Luckett," he says, his voice sinking to a low, rough hum that vibrates in my marrow. "I understand that you’re bored, you’re restless, and you’re used to everyone bowing because of your last name.

I'm just the first person today who hasn't. It’s irritating, isn't it?

Having to share the air with someone who doesn't see you as a 'Princess'? "

"I don't need you to see me as anything," I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. "I need you to move your three-billion-dollar simulation and let me have my cabana."

"You have half the cabana," he points out, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before returning to my eyes. "And honestly? You’re the most interesting thing I’ve seen in Napa all week. Even if you are a brat."

"And you're a mistake I'm choosing to delete from my memory the second I walk out that curtain," I reply.

I stand up, gathering my things with hands that I refuse to let shake. I’m done. The "cooling-off" period is officially over. I’d rather deal with fifty lawyers and a hostile takeover than another minute of this man’s intellectual ego.

I tear the page from my book—the gargoyle drawing—and slap it onto his laptop keyboard, right over his precious data.

"Keep it," I say with a mocking, bright smile. "Consider it a gift from the 'spoiled princess.' You can look at it when you’re wondering why you’re sitting at a table for one."

"Wait," he says, but I’m already moving.

I walk away without looking back, my heels clicking against the stone path with the rhythm of a victory march. But my skin is still prickling, and my heart is doing something erratic and everything to do with the way he said my name.

I signal the valet for my car, my mind already racing. I’m leaving tonight. I don’t care what the lawyers say. I need to be back in Manhattan, surrounded by steel and glass and people who know exactly who I am.

As I pull out of the resort, I catch a glimpse of the man in my rearview mirror. He’s standing by the cabana curtain, watching my car disappear. He looks less like a tech-bro and more like a predator who just watched his prey escape.

Good luck with your simulation, I think, gripping the steering wheel. Because in the real world, you just lost.