Chapter 20 Georgia
Georgia
“We’re here,” Emmett pumps his fist in the air, and I giggle as I sip on my mimosa, a celebratory drink for completely the voyage in one piece.
St. Augustine rises out of the horizon, with its orange tile rooftops and palm trees, the old fort at the inlet entrance standing defiant against the morning sun. I take a deep breath in, my heart jumping with anticipation.
And some fear. But that’s healthy, right?
I prop my elbows on the rail, savoring the wind, letting the sharp bubbles of the champagne spark against my tongue. It’s not even noon, and a little early for a drink, but something about arriving at our last port before New York makes it feel like it’s a holiday.
“I can’t believe the trip is almost over,” I say. My words get whipped away by the wind, so I lean back and say it again, louder, to Miles. He’s beside me, his perfectly disheveled hair blowing into his eyes as he squints at the shoreline.
He glances over. “Technically, it’s just beginning, you know. We’re going to port here, and then hop on a flight back to NYC where the journey will just continue.”
I peer up at him, trying to picture how we mesh all of this together. “Exactly.” I’ve been lost in the haze of the phenomenal, mind-blowing sex, and pushing the practicalities out of my mind.
Like my dad finding out just how complicated this is.
Fuck him. He’s always just wanted to manage my life instead of being supportive.
But still, even if I managed to walk out and give him the middle finger of sorts, it doesn’t fix the innate need I have to make him not hate me, at least. Or something like that.
Call it childhood trauma, I guess.
“So, what’s been your favorite part?” Miles asks me, placing an arm around my shoulder. It sends a blast of warmth against my skin, and I want nothing more than to lead him right back to his bedroom.
Or mine. Or Emmett’s. Or Brody’s.
This is still so weird.
I shake it off, refocusing on his question. “By far it’s been the company.” He pulls me into him and plants a long kiss on my lips.
“Damn,” Emmett coos from the side. “Get a room.”
Miles chuckles as we break apart. “So you can watch?” He leaves his hand resting against my collarbone.
“Of course,” Emmett smirks at him, and then to me. “We all seem to enjoy that arrangement.”
Heat creeps up my face as my mind flashes backwards. “I have to agree with that.” I tip my drink back and take a long sip, forcing my attention back to St. Augustine. I feel like I should be more excited than I am.
But part of me just wishes I could stay trapped in this bubble forever.
“Land ho,” Emmett crows, then wraps his arm around my waist, sandwiching me between himself and Miles.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I lean into him anyway, letting the heat of his body warm the other side of me. He rests his chin on my head, and I can feel the tickle of his stubble through my hair.
My eyes drift to Brody, who is still at the helm, his face as impassive as always. He stands there, occasionally glancing at the horizon, then at me, then away again. He’s the only one not trying to play it cool, and the tension radiating off him puts static in the air.
“I vote for breakfast,” Emmett says. “We’ve got at least an hour before docking, and I’m dying for some of Georgia’s eggs.”
“You’re always dying for my eggs,” I tease, but he’s already dragging me back toward the main cabin, Miles following close behind.
I shake them off and duck down to the galley. Within minutes, I’m cracking eggs, dicing an onion, and cubing up leftover roasted potatoes from last night. It’s second nature now, and almost cathartic, given that something inside just won’t stop freaking gnawing at me.
Emmett appears at my elbow, nudging a glass of juice into my hand. “Are you nervous about talking to your dad again?” he asks, leaning in and brushing his lips against my neck.
“Not really,” I lie, flipping the eggs too early. “He’ll probably just ignore me or lecture me for being so irresponsible. Maybe he’s given up on the intimidation game.”
“Maybe he’ll come around,” Emmett mumbles. I can’t tell if he actually believes it or if he just thinks that’s what I need to hear.
“Maybe,” I grunt and focus on breakfast. By the time the eggs are plated and the potatoes are crisping up, Miles and Emmett have set the table and poured out more mimosas. Brody arrives last, wearing a gray T-shirt that hugs his broad chest, his hair disheveled in the best way.
“Eat,” I say, plopping down beside him. The table is a weird little slice of domesticity, and for a moment, I can imagine us doing this in some high-rise in NYC.
And it being almost normal.
Brody’s hand is warm on my thigh, but he doesn’t look at me. He eats quickly, almost mechanically, and I run my fingers over his.
But there’s no response.
I tip my chin in his direction and catch his eye, but he only gives me a slight smile before going right back to his breakfast.
Yeah, something is definitely up with him.
And that feeling only grows when breakfast is over, and he stands abruptly. “I’ll be topside,” he grunts. “Miles, help me with the lines when we get to the dock?”
Miles nods, and they disappear up the stairs, their voices muffled by the bulkhead. Emmett lingers, refilling my mimosa.
“What’s up with him?” I ask, nodding toward the empty stairwell. “I swear, he’s not usually this moody. Not since we figured things out.”
Emmett shrugs. “Something’s eating at him, but that’s just Brody. I swear, something’s always eating at him.”
“Maybe he finally got sick of playing cruise director for the rest of us,” I joke, but my heart isn’t in it. I gather the plates and head for the sink, my stomach in knots.
Emmett doesn’t follow. “Hey,” he says, and I glance over. He looks uncharacteristically serious. “If you need anything, I’ve got your back. I mean it. All this new stuff might be kind of hard.”
I smile, feeling a tinge of relief. “Thanks.”
He squeezes my hand before letting me go. Just as I turn to start the dishes, Brody enters, a stern look on his face.
“Georgia? Can we talk for a minute?”
My pulse thuds, and I glance at Emmett, who’s already halfway out the door. He winks at me and then disappears.
Brody immediately starts moving, pacing a tight little circuit between the couch and the table. Something is definitely going on…
I set one of the dishes down in the sink. “Everything okay?”
He stops, facing me square-on, and then gestures to the couch. “Come sit down for a minute?”
“Sure…” I dry my hands and sit down, my heart hammering in my chest.
He nods and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a long, thin envelope. I eye it warily.
“Is this how I’m getting my final paycheck?” I joke.
“Ha, no. It’s not a paycheck. I’ll get you that, though.” He pauses and then sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch. He turns the envelope over in his hands, then slides it toward me. “Here. I’ll just let you open it.”
I take it, trying to keep my breath steady. “Are you asking me to sign my life away to be your chef forever?” Once again, my humor lands flat, and Brody just shakes his head.
Well, okay then.
I open the envelope and pull out the sheaf of papers inside. At first, I don’t process what I’m looking at—just a lot of legalese, signatures, and notary stamps. Then I see my name, printed in neat, all-caps letters, followed by the words property deed.
I look up at Brody, baffled. “What… what even is this? You bought me a building?”
“I bought you a café,” Brody breathes out the words.
“In New York. Well, technically, the LLC bought the building, and I hired a contractor to start the renovation, but the point is—” He stops, mouth opening and closing.
“It’s yours. The whole thing. You just have to sign and pick the paint color.
I’ll have the designer pull together whatever your vision is. ”
My brain blanks. For a second, I think maybe I’m still asleep, and this is one of those dumb stress-dreams that’s supposed to teach me a lesson about myself. I look down at the documents again, tracing the embossed seal with my finger.
“I…” My tongue is dry as I search for the words. “You bought me a restaurant?”
He nods, jaw ticking as his eyes study my face.
“I know you’ve always talked about wanting your own place, and…
” He runs his fingers through his hair, his nerves suddenly on full display.
“I know your dad was an asshole about your dreams, so I figured maybe this would be a way to tell him to fuck off. Or at least to let you show him what you’re actually capable of.
I want you to have what you want, Georgie. All of it.”
My vision starts to blur, but not from tears. In fact, the only reason I’d cry right now is from pure freaking frustration.
I drop the papers down to my lap. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted,” I grit out. My voice comes out quiet, but the hurt in it surprises even me. “You just decided.”
Brody looks stunned, like I just slapped him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, after a long pause. “I thought you’d be happy.”
I stand up, suddenly needing more space than this entire freaking yacht has to offer.
“You sound just like my dad. You think you know what’s best for me, so you just do it, and I’m supposed to be grateful.
But I’m not a fucking puzzle to be solved.
I wanted to be a partner, not a charity case.
I don’t want to be some spoiled sugar baby, and that’s exactly how this makes me feel. ”
The silence is suffocating between us. Brody sits, perfectly still, eyes on the floor.
I can’t believe he’s just as freaking controlling as my dad. My head throbs, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to lose it right there. I want to earn my success, not just be handed it.
The door suddenly creaks, and Emmett peeks in. “Everything cool in here?”
I shake my head, unable to speak.
Miles steps in behind him, his body language radiating concern.
“I’m going topside,” I say, and push past them. I half expect someone to follow, but no one does. They’re all too stunned, or maybe they know me well enough now to leave me alone when I’m pissed.
I race up to the deck and lean over the rail, breathing deep lungfuls of humid air. The fort, the old rooftops, the ancient city—they all blur together, nothing more than a watercolor smudge. I can’t decide if I want to scream or cry or just jump into the water and swim for shore.
I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to be treated like a child.
After a few minutes, I hear Brody’s footsteps behind me. I don’t turn, but I can sense him at my back.
“I thought I was helping,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t see it as controlling you. I saw it as giving you something you wanted. I thought it would be a really thoughtful gift. It was to show you that I believe in you and your dreams.”
I close my eyes, the tears finally making their way to the surface.
“That’s not what I wanted,” I say, finally turning to face him.
“I wanted someone to listen. Not to fix me or give me a trophy so I could prove my dad wrong. I wanted to do it the hard way. The right way. I don’t want a man who just manages my life! ”
Brody’s hands curl into fists at his sides, but his voice remains steady. “I’m sorry.”
I sigh, letting my anger drain out in one long breath. “I know you were trying to be kind. But you can’t make decisions for me.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s not that it wasn’t thoughtful… I just…”
He nods, understanding on his face. “You just don’t want someone to make you feel like you’re incapable of doing it on your own. I get it. I let the romanticism of it get in the way.”
I hold his gaze, hating how I feel like a total brat now. “Maybe I’m overreacting.”
“No,” he smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You have a right to say no. I’ll call the broker tomorrow and tell them we’re out.
” He pauses, searching my face. “Unless you actually want to do this. And if you do, I’ll help, but only if you want me to.
” He holds up the papers again. “I can throw them right out into the water—or you can.”
I let my fingers brush the papers, but I don’t take them. “Actually… I want to talk about it,” I say. “I want to decide, with you. With all of you. Together.”
Brody exhales, taking a step toward me. “Then that’s what we’ll do, but first there’s something else we should probably do.”
I raise my brows, tilting my head as I catch a whiff of his cologne. “Yeah? And what’s that, exactly?”
He leans down, brushing his nose against mine. “Makeup sex.”