Chapter 11 Estranged Brothers
Chapter 11
estranged brothers
Wes hated to lose. So then why had he sabotaged the race? Yup, he’d sabotaged it all right. He knew the second she’d stuck that pert nose in the air as they climbed into the kayak and said, “Try to keep up,” that there was no way she was crossing that finish line first. But last? That had been the icing on the cake.
Or maybe the icing had been the way her body had responded to his. The dilated pupils, the shallow breaths, the pert nipples—that hadn’t been a side effect of the cold. That had been chemistry, pure and simple. Not that he’d let it go any further than flirting—the woman drove him nuts—but throwing her off her game was entertaining. More entertaining than it should be.
Except she hadn’t been the only one whose world had gone a little askew. When their bodies had tangled, and his hand had slid across her soft skin, his dick had raised its mast. The fact that it had happened while in frigid temps was impressive. That it had happened on account of a whimsical, sunny-as-a-summer’s-day, diehard romantic was impossible. She had freckles and wore glasses and had this innocence about her that told him life hadn’t yet chewed her up and spat her out.
Wes dated sophisticated, slinky ballbusters who wore suits to work, not T-shirts with ridiculous sayings or frilly sundresses. Then again, he had a good eight years and a lifetime of letdowns on her. Not that he had ever been that naive—his childhood hadn’t afforded him that luxury. She was the exact wrong kind of woman for him. Or maybe it was more like he was the exact wrong kind of man for her. Where she was soft, he had razor ridges; when she smiled, he flipped the universe the bird; where she believed in true love, he believed it was every person for themselves.
Which raised the question of why he’d been actively pushing her buttons and going as far as to flirt with her. Well, whatever the reason, it needed to stop—now.
Committed to his plan, Wes pulled on dry clothes and walked downstairs. He’d just hit the landing when someone yanked him by the arm and forced him into an empty bedroom.
“You’re going to ruin everything,” Randy said. Even though he was clearly fresh from the shower, he was flushed and sweating and looked ready to throw up.
“How am I ruining things?” Wes wanted to know. “I’m the one who got stuck with Pollyanna so that you could pair with Playmate Barbie.”
With a significant lifting of the brow, Randy said, “They’re identical. I mean, I nearly kissed Summer at breakfast. If it hadn’t been for the flannel pajama bottoms and TALK BOOKISH TO ME shirt, I would have had a lot of explaining to do.”
“Seriously?” Wes’s mind reeled with confusion. “You can’t tell them apart?”
“Can you?”
“Yes.” To Wes it couldn’t be more obvious. Summer was softer, more emotionally aware and subtle, carried herself with an understated assuredness that was more than her twenty-four years. Yes, she was naive, but not in a bad way. In an adorable way.
There was nothing understated about Autumn.
Autumn was boisterous, intense, and surface-level. She did have a big heart, but it was often overshadowed by her selfish tendencies. She wasn’t a bad person, just someone who’d had life easy and needed to grow up a little. Kind of like Randy.
“Look, I’m trying to win over the family, and I can’t do that when you’re pissing her sister off.”
Wes snorted. “I think you have that backwards. She’s the instigator.”
“What is this? Middle school?”
“I don’t know, are you going to pass Autumn a note that says ‘check yes or no’?”
Randy’s face went serious, like it had when their father died. All it took was five or so months for Randy to go rogue and take off on a spontaneous trip to follow Taylor Swift. A bad feeling settled in Wes’s stomach.
His brother peeked his head out the door then silently closed it.
“What’s with the 007 behavior?” said Wes.
“I don’t want Aunt Cecilia to feel my energy and blow everything.” Randy stretched out the neckline of his polo. “I’m going to ask Autumn to be my wife.”
“Then why do you look like you’re going to vomit?”
“Because this is the real deal, bro. She’s the one, my person. You know, the whole “you complete me,” boom box over my head, pulling up in the white limo with red roses while I stand out of the sunroof.”
A knot formed in Wes’s stomach immediately. The last thing they needed when trying to grow the company was Randy to be even more distracted than usual. He’s like a dog with a butterfly in his periphery—easily distracted.
“This is bad timing. We’ve got the new location, the board breathing down our backs, and a grand opening timeline that is near impossible. And you know how you can become absorbed with a shiny new project.”
“So we postpone the opening. The board will get it.”
“Whoa, you said proposal . Now you’re talking wedding?”
“When it’s right, why wait?”
Jesus! “How soon are you thinking?”
“In the next month. That’s if she says yes.” Randy’s eyes went wild with desperation. “She’ll say yes, won’t she?”
“You should be thinking about the board and this opening, not some wedding and garter toss. The board would jump at the chance to catch us with our pants down.”
Randy looked confused. “The board has always had our backs. This will be no different, you’ll see. They’ll understand.”
“No, they won’t.” They’d be thrilled, because that would mean that they’d gain control of the company. Not that he could tell Randy that.
“Business comes and goes. Love only comes around once.”
A bite of anger tightened painfully between Wes’s shoulder blades. “Not in a business like ours. You’re the vice president of operations, you can’t just decide to take a few weeks off when we’re in the middle of the make-it-or-break-it moment. Especially not after your disappearing act. Your job is to literally run the daily operations of the company. Be on the ground floor of new openings.”
This was why Wes should have never involved himself in his father’s business. It wasn’t that Randy wasn’t teachable, the kid just didn’t have any interest in learning. He thought that because he’d grown up with his father running an empire and had an MBA from a fancy Ivy League that he knew everything he needed to know to run a successful company.
“You’re the CEO and president, I think you can manage for a few weeks without me.”
“I’m the interim CEO, and is this about my title? I didn’t pick it, Randy. Your dad made that choice. Without consulting me. So don’t pull this rank-and-title crap. It’s bollocks.”
Randy’s face fell, and all that anger morphed into embarrassment. “I know. It just hurt, you know? He’d always told me that he was training me to take over, then he hands the golden key to you.”
“You can still run things. I’m only here until the company stabilizes, then we can hire a new president together and you can take over as CEO.”
“I know.” Randy ran a hand down his face. “That makes it even worse. I don’t want your hand-me-downs. I wanted Dad to want me for the position.”
“Is that what this is? You and Autumn? Is this a distraction, or some way to get back at dear old Dad?”
Randy held up a hand. “No. I swear. I love her.”
“You’ve known her, what? A month?”
“Sometimes it happens in the blink of an eye.”
Randy was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Wes was not. Not only was he suspicious of any woman claiming love months after Randy had come into a fortune, he was suspicious of marriage in general. Why jump in with both feet when there was no guarantee it would last? Just look at his own life.
“I only want to make sure you think this through.”
“This isn’t a business deal, Wes. It’s my life.”
“Exactly.”
“And this is how I want to live it.”
Once Randy set his mind to one of his stupid plans, he wouldn’t back off until he did it. So if Wes wanted Randy to see the light, he was going to have to go about it in a careful way. Randy needed to think he’d come the conclusion that this was too much too soon on his own.
“I’ll try harder. As long as you promise me you’ll really think about it.”
Randy clapped Wes on the shoulder. “Already thought it through, bro. I’m ready to get hitched.”
Summer had been waiting for this vacation all year. The big bonfire, toasting s’mores, playing catch with Buttercup on the beach, sitting around showing off the Russo Vacation Olympics trophy, which was really just a piece of carved driftwood that was supposed to look like an arrow but looked like a penis. Yet it was the downtime, the lack of a schedule, and the spontaneous family moments that sparked her fondest memories. The right balance of relaxation and family fun. But right now she wasn’t having fun.
Her vacation had been hijacked. By a brute of a Brit who didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about her current state of distress. Which was why, instead of being in the kitchen, swinging her hips to ABBA, cooking her “loser dinner,” she was pleading with her auntie for a Wes-depravation stroll along the beach with Buttercup.
“It’s linguine alle vongole, Auntie. You’re the master of linguine.”
Cecilia looked thrilled by the compliment. “Would you like to go on the record with that?”
If it got her out of spending an hour in the kitchen with Wes, she was almost willing to take the heat. But her mom would never forgive her. She might even disown her.
“Well, it’s better than mine. Last time you said my linguini had the texture of spaghetti squash.”
Cecilia shivered. “It wasn’t your best showing. But I have faith in you.”
“Since when?”
“Since you’d rather welch on a bet than cook. I raised you better than that. Unless there’s a particular reason why you look like an all-around plague has soured your face.”
“I just wanted you to use your gift to sniff out any potential problems with the Kingston brothers,” she said, knowing Cecilia loved a chance to show off her gift.
“Besides Randy’s little mojo problem...” Cecilia let her finger deflate down like a shrinking penis. “I see no other signs of anything but love.”
“What about Wes?” Summer asked, and wished she’d just kept her mouth shut because Cecilia was like a dog with a bone and she’d just sink her canines into this Wes situation.
“Are you asking about his love line?”
“What? No!” she said, too vehemently. “I just meant, think of it as a way to get to know Randy through his brother. Isn’t it an auntie’s duty to vet the guy her niece brings home? You could use your sight to see if Wes is a good guy. Birds of a feather and all that. You can tell a lot by the company people keep, the way they dress, and the way they were raised.”
“We let you prance around naked until you were six. I don’t see you streaking down Main Street.” Cecilia took inventory of Summer in her boy-cut shorts and baggy top and tsk -ed. “Such a shame. If I had your boobs, I’d be naked all the time. #FreeTheNip would be my daily motto.” Suddenly Cecilia gasped and clutched her turquoise necklace. She began to hum and stare off into the distance. “Your grandmother is here with a message.”
Summer looked around the kitchen even though she knew she’d not see a trace of a ghost. But it was fun to play into the magic of it all. “What is she showing you?”
Cecilia held back a smile, loving that her niece was playing along. “She’s showing me water, and a white knight, and, oh my, you’re naked.”
“You’re seeing me naked?” Summer asked, her face heating with the memory of earlier, when she and Wes nearly had a naked moment in the water when the only thing between them was wet, paper-thin cotton.
“Don’t sound so horrified—I changed your diapers, missy. And it’s better than those grannie panties you wear.”
“I don’t wear . . .” Then she trailed off because it was too late. Cecilia’s hand tightened around her necklace and she began to sway and hum louder. “I see Cupid himself and his little bare bottom coming to poke you with his arrow.”
“Now there’s a naked cherub who wants to assault me with his arrow? Such a man thing to do.”
Cecilia blinked and her expression was back to of-this-world. “Say what you want, but your guides have spoken. And they’re making it clear that boring old Summer isn’t going to snag her man.”
“I’m not boring.” In fact, her life was a giant fireball of chaos. Just look at her shop’s books. And her wardrobe. Summer had ninety-nine pieces of clothing and a boring ain’t one.
“That’s what a boring person would say. Now, get out there and break out of your bubble. Set yourself free and let that spontaneous and bold side run the show.” Cecilia patted Summer on the behind and sent her on her way. “And go and get started on that linguini. I’m famished.”
Summer trotted toward the kitchen, her chest tightening like she was taking her final walk down a concrete corridor. “Dead man walking” came to mind.
She hadn’t seen Wes since the kayak fiasco, when they’d got caught up like seaweed in the riptide. When they’d actually spoken to each other like they didn’t want to rip off the other’s head. He’d been almost sweet with his concern and laser-focused attention. And she’d been, well, turned on.
“It was the adrenaline,” she assured herself. “Nothing more.”
Then why was she staring at herself in the hallway mirror, wishing she’d put on something more attractive than an outfit fit to clean out the garage? She ran her fingers through her frizzy hair, trying to tame it, then puffed her lips out like Autumn often did.
Nope, just looked like roadkill who’d sucked on a lemon.
“What was nothing, love?” a voice asked, and it took everything Summer had not to jump out of her skin.
“Jesus, we need to put a bell on you,” she said.
As if on cue, their phones pinged in unison, RoChance in full swing.
“You were saying?” he asked, and she tried hard to appear unaffected in his presence.
A hard feat, since Wes was leaning against the wall as if he were holding it up with his sculpted shoulders. He was in slacks that hugged him to perfection and a gray button-down that made his eyes look even more intense. And then, just like out of a novel, a curl of hair fell over his forehead.
“Oh, the talk with my auntie?”
“The one where she implied you wear granny panties? I can vouch for you that your choice of underwear is not boring. On the record, of course.”
“What do you know about my panties?”
“More than Dog Boy.”
“Gah!” She marched past him and into the kitchen, stopping shy at the threshold, surprise and gratitude forming a knot in her throat.
The rustic antique table was set, with a bouquet of flowers in the middle. All the ingredients were on the counter, chopped and placed in organized glass bowls, like this was some British baking show. And in a strainer in the sink were dozens of fresh clams.
“You went to the market?” She picked up a clam and examined it thoroughly. It was a perfect specimen of what a clam should look like. “And the Crusty Clam?”
And what had she done? Read on the deck, sucked down a cold glass of Pinot, and thrown on some ratty clothes.
“The market, yes. And the Crusty Clam only to rent some clamming gear.”
“You know how to clam? I don’t believe you.” She picked up the clams and swirled them around in the water, changing it out as sand escaped from the tightly shut shells.
“There is a thing called Google,” he said, but Summer knew he was full of shit. These were clams from an expert clammer. So he was either lying and had bought them off Benny at the Crusty Clam or he’d done this before.
She wanted to bet on the lying part, but her gut said that he knew his way around a clam shovel and a kitchen.
“Did you clam in your loafers and tie?”
He smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Yes. Yes she did. Because when he’d shown up for the race earlier that day and had been wearing cargo shorts that hung low on his hips and a faded Oxford tee, her mouth had watered. Before that she’d never seen him in anything but starch and stick-up-his-assery—like he was now.
“By the way,” he said. “You owe me a hundred dollars.”
“You spent a hundred bucks on groceries?” she choked. She could have bought all those ingredients and three bouquets of flowers for half that. But instead of doing what she was supposed to be doing, she’d gotten lost in a book. “Let me grab my phone and I can Venmo you my half.” Which was her grocery budget for two whole weeks.
“No, I am a respectable man and settle my bets. I lost. I pay for dinner,” he said. “But my time is valuable. So while you were primping—”
“I wasn’t primping.”
He ignored this. “I was in here waiting. You were ten minutes late.”
She pulled up her calculator app on her phone, did some quick math and choked. “You make six hundred dollars an hour?”
“Closer to seven, but I was giving you the friends and family discount.”
How was that possible? They did the same thing, worked in the same industry and she was living in an nine-hundred-square-foot apartment above her shop with her sister and he was living in the lap of luxury.
She made a few swipes on her phone and his immediately pinged.
He pulled it out of his back pocket and lifted a brow. “Are you sending me an arrow on your dating app? You know you can just come out from behind the screen and ask me out.”
She snorted. “There is RoChance I’d ever date you. Plus it’s just pinged because we’re in the vicinity of each other. And an algorithm never lies.”
She ignored the ping of the app as he grabbed an open bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio and poured them each a glass. He handed one to her and lifted his in toast. “I don’t know. This feels kind of date-like. You, me, wine, cooking, flowers. Screams romance.”
He’d bought the flowers for her? She didn’t know how she felt about that—or about the way her heart melted a little.
“If you check your phone, it was your money arriving for your part of the groceries, not an arrow. I guess there is something to bulk pricing, but I’d rather be broke than sling Big Box–priced books that hurt the author’s bottom line to the masses.”
Her barb didn’t even phase him. “Give yourself a raise.”
She choked on a laugh. “With what money?”
This gave him pause. “You have nonstop customer flow. How is that possible?”
Her hackles rose and she felt a defensive prickle at the base of her neck. Along with some embarrassment. She wasn’t the best businesswoman, but she was the best woman to run her grandmother’s bookshop.
“Some of them are regulars,” she admitted, pulling out the pasta board. “I encourage them to come in for the coffee and a read.”
He turned off the water which he was using to fill up the pasta pot. “Hold up, love, you’re saying that you let them sample your products for free?”
She floured the cutting board and started separating the yolks from the whites. “It’s called community.”
She looked up and he was helping. They were actually working in tandem. Then he broke the moment when he said, “It’s called bad business. Here, scoot over.” He bumped her with his hip and took over kneading the pasta.
“You think you can make a better linguini than me?”
“My last name might be Kingston, but my mum is Italian and my nonna taught me my way around a kitchen. And Jesus, how did you manage to get flour all over the counter? You haven’t even started cooking.”
Her cheeks heated with embarrassment, but her tone was all sass. “Cooking is an art. It’s about going with your gut.”
“Cooking is a science. It’s about following the instructions.”
“Instructions are for amateurs.” She picked up a glass bowl filled with chopped parsley and took a pinch to inspect. “Oh my god, it’s all the same exact size. Even your cooking skills are starched.”
“At least my result doesn’t resemble a flour bomb exploding in the kitchen. I keep it nice and tidy.”
Maybe it was the pompous look on his face, or that he would choose to wear slacks and loafers on a family vacation. Or maybe it was because she’d had a lifetime of her family calling her Pig Pen for the little messes that she left in her wake, but something in her snapped.
“Flour this,” she said and picked up a palm full of flour then blew as hard as she could.
A white cloud the size of the Dust Bowl exploded into the sky, and when the air cleared Wes looked like a ghost with flour all over his dark hair. His shirt was dusted and his face was puckered. He looked like a pissed-off Pillsbury Doughboy.
Then the most miraculous thing happened: he threw his head back and barked out a laugh. A laugh that came straight from the belly. A laugh she’d never heard from him before. A laugh that was contagious, because no matter how hard she tried to hold onto that anger she couldn’t help but laugh back until they were both clutching their sides.
Their eyes caught, and something freeing and bright passed between them, and she wanted to capture it and hold onto it for a rainy day. Or the next time he did something to piss her to high heaven.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still chuckling. “I went a bit far.”
“You think?” He stuck out his hand. “Truce?”
She took it. “Truce.”
Before she knew what was happening, she was being yanked forward and into his arms. She struggled half-heartedly to escape but he snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her into a big bear hug, every inch of her connecting with every inch of him as he rubbed himself back and forth, transferring the flour from his clothes to hers.
They were both laughing so hard that neither of them noticed just how many body parts were touching until she felt a little zing from her belly to her toes. Wes must have noticed as well, because his embrace turned from friendly to more intimate, his hands splaying over her hips. And when their eyes locked her next laugh died on her lips—which he was staring at.
They both stilled and she took stock of just how intimate their embrace had become. Her palms were on his pecs, leaving behind two flour marks in the shape of handprints, and his hands were on her ass—likely doing the same.
And for the second time that day, tension coiled between them like a loaded spring. Neither spoke, but when she looked into his annoyingly perfect eyes a whole conversation passed between them.
Want.
Lust.
Desire.
Danger.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Helping you cook dinner.”
“No, you were about to mansplain how to do something I mastered before I could reach the counter.”
“So you used to make pasta naked,” he said, which told her he’d heard her and her auntie’s entire convo. “If it’s tradition, we can both strip down.”
Her nipples tightened. “I already lost once today, I’d hate to be disappointed again.”
Before she knew what was happening, he was pressing her against the counter. She could feel his heat surrounding her, his biceps brushing her arms as he leaned in to whisper, “I assure you, I’m an aim-to-please kind of man. One test drive and I’ll ruin you for other men.”
She swallowed hard. “In your dreams.”
He moved even closer and her body trembled. His lips grazed the curve of her ear and he said, “Are you denying I’ve never starred in any of your dreams?”
She turned in his arms and looked him straight in the eyes, which meant craning her neck back to look all the way up his six-foot-three frame. “Never.”
He cracked a knowing smile. “Then what’s the harm in a little kiss to test my theory that you and I would crack the sheetrock.”
Oh. My. God . Did her lady parts just moan?
“We can’t even make pasta without arguing.”
“I think, for us, that’s foreplay, love,” he said, sounding as surprised as her over his epiphany.
Horror shot through her. It couldn’t be. But what if he was right? What if all of this was one big game of cat and mouse? Which lead to the most important question. Did she want to be caught?
No. absolutely not , she told herself. She’d rather burn her entire library of Judy Garwood novels than sleep with the man who was trying to put her out of business. Her attraction to him was merely from sex deprivation. She could admit he was handsome in that polished way Wall Street men were—he had masculine hands, and a magnetism about him that could con a bunch of unsuspecting small business owners into welcoming his big business with open arms.
“It’s loathing.”
“Then how about we make a wager of our own. A pasta-off. If I win, I get that kiss.”
“A kiss?” she croaked, the color of her cheeks deepening. “Why would you want to kiss me?”
“To prove there’s something here that can’t be ignored.”
She didn’t need a test to prove that. Her body was practically putty and they were both fully clothed. “There’s nothing between us,” she lied.
“Then there won’t be any harm in a little kiss,” he challenged—and oh, that superior tone of his pushed her buttons.
“Okay, fine. But no tongue.”
“Since when does the loser get to set the terms of the spoils?”
“Since they’re my lips.” And since she could already imagine his mouth on hers, assured and demanding. Feel his hands on her waist—and other places—moving with confident intent.
Abort. Abort . That would be the smart thing to do, but she couldn’t resist a dare. Especially one thrown out there by a man who had bested her at every turn. A man who drove her to the brink of insanity. A man who needed to go.
“And when I win, you have to go back to Ridgefield first thing tomorrow,” she said.
That charming smile drooped at the corners in a vulnerable way that had her regretting her words. She’d hit a sore spot, and for the first time this imposing, impenetrable man seemed a little more human. A little softer, and less like he could carry the entirety of Great Britain on his shoulders without breaking a sweat.
“Is that what you really want?”
“Yes.” That was a big fat lie, but for the first time in her life her poker face must have held because he didn’t call her on it.
“Agreed then. I win, I get a kiss to prove that there is something between us. And if you win, I’ll be on my merry way, and you can enjoy the rest of your holiday experiencing life through the pages of one of your love books.”
“They’re called romance novels.”
His charm immediately reappeared. “How do you say it? Tom a to-tom o to?”
She rolled her eyes. “We say it , bring it on .”