Chapter 4
CursingSea Breeze and my abundance of intrusive relatives, I swing out of bed, murmuring a soft warning for Sully to, “Stay put and stay quiet.”
I pull on my pajama pants and charge out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. By the time I reach the living area, a shadow is creeping down the stairs from the deck, calling my name.
Judging by the hair sticking up in spikes around the shadow’s head, it’s Mark, my worthless nephew.
The kid who thought he could handle a woman like Sully…
A surge of irrational, unexpected anger washes through me as Mark squeaks, “Weaver? Is that?—”
“Back upstairs,” I say in a low growl. “You haven’t been invited into the living quarters.”
He stops mid-step, his chin jerking back into his neck in surprise. “What? This is the family yacht. We come aboard whenever we?—”
“Not anymore,” I say.
“But we—” His words end in a startled grunt as I spin him in a circle and shove him none-too-gently back the way he came.
“It’s after midnight,” I say once we’re on deck and Mark is blinking in shock in the moonlight. “This is where I’m staying while I’m in town. It’s my temporary home and guests aren’t welcome in my home without an invitation.”
“Okay,” Mark says, though he’s clearly not pleased. “Sorry, I just… I can’t find my phone. I’ve looked everywhere, but it’s not at my place or at the bar or in Simon’s backyard. I think I must have left it here earlier, when I gave you the keys.”
Grateful that Mark didn’t set foot inside the living quarters this afternoon, I start toward the seating area at the front of the ship. “This could have waited until the morning. A lost phone isn’t an emergency.”
“I don’t have a landline,” he says, his tone lifting toward a whine. “And Mom throws a fit if she can’t get in touch with me.”
The mention of Laura, Rodger’s wife, makes my jaw clench. By all modern conventions, my brother’s assets should have gone to his spouse, but that’s not the Tripp way. My father made it clear before he passed that he expected Rodger to secure the safe continuation of our family empire.
That meant ensuring a Tripp was in control, not a spouse.
As Rodger’s eldest and only child, Mark was next in line, but the executor of the trust, Darren, is a friend of mine from boarding school. Our phone call last night left no doubt that I’m still in line to inherit my brother’s assets and control of the company.
Sounds like Rodger didn’t leave much to his twenty-four-year-old son.
Though, so far, I can’t say I blame him. It was obvious from the moment my plane touched down this morning that Mark is more concerned about what he stands to gain from his father’s death than what he’s lost. There didn’t seem to be much love between the two of them—another reason I feel comfortable kicking Mark off the boat without ceremony. If he were a normal, grieving son, I would have more compassion.
I’m an asshole, but I’m not a monster, not unless someone has proven they deserve it. And so far, Mark’s proving to be the latest selfish, money-hungry bastard in a long line of the same.
He’s going to lose his fucking mind when he learns how little he stands to inherit. He already knows some of the details, but the full picture is even more bleak…for him, anyway.
The full conditions of the trust won’t be revealed until the official reading of the will, but Darren has already begun the transition of my brother’s assets into my name, including the deed to the mansion and the yacht, Rodger’s fleet of lobster boats, and a vacation home in the Outer Banks in South Carolina.
I want a McMansion in a community likely to be swept off the map by the next hurricane like I want to be standing in the cold ocean air with my nephew instead of down in bed with my sexy cat burglar.
But we don’t always get what we want, at least not without a fight.
Speaking of a fight…
“I hope your mother knows I have no intention of removing her from the family home,” I say, flicking on the lights near the outdoor living area. “No matter who Rodger left Brookhaven to on paper, she’s welcome to live there as long as she likes.”
“She’ll appreciate that,” Mark says, with a nod. Anger flares in his gaze as he adds, “She would have appreciated my dad not being a fucking asshole, more, though. We all would have.”
I motion toward the sage cushions covering the couch and chairs. “Feel free to look around for your phone.”
“Why do you think he did it?” Mark asks, making no move to start searching for his lost cell. “Why did he leave so much to you? Do you think he just forgot to modify the trust or something? I mean, no offense, you’re obviously a great businessman, but you don’t live here and you never wanted to be part of the family business. I’ve been busting my ass every day on a lobster boat, proving I could work my way up from the bottom, just like Dad did with Grandpa. I’ve put in the hard work. I deserve to be in charge now that he’s gone.”
I hold back a sigh. His father isn’t even in his grave and he’s turning on him.
But that’s the Tripp family for you—mercenary to the end. It’s one of the many reasons I don’t intend to have children.
“It’s late, Mark,” I say. “I suggest you find your phone and go home. Get some rest, and we can discuss this after we know the full conditions of the trust.”
His features tighten, his brow furrowing above his pale blue eyes. They’re my father’s eyes, but not nearly as clever or cold. “I think we should talk about it before then, Weaver. I have a right to know what you’re going to do. It’s my future on the line. Mine and my family’s.”
“Your family is my family,” I remind him. “And despite what you may think, I have the best interests of that family front of mind.”
“I’m not a child,” he says, his tone pitching toward a whine again, making my jaw clench. “I can handle this. I can fill my father’s shoes. I know I can. I can be the new CEO of Tripp Seafood. I deserve to be.”
There’s that word again, “deserve.”
People are so eager to declare what they “deserve,” when none of us deserve anything but the chance to walk the earth in peace, without another person interfering in our lives. But of course, very few people are granted even that opportunity.
In parts of the world, men Mark’s age are trafficked into human slavery to harvest cocoa. In others, they’re forced to comb trash heaps for scraps and live in squalor in the shadow of luxury skyscrapers. In still others, they grow up fighting rival gangs for resources or sacrificing their lives to pointless wars in the name of a God they were never given the chance not to believe in.
Mark is a pampered, privileged man-child, who has already been given far more than he “deserves.”
Maybe that’s why, when I spot the rectangular shadow of a cell phone under the lounge chair to my right, I don’t stoop to pick it up. Or maybe it’s just that I’m eager to get back to the woman in my bed.
The woman whose provocative picture is waiting in Mark’s unread messages…
Of all the things Mark doesn’t deserve, he certainly doesn’t deserve to see Sully undressed. Not now or ever again.
I motion toward the gangplank. “Meet me at the café on Main Street at eight a.m. tomorrow. I can give you fifteen minutes. We’ll discuss my preliminary plans for the company then.”
“Fifteen…” He trails off, clearly rethinking his outrage when his eyes lock with mine. He swallows, shrinking beneath the full weight of my “don’t fuck with me” glare.”
I don’t often utilize this expression with family members—it’s reserved for business rivals and people standing too close on the subway—but I have a feeling it won’t be the last time I’ll need it while I’m in Sea Breeze. The Tripps aren’t a normal family that knows how to behave in a power vacuum. My relatives are more like poorly behaved children, who become even crankier than usual in the wake of a disrupted routine.
Mark clears his throat and casts his gaze down to the planks beneath our feet. “Okay, great. Sure. Thanks.” He moves toward the seating area, but I stop him with a hand on his arm.
“I’ll look for the phone in the morning. It will be easier in the sunlight.” I nod toward the gangplank again. “You should go. It’s been a long day and tomorrow will be even longer.”
Tomorrow, we’ll be packed into a tiny funeral home together with my brother’s body, forced to pretend we’re a loving clan for an hour or two before the claws come back out. I’m dreading it even more than the Sunday morning burial parade through town to the family plot, where Rodger will be laid to rest next to our father and mother.
Mark tenses beneath my touch, but after a moment, he sighs and his shoulders slump. “All right. See you in the morning.” His lips twitch slightly at the corners. “If you’re there before me, don’t order the dark roast. It’s like airplane fuel. Elaina always makes it too strong.”
I happen to enjoy my coffee strong enough to launch a plane, but I nod. “See you then.”
I wait until he’s on the dock, circling around the empty ice cream shack before I bend and collect the phone, tucking it into the pocket of my pajama pants. For a moment, I debate tossing it into the ocean, but that won’t take care of the image Sully’s concerned about. It would still be there, waiting for Mark in the cloud when he secures another device.
Hopefully, his password will be something easy to guess. If not, I’ll just have to make unlocking his phone for me mandatory before we speak in the morning. He might think that’s strange, but I don’t give a fuck what my nephew thinks. He’s going to make my life difficult no matter what I do, might as well get something I want from him before that happens.
Down below, I’m disappointed to see Sully dressed and pacing in front of the small kitchen island on the right of the living area. When I descend the final stair, she spins to face me, her eyes wide.
“He’s gone,” I tell her, casting a pointed glance toward the bedroom. “But you were supposed to stay put.”
“I couldn’t,” she says. “Once I heard Mark’s voice, I was too nervous. Was he here looking for his phone?”
I nod. “He was, but he left without it. I told him I’d look for it in the morning, when the light was better.” I pull the cell from my pocket, pleased to see her expression lift in response. “You have approximately seven hours to crack the password.”
“Yes! Thank you so much.” She rushes forward, collecting it from me with shaking hands. “I won’t need that long. It’s one, two, three, four, five. I made fun of him for it when we were taking pictures of a lobster he caught a few months ago.” She taps at the phone, her shoulders sagging with relief at what she sees on the screen. “He hasn’t read it.” She taps a bit more, then exhales, setting the phone on the island with a soft thunk. “Done. Thank God.”
“Again, the name’s Weaver,” I say, resting a hand against the island. I’d prefer to put my hands on her, but there’s something different about her energy.
The look in her eyes is guarded, too, as she emits a tight laugh. “Right. I caught that. Nice to meet you, I guess?”
I arch a brow in response and she edges to the right, dragging a hand through her magnificent hair.
“I mean, it was obviously nice to meet you. Or…orgasmic, at least.” She winces and skitters a few steps closer to the stairs. “But I have to get home. I’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours. I should have been asleep a long time ago.”
I reach out, looping my fingers loosely around her wrist, surprised when she flinches in response. I release her immediately and lift my hand in surrender.
“If you’ve changed your mind about seeing me again, that’s fine,” I assure her. “I only want you in my bed if that’s where you want to be.”
“Thanks,” she says with a little shake of her head. “I just…I have to go. Good night, Weaver. And good luck with everything. Knowing the Tripps, you’re going to need it.”
She flees without a backward glance, before I can say a word.
But what would I have said if she’d given me more time? I’m not the kind to beg a woman to stay, no matter how much I enjoyed her company. I know better than to give my power away like that. Vulnerability, in my experience, only leads to disappointment. The few women I’ve let into my heart have all proven unworthy of my trust.
Or I’ve proven unworthy of theirs…
If Sully hadn’t decided to run, I would have given her more pleasure, there’s no doubt about that, but in the long run, one or both of us would have regretted our connection. She isn’t the kind of woman who’s easy to quit, and I’m not the kind of man who has anything to give a small-town girl looking for love.
After closing and locking the door leading down to the living quarters—I’ve had enough uninvited guests for one night—I slip back beneath the covers, but sleep is a long time coming. My cat burglar’s sweet and sexy smell lingers on my sheets, sending memories of the way she moved beneath me pulsing through my head. Her passion was innocent but powerful, intense. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to stay up all night with a woman, getting lost in her body.
I’m forty years old. As much as I enjoy sex, I thought I’d left my “fuck all night” days behind me.
But this girl, this woman, did something to me, something that keeps me awake nearly an hour before I finally take my dick in hand and jerk off to memories of her slick heat milking me as she came.