Chapter 9
The cockpit is quieterthan any I’ve experienced, swiftly killing my hopes that we won’t have to talk until we’re settled over a sandwich somewhere.
In the build-up to showing up on Weaver’s dock, I’d convinced myself this conversation wouldn’t be a big deal.
Yes, I slept with this man, but we’re both grown-ups, and perfectly capable of having an adult conversation.
And, as expected, Weaver was cool about me wanting to “just talk.”
Of course, he was. He’s the epitome of cool. He’s so cool, it burns a little. I feel his frosty gray eyes on me like an ice cube dragging slowly down my spine, making me shiver…and wish he would touch me.
I underestimated how much I would want him to touch me. But then, I’ve never slept with someone before. Maybe this is normal, this itching beneath the skin that grows worse with every moment I’m in this man’s presence and not on top of him.
Or under him.
Or tangled with him against the wall.
That chair would also work. It’s a big chair, wide and deep enough for even a large man like Weaver to sprawl out on its seat.
He’s sprawled now, watching me as I guide the boat out of the tangle of boats and docks in the harbor and pick up speed, heading north.
Each time I glance his way out of the corner of my eyes, he’s watching me, until I can’t help shooting a pointed glance his way.
His lips curve. “Just enjoying watching a master at work. That was some impressive slow speed maneuvering, especially in this chop.”
I roll my shoulders uncomfortably. “I’ve been steering since I was a kid. Gramps needed me to help out on the boat after his cataract surgery. He started teaching me when I was thirteen. I was good at it, so I stayed at the helm on the days I worked with him before school. It was technically against the law, but everyone knew I was better behind the wheel than Gramps. We were all safer with me in charge.”
“Have you always worked with your grandfather?”
It’s the perfect segue into the conversation I’m actually here to have. I could tell him “yes,” and that I’ve lived with Gramps, too, since my family fell apart.
Since he helped it fall apart, that night he was caught with my mother…
But I can’t bring myself to go there just yet. I’m trapped on this boat with him for at least another hour before we reach another town large enough to have restaurants and room to dock a vessel this size.
Then, we’ll be stuck together for lunch and the trip back.
There’s plenty of time to get to the point, preferably once we’re closer to being able to leave each other’s company, so I say, “Yeah. I had the chance to join a bigger operation last year and potentially make more money, but I like working with Gramps. Maybe it’s weird, but he’s one of my best friends.”
“That’s not weird. It’s nice,” he says in that silky voice of his, the one I really wish was murmuring filthy things in my ear while he runs his hands over every burning inch of me.
Get a grip, Sullivan, I hiss silently to myself.
“Are you close with the rest of your family?” he asks, giving me yet another perfect opening. Still, I plan to avoid going there until he adds, “Your mother, for example?”
I glance sharply his way to find his glacier gaze already studying my face with the focus of a hawk watching an open field for mice.
Well…fuck.
I sigh and turn from the controls, which won’t require as much attention from me now that we’re in familiar open water.
“Did you know?” I ask. “That night? Before we…?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I suppose I should have. There’s definitely a resemblance.” My upper lip curls and his brows lift. “That wasn’t intended as an insult. Your mother is a beautiful woman.”
“She’s a cheater,” I say, trying to keep my tone as cool and level as his. This drama is old news. I’m not going to get upset about it now. I refuse to give my mother that kind of power over me. “And she wasn’t too keen on being a mother, even before she got caught with another man. Afterward, she just…disappeared.”
His mouth tightens. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she left,” I say, waving a hand in the general direction of upstate New York. “After the night my dad caught her out at the bar with you, she never came home. I was alone at the house the next morning, freaking out, thinking my parents were dead or something, until Gramps came by to tell me that my dad was in the hospital.”
I don’t know what I expect his response to be—a wince of guilt, maybe—but it doesn’t happen. His expression grows even more cool, more controlled, and his voice is steely as he asks, “How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“And Tracy never came home?”
I cross my arms and shrug my shoulders. “Well, technically, I guess she did. When we got back from the hospital late that night, one of the big suitcases from the garage and a lot of her stuff was gone, but I didn’t realize that until later. I was too upset. And too tired. A full day at the hospital, watching your battered father wheeze on a ventilator is a lot for a little kid. It wasn’t until I was packing up my things to move in with Gramps a few days later that I realized Mom’s nice gray suitcase was gone.”
His jaw clenches. “How long was it until you saw her again? Until she made contact?”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Never. When I say never, I mean never. She never called or wrote an email or sent a card on my birthday. For a while, I thought she might be dead, but Elaina tracked her down when we were in junior high. She did a deep Google dive and found Mom in a posh town in upstate New York. She was remarried by then, to a horse breeder, and had a new last name, but somehow Elaina figured it out.” My lips twist. “Thank God for good friends, right?”
“I’m not sure in this case,” he says, his expression still unreadable.
I shake my head. “No, it was a good thing. After that, I could stop kidding myself that she was out there with amnesia or something and would come running home to me as soon as she remembered who she was. I could accept the fact that my mother was an asshole who didn’t love me and move on.”
“I’m sure it had more to do with your father than with you. She was very unhappy in her marriage.” He pauses for a moment before continuing in a softer voice, “Not that that’s any excuse. I’m sorry, Gertrude.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “What for? It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t make my family any promises or decide to have a kid. And call me Sully, please. I told you, most of my guy friends do. It’s weird being called Gertrude by a man for some reason.”
“Do you want to be friends?” He arches a brow. “With the man who traumatized you as a child?”
“You weren’t much more than a kid, either. My mom basically cradle-robbed you,” I say, uncomfortable with the directness of his gaze.
Does this man ever give casual eye contact? Or is it always this “looking through your skin to the secrets of your soul” thing, twenty-four seven?
“I was twenty-three, almost twenty-four,” he says. “About the age you are now. Do you consider yourself a kid?”
I squirm a little before I shrug again. “No, but I’m a girl. A girl who had to grow up fast and started working part time on a lobster boat when she was thirteen. I’m sure privileged rich boys grow up slower.” He stares at me, silently challenging my words until I feel forced to add, “And even if you were a full-fledged adult, it doesn’t matter. It’s still true that you didn’t make my family any promises. My parents did and they both broke them—Mom by cheating and Dad by choosing the pub over his family every night.” I turn, feigning the need to check in with the navigation system as I add, “Though beating the shit out of him probably wasn’t called for.”
“You’re right,” he says without missing a beat, surprising me. “I wasn’t in control of my anger back then. He punched me and I…” He clears his throat before continuing. “I barely remember the fight. I just remember your mother pulling me away from him. I had another altercation like that not long after, when I was back in the city. I didn’t remember much of that, either. I started therapy to get control of my anger afterward, and I’ve never hurt anyone like that again, but it doesn’t excuse the things I did when I was younger. I owe your father an apology. I can arrange to give him one, if you’d like.”
I snort, torn between being impressed with his willingness to apologize—that isn’t a common trait in most of the rich men I’ve met, or men in general—and sad about the whole fucked up situation.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, glancing his way as I guide the yacht a bit closer to shore, now that we’re clear of the shallow water near town. “Dad isn’t the same guy he was back then. The car wreck did a number on his head, and he never cut back on the drinking. If anything, it got worse after he was out of the hospital. He was living alone and Gramps was taking care of me and paying all of his bills. He had no responsibilities or reason to get his act together.”
“You deserved so much more.”
I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Please, don’t. I don’t want your pity. I don’t deserve it. I’ve had a great life. My grandfather loves me to the moon and back and my friends’ parents stepped in whenever I needed help with something he couldn’t manage on his own. Maya’s dad tutored me in math and Elaina’s mom helped me through my first period and we all lived happily ever after.”
“Except your father.”
“But that wasn’t your fault.”
“I know,” he says. “It wasn’t yours, either.”
My lips part on a protest, but I swallow it down. Obviously, it isn’t my fault that my father’s a drunk who failed his family, but there are times when I feel guilty for not doing more. I could have gone to see him after school more often as a kid or tried harder to get him into treatment. I already know he wouldn’t have gone, but I could have doubled down on the effort.
I’ve had enough therapy to know that persistent guilt and fear that you’re “not doing enough” are common feelings for adult children of alcoholics. But knowing the reason for a thing isn’t always enough to keep the thing from making you feel like shit.
Which means it’s time to change the subject. I’ve had enough feeling like shit in my life. I don’t need any more of that, especially on my day off.
But I have one last shitty thing I need to ask first.
“So, were you and my mom…” I trail off, my throat tight. “Did you…”
“No,” he says. “We’d only been out once before the night we ran into your father. Afterwards, it became clear Tracy Sullivan wasn’t good for me. I didn’t attempt to contact her again.”
“She wasn’t good for anyone,” I say. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe she’s good for her new husband. They’ve been married a while now and she looks swanky in the photos on his company website. She’s definitely had Botox and whatever else older women do to keep it tight. She looks like she could be my sister.” I laugh. “I’ll probably look older than she does, soon. If I stay out on the water and keep forgetting to wear sunscreen.”
“You should wear sunscreen.”
“I know,” I say as I turn from the controls again, “but it’s easy to forget at three-thirty in the morning, when you’re stumbling out of the bathroom with your eyes barely open.”
He considers me for a beat before he says, “You’re an impressive, hardworking person, Sully.”
My mouth twitches at the nickname. I like it on his lips. I like the friendly look in his eye, too, even if it does mean the steamy part of our relationship is over.
But that’s for the best. Even if he didn’t sleep with my mother, there’s a lot of bad blood between our families and he’s still a Tripp. He’s also on his way out of town as soon as possible. It’s obvious that he hates it here. The few glimpses I’ve caught of Weaver around Sea Breeze in the past two days, he’s looked miserable, his permanent scowl enough to dull even his striking good looks.
“Thanks, but not really,” I say. “All harvesters get up early. Our outfit gets up a little earlier because Gramps is hardcore, but it’s just part of the job.”
“A job you love?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, ignoring the soft voice niggling at the back of my brain, insisting “love” is too strong a word. I love the sense of community and being my grandfather’s right-hand woman, but if I’d had more options, this probably isn’t the career I would have chosen.
But I didn’t have options—Gramps needed me here—so there’s no point thinking about that.
“I like being part of a legacy,” I continue. “Sullivans have been out on this water for over two hundred years. That feels pretty special.”
He cocks his head. “You feel pride in your family.”
“Yeah, don’t you? The Tripps have been around just as long. And you’ve made a lot more money.” I sweep my arm out to one side, encompassing the yacht bearing us smoothly northward.
This thing had to cost at least a million dollars, if not more, and according to Mark, his father has another one just like it down in South Carolina, docked at their vacation home.
“Maybe I should,” Weaver says, rising from his seat and crossing to stand beside me at the wheel. He gazes out over the choppy water, churning beneath the clear blue sky. The hurricane passed by far enough out to sea that we didn’t get much rain, but the ocean still shows signs of the recent storm. “Where are we headed?”
“I thought Saint Mary, right before you reach Canadian water,” I say. “They’ll have room to dock a larger boat and it’s big enough we can disappear into the city and not be spotted by anyone we know.”
“Perfect.” He pulls his cell from his pocket. “I’ll make a reservation for two. Any preferences on the restaurant? I was thinking French but I can look for something else if you’d like.”
“French is good,” I say, not wanting to tell him that I’ve never had French food before. I mean, I’ve had French onion soup down at the Moose Club—they always serve that and a side salad with the prime rib on Friday nights—but I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of French he’s talking about.
Even more than the difference in our ages, the difference in our backgrounds and social status is something that makes this feel…a little strange. If we were actually dating, I’d be nervous all the time, afraid I was going to make a fool of myself by not knowing all the rich person rules.
I’m rough around the edges for a girl, even by Sea Breeze standards, let alone to a swanky New York investment banker. (And yes, I did an internet search on Weaver. I couldn’t help myself. I also couldn’t find much on the man. He’s as private and reserved online as he is in person.)
“But we don’t have to get lunch,” I say, wanting to give him an out if he’d rather head for home now that we’ve had our talk. “That’s all I really wanted to know.”
He turns to me, the clean, fresh scent of his cologne stronger now that he’s so close. It makes me want to lean into his neck and inhale. I love the way he smells, like a fancy hotel lobby and something masculine and raw that makes my mouth water a little. “You wanted to know if I’d slept with your mother?”
I force a tight smile. “Yep, that’s about it. I was just wondering how grossed out about the other night I should actually be.”
“Is that all?” He angles even closer, bracing his hand on the console behind me, until he’s looming over me in a way that makes me feel unusually small.
I’m tall and broad through the shoulders for a woman. I’m strong and tough and can count the times I’ve felt “dainty” on one hand. Hell, on one finger. The first and only time was the other night, when Weaver pulled me up the mattress, showing off the unusually large muscles he keeps concealed under his well-fitted suits and dress shirts.
I tip my head back, bringing my face just inches from his, forcing myself to ignore the electricity flowing across my skin. “What other reason would I have?”
His mouth moves closer, sending my already speeding pulse into overdrive. “I don’t know. Maybe you wanted to see if it would be okay to do it again.”
“We shouldn’t do it again,” I say, my voice breathier, weaker than I would like. “Our families hate each other.”
“They do,” he agrees, close enough now that I can feel his heat on my lips.
“And I made out with your nephew. And you made out with my mother.”
He smiles, what I sense is his real smile. There’s no tightness around his mouth this time, just an easy swoop of his gorgeous lips and a mischievous flicker in his eyes as he whispers, “It’s scandalous, I’ll give you that. Are you afraid of scandal?”
“No,” I say, dying to kiss him, to feel his strong arms around me showing me how much he wants my body close to his. “But if anyone in my family found out, it would kill them. They might never forgive me. I was worried about them finding out about Mark, but you…”
“I’m so much worse,” he supplies, his hand settling on my hip for a beat before smoothing around to the small of my back with a confidence that makes me ache.
“So much worse,” I whisper. My hands mold to his chest, but I don’t push him away. My fingers curl around the lapels of his suit coat, holding him close.
“Well, then,” he murmurs, the tip of his nose brushing against mine.
I lift my chin in anticipation of a kiss, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his warmth abruptly vanishes as his coat slides from my fingers. My eyes fly open with a soft breath of surprise to find him already descending the stairs leading into the cabin below.
“Well, then, what?” I demand, propping a hand on my hip.
He grins up at me, his wicked eyes dancing. “Well, then, that’s something you should think about before I do any of the things I’d like to do to you.”
“You’d like to do things to me?” I ask, hating the slight hint of insecurity in my tone.
But I can’t help it. This man is ridiculously good looking and I’m just…me, the tomboy who inherited her beautiful mother’s genes, but has no idea what to do with them. I can’t transform “cute” into drop-dead gorgeous the way she did. I’ve never had the time or the patience for girly stuff like expensive haircuts or makeup or dressing for my body type.
But I suddenly wish I’d made time. At least a little.
“Very much,” Weaver confirms in a husky voice that makes my entire body tingle again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change into something more comfortable for lunch at a waterfront bistro.”
I nod. “Okay. I’ll um…steer.”
His lips quirk again. “Excellent idea. Someone should stay on top of that.”
And you can stay on top of me, I silently add, my cheeks flaming as I turn back to face the wheel.
“Get a grip, Gertie,” I mumble beneath my breath as I tug the collar of my sweater away from my flushed throat.
It’s only then that I realize I’m in one of my favorite comfy sweaters, my rain slicker, and jeans, with nothing on my face but the sunscreen I actually remembered today and berry-colored lip gloss. That must be the real reason Weaver is going to change, so that we won’t look as mismatched as we do right now with him in a fancy suit and me dressed to cosplay as Paddington Bear.
It’s thoughtful of him.
It was thoughtful of him to pull away, too, giving me the time and space to decide if I really want a repeat of the other night. But that bossy man who owned my body is still there, lurking beneath Weaver’s excellent manners and self-control. I have a feeling all it would take is a word to bring that heart-palpitation-and-orgasm-inducing side of him to the surface.
And God, I want that, I really do.
But should I? Can I risk breaking my grandfather’s heart for a one-night stand?
“It would technically be a two-night stand at that point,” I whisper as the skyline of Saint Mary appears in the distance. “Or more, depending on how long he’s in town.”
It won’t be long; I know that much. Maybe not even the couple weeks he mentioned on Friday.
It’s clear he can’t wait to get away from his family. He seems to dislike the rest of the Tripps nearly as much as Gramps does.
At least they have that in common.
It isn’t enough to make me consider doing something as stupid as openly dating Weaver Tripp. But it’s enough to think maybe, just maybe, I could justify what I’ve done to Gramps in the unlikely event we’re discovered.
It would be highly unlikely. I’m good at sneaking around and I lied to my best friend for almost a decade about how I lost my virginity. And lies to protect the people I love will come even easier than lies to protect my pride.
“You’re talking yourself into betrayal awfully quickly,” I murmur, but the wave of guilt I’m expecting doesn’t come.
There’s no room for guilt inside me right now.
There’s only longing and the sobering knowledge that Weaver can’t get back from changing his clothes soon enough. No matter how off-balance he makes me feel sometimes, I already…miss him.
“You’re so fucked,” I murmur, earning a resounding, Sure are, from the inner voice.
Well, at least we agree on something.