Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
brOGAN HOLLISTER
I should have stopped at Raleigh two hours ago and checked into a hotel for the night before driving to Love Beach in the morning. Hell, I could have checked into one of my family’s hotels, for that matter, but that would have only alerted my mother that I was on my way home three days early.
I’m not ready to deal with all her matchmaking attempts just yet. I just returned from a mission two days ago and boarded another plane to accompany my best friend Trevor Hawthorne to Philadelphia so he could make it to his girlfriend’s hooding ceremony before my buddies and I got back on the plane for Norfolk. All that before I decided, what the hell, I might as well head to the beach house three days early and relax before Mother introduced me to yet another one of her prospective daughters-in-law.
With Trevor, Bennett, and myself the last holdouts to getting tied down like the rest of the Team guys, I had a nagging feeling Trevor was going to turn in his singles card .
And darn it, he did. He even proposed without a damn ring. Like how does that even work?
But Claudia said yes and that’s what matters.
That leaves only Bennet and me to hold down the fort. I don’t even know what I’m waiting for. My mother’s been hounding me to find someone and settle down for the last three years. When that didn’t happen (the marriage part), she christened herself as my official matchmaker, introducing me to some new woman every time I went home to visit. It’s embarrassing.
I’m thirty years old, for crying out loud. I can find a woman of my own without her help.
I don’t even know how Preston’s managed to hold her off. At thirty-two and running the family company, he should be the one she should concentrate her matchmaking efforts on, but somehow he’s managed to convince her that he’s too busy working to settle down.
As if Mother’s efforts weren’t already downright embarrassing, she’s determined to find me a woman from the “same social standing,” so everyone she’s introduced me to so far have been daughters of the wealthy set, the heiresses and the trust fund babies who have never had to work a day in their lives. They’re all nice, don’t get me wrong, but they’re not for me.
I want someone who’s down to earth, someone who understands the value of hard work and doesn’t take their privilege for granted. Someone who’s not afraid to get their hands dirty and can keep up with my adventurous spirit. That’s why I enlisted in the Navy and became a SEAL. I worked hard to get where I am even if, as Mother insists, I could walk away right now and have a job that pays ten times what the Navy pays me.
You don’t even have to risk your life, Brogan. You have no idea how stressed I get whenever I read about some Navy SEAL incident in the news.
I get her concern (and her point about the pay), and I can’t blame her. She almost lost it when she read about the ambush that killed my best friend Desmond Pratt two years ago and injured Trevor. Bennett and I suffered some cuts and bruises but it was losing Desmond that hurt the most. The scars no one can see.
Still, I love what I do even if my body has other ideas, specifically the aches and pains that come from beating it up during every training and mission. That’s why I need this break, one that comes between a dangerous mission and humoring my mother by letting her play matchmaker.
As I drive through the night, my thoughts drift to the beach house. It’s always been my sanctuary, a place where I can escape the pressures of my family and the demands of the Team. Granddad left it to me in his will, knowing how much I loved the simplicity of it.
The beach house is a far cry from the luxury hotels my family owns all over the country. It’s a reminder of simpler times, of summers spent surfing and fishing with him.
Three days by myself is all I need. Then I can face Mother and let her play matchmaker to her heart’s content. I know she means well, even if sometimes it’s just too much. But I also get it. Ever since Father died three years ago, her two sons have become her world… and she’s eager to expand said world with grandkids .
The more the merrier , she’d say as Preston and I would roll our eyes. And the sooner the better. I’m not getting any younger, you know.
It’s almost one in the morning when I pull up beside the beach house. All around me, the area is quiet although at the other end of the beach closer to the pier, the party’s still going on. That’s what I like about the beach house. It’s in the perfect spot where one can actually get some peace and quiet.
I kill the engine and step out of my truck, each breath carrying a hint of saltwater—a reminder of why I enlisted in the Navy. The ocean, in its own way, kept me tethered to Love Beach while also giving me the freedom to forge my own path.
Only my time with the brotherhood is over. Retiring from active duty was the last thing on my mind but the ambush served as a reminder that I didn’t have to stay in just to prove I could live a life outside of the family business. I’d proven that for the last eight years. But it’s not like I’m leaving the SEALs entirely; I’m still working with them, just in the private sector this time.
But first, a vacation.
Three days.
I fumble with the keys, my exhaustion making my fingers clumsy. Finally, the lock clicks and I push open the door, expecting the familiar scent of sea salt, surfboard wax, and a hint of stale beer. Instead, I’m greeted by the crisp smell of fresh paint and new wood.
I reach for the light switch but my hand brushes against something unexpected. A plastic-lined cabinet. A kitchen cabinet specifically.
“Ah, hell,” I mutter under my breath. “What’s Mother up to now?”
I should switch on the lights and figure out what’s going on but a part of me already knows what it is. Mother must have decided to take it upon herself to renovate the place, a thought that strikes fear in my heart. I love the place the way it is—or was—rustic and homey.
I pull back my hand, deciding not to switch on any lights. I’ll deal with the disappointment in the morning. First things first, I need to get to my bed and sleep.
As I reach the top of the stairs leading to the loft, I slip off my boots and undress, leaving only my boxer briefs on. I’m so exhausted my movements are automatic, my body knowing exactly where the bed is in the darkness as I stumble toward it.
But just as I’m about to collapse onto the mattress, a sudden movement catches my eye. A bloodcurdling scream almost ruptures my eardrums as a figure rushes toward me, wielding something in the air and swinging it at me.
Instinctively, I grab the weapon, disarming my attacker and pinning them to the wall. But as quickly as I do that, I let go, my brain registering the softness of her curves under my touch and the scent of jasmine on her skin.
A woman.
“What the hell?” I mutter as I reach for the bedside lamp that thankfully is still where it should be.
As the light illuminates the room, my jaw drops in disbelief as my eyes register the woman before me. Breathing hard as she snatches a loose baluster from the floor, Willy Genaro holds it aloft again. The same Willy Genaro (with a hard G) I used to tease mercilessly as a kid, now all grown up and looking stunning in an oversized T-shirt, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders.
“You better get out before I call the police,” she yells as I stare at her.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Her eyes widen in recognition and then narrow in annoyance. “I should be asking you that.”
“I asked first.”
“I’m working on the house, genius. Your mother hired me,” she exclaims, the Filipino accent I’d long ago teased her about barely evident. “What’s your excuse? Sleepwalking in the wrong house?”
“I always crash here when I come home,” I reply. If I’d been half asleep, she could have bashed my head in with that damn baluster—which she is still wielding over her head, by the way. Navy SEAL or not, I’d had my guard down.
As we glare at each other, I can’t help but let my gaze wander over her curves, my body responding in ways I never expected. Willy Genaro, the girl I used to torment when we were kids, is now a woman who takes my breath away.
“Pick one of the hundreds of hotels your family owns in town and crash there, Hollister,” she snaps, the baluster still poised for attack.
“Whether or not my family owns one or a hundred hotels, this is my place and I can crash here anytime I want.”
“Not while I’m renovating it,” she counters, pointing the baluster toward the stairs. “Look, just leave, okay? This bed's taken and I’m not in the mood for a slumber party.”
“The hell I'm leaving. This bed's mine,” I argue. “In fact, this whole house is mine.”
“Spoken like a true Hollister,” she scoffs as she brings her hands to her hips, drawing my attention back to her curves.
“What about your place?” I ask. “Why don’t you stay there?”
“I’m staying here so I can finish the job in time for you to come home in…” she pauses, glancing at the clock on the bedside table, “three days. Yet here you are.”
“I’m still not leaving.” I glance at the living room below. “Where’s the couch anyway?”
“Your mother ordered a replacement for the last one we had delivered,” Willy replies. “We’ve already gone through three of them but at least this time, she finally settled on the one I originally chose when we started the project two months ago. One that fits the original design of the place. Heaven forbid I let your mother modernize everything.”
“That’s nice of you to consider that,” I mutter.
“It’s for professional reasons, Hollister. Nothing at all to do with you.”
We glare at each other, the tension crackling between us like electricity. I can’t help but notice how her oversized T-shirt drapes over her body, hinting at the tantalizing secrets underneath .
Willy breaks the standoff first, sighing heavily as she tosses the baluster on the bed. “Why don't you just go home? I'm sure your mother would love to see you again. She could introduce you to a nice trust fund baby, and you two could sail off into the sunset on your matching yachts.”
“No one knows I’m back yet and I’d like to keep it that way,” I retort. “Besides, you know how my mother can be with her matchmaking.”
This time, Willy shrugs, crossing her arms in front of her ample breasts. “Not my problem.”
I force myself to keep my eyes on her face, but it's a losing battle. Willy Genaro is all grown up and looking mighty fine.
"So you're an interior designer?" I say, needing to change the subject.
"Surprised?" She raises an eyebrow as if daring me to make fun of her profession.
"Far from it. I always knew you were destined for great things.”
“Wow,” she chuckles wryly. “Brogan Hollister saying something nice to me for a change? That's new. What’s next, you apologizing for being such a jerk to me back then?”
I clear my throat. “As a matter of fact, I do want to apologize. I’m sorry for being an asshole to you when we were kids, Willy. Preston and I should have known better but we didn't. We were young, dumb, and full of… well, you know.”
Willy studies me for a few moments. “It’ll take more than a simple apology for me to forgive you, Hollister, but I’m also not planning on spending one more second recounting all the hell you put me through when I need to sleep. I’ve got a lot of things to do tomorrow.”
“About that. Why don’t I help you?” I ask. “Whatever it is you need–”
“I need you to leave.”
“Except that.”
“Why not?”
“You know why. Besides, you need help.”
“No, I don’t. I was planning on asking Crystal to help me.”
I scoff. “And risk breaking one of her nails? I’m sorry, but no. You need me.”
She glares at me. “Why are you so stubborn?”
“Speak for yourself,” I say, grinning.
“I’m tired of arguing with you.” She stifles a yawn. “Look, since you refuse to leave, we need to figure out what to do about our bed situation. And no, sharing is not an option.”
“Why not? It’s not like we’re strangers’” I do my best to sound as innocent as possible. “We’ll set boundaries and keep to our own sides. There’s an extra pillow and we can use that to divide up the bed. I promise I won’t try anything. Scout’s honor.”
“Alright.” She snatches the baluster from the bed and points it at me. “But if you so much breathe on me, Hollister, I'll kick you in the balls so hard you’ll be singing soprano for a week.”