Chapter 3
FINN
"Well, look who finally came home." Frank, the security guard who's worked here since I was a kid, steps out of his booth. His weathered face breaks into a grin. "Young Mr. Bardot himself."
The Ferrari's paint job practically glows in the pale morning light. "Just Finn, Frank. You know that."
"Sure, sure." He gives a pointed look at my overnight bag and carry-on taking up the passenger seat. "Here for a while this time?"
The familiar mix of guilt and defiance rises, but I swallow it down. I'm here for Evan. Two weeks max, then back to my real life. "Just until my brother's back on his feet."
Frank nods, no more questions asked. That's what I've always liked about him. He never pushes.
I ease the car forward, and the first rays of sunlight spill across the endless rows of vines, highlighting the tender spring buds.
The vineyard gnaws at me the way it did the last time I visited ten years ago, and not so different from the day I decided to leave for good—graduation day, when I announced I was skipping college to forge my own path.
It wasn’t a good day. My father's rage, my mother's tears, Colton's quiet disappointment.
None of it stopped me from choosing my own future over the one laid out for me since birth.
Now here I am, crawling back because my little brother fell out of a storage loft. The universe must be laughing its ass off.
I follow the familiar curves of the drive, deliberately not looking at the new wings added to the tasting room, the expanded parking lot, all the changes I've missed. This isn't home anymore. It's just a place I used to live, where my family happens to still be.
But as I navigate the winding approach to the main house, the old weight settles in behind my sternum, right where I left it ten years ago.
Because no matter how far I run, how many records I break, or how many billions I make, some part of me will always be that screwup middle son, never quite good enough for the Bardot name.
The grand colonial facade of Bardot Vista's main house looms ahead, all pristine white columns and meticulously maintained gardens.
I park in the circular drive, between Colton's practical Mercedes SUV and a sporty black Audi that must be Evan's latest toy.
Around the side of the estate I see the bumper of the old pickup truck that still bears the original Bardot Vista Vineyard logo on its doors.
For a moment, I just sit there, hands still on the wheel. The last time I slept under this roof, I was twenty-two and certain I'd never need to come back again.
"Finn! Oh, thank God you're here!"
My mother bursts out the front door in a silk robe, her mahogany-brown hair falling from its usual perfect coif. Before I can even grab my bags from the passenger seat, she's rushing down the elegant front steps.
"Mom. I came as soon as I could." I submit to her fierce hug, breathing in the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 and worry. "How's the patient?"
"Being stubborn." She pulls back, studying my face like she's hunting for changes. "Just like all my boys. He keeps insisting he's fine, but the doctor said..."
"Mom." I extract myself gently. "Let me at least get inside before you start the full medical report?"
She makes a sound that's half laugh, half sniffle. "Of course, of course. Though you wouldn't have to catch up on everything if you visited more than once a decade."
And there it is. I grab my bags and follow her inside, where nothing has changed. Same gleaming hardwood floors, same faint scent of lemon polish and expensive wine. The Bardot family shrine, preserved in amber.
I hear Evan before I see him. "Seriously, Col, I can handle the Weber account from here. Just prop the laptop where I can... ow, shit!"
"Language!" Mom calls out automatically as we enter the family room.
The scene would almost be funny if it weren't so painfully familiar.
Evan's sprawled on the oversized leather couch, right leg elevated in a fresh cast. Same golden-boy good looks as ever, but his usual easy grin is more of a pained grimace.
His laptop is balanced precariously on his good knee while he tries to convince Colton—looking every inch the responsible oldest in his rumpled dress shirt and designer stubble—that he can still work.
And there's Tyler, Colton's nine-year-old, passed out in the armchair despite the early hour and chaos.
Kid's the spitting image of his father at that age.
"Well, if it isn't the Man of Adventure himself." Colton's deep voice is dry, but his relief is obvious as he crosses the room. He pulls me into a rough hug that catches me off guard. "Took you long enough."
"Had to wait for the Ferrari to warm up." I return the hug, and the part of me that missed this gets exactly two seconds of airtime before I shut it down. "Nice beard, by the way. Very divorced-dad chic."
"Better than your whole..." He waves vaguely at me. "...extreme sports Ken doll thing."
I chuckle. "Jealousy's a bad look, Col." I drop my bags and survey the damage. "And you, little brother. You look like hell."
"The loft ladder tried to murder me." Evan tries to shift and winces. "Though I think I won that fight."
"Yeah, you really showed those stairs who's boss.
" I move closer, noting the glazed look in his eyes.
Strong pain meds, then. His blond hair is sticking up in ways that remind me of when we were kids and he'd follow me around the vineyard, copying everything I did.
"Need anything? Water? More pillows? A lesson in basic workplace safety? "
"How about some tips on jumping out of perfectly good aircraft?" Evan attempts a smirk. "Since that's apparently safer than working in the family business."
He levers his casted leg an inch higher, showing off a looping signature on the plaster. "Check it out. Nurse Patti signed it before it even set. Beat that, daredevil."
I shrug. "Please. I've got scars on three continents."
"Scars don't give autographs, Finn."
Colton shakes his head at both of us, but he’s grinning. "The family daredevil returns to save the day. Speaking of which, that car? Subtle. Really says 'I'm just here to help out,' not 'look how far I've come' at all."
"Says the guy who traded his soul for a German SUV." I drop into the chair opposite Evan. "At least I'm not pretending to be responsible."
Evan laughs, then winces. "God, I've missed this. When's the last time we were all in this room together?"
The question lands harder than it should. Dad's funeral, actually, but none of us wants to say it. I study my younger brother's face, trying to reconcile this successful marketing director with the teenager I left behind. "Too long," I admit quietly.
"Well, you're here now." Colton's tone is light, but his expression says he gets it. "Just in time to help with pain med duty."
"While you’re up, Finn. Need you to grab my pills, actually." Evan gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. "Think I'm due for another dose of the good stuff. Bottle's on the counter."
I head to the kitchen, finding several prescription bottles lined up near the coffee maker. The labels blur together in the dim morning light, letters dancing in that familiar, frustrating way. I squint, trying to make sense of the dosage instructions without being obvious about it.
"The one on the left," Colton says quietly from behind me. When I turn, his expression is carefully neutral. "Big white horse pills inside."
I grab the bottle he indicated, grateful he didn't make a thing of it. Some things, at least, haven't changed. Colton's still covering for me, just like he did when we were kids.
Back in the family room, Mom's hovering over Evan like he's twelve again with chicken pox, tucking another pillow behind his back while he tries to type one-handed. The morning light catches the silver in her hair. When did that happen? "The doctor said you need rest, not conference calls."
"The spring rosé release party is coming up." Evan's words are slightly slurred. "The marketing campaign—"
"Will survive without you for a few days." Colton takes the laptop, ignoring Evan's protests. "The only thing you need to worry about is healing."
Mom gasps suddenly, pressing one manicured hand to her throat. "Oh no. The auction! You can't possibly participate now. I need to call Clara right away..."
"Wait, what auction?" I ask, settling back into my chair.
"The library's annual bachelor auction," Evan explains, his pain-med grin going slightly crooked. "Local guys volunteer to be auctioned off for a weekend of ‘Honey Do’ service projects. Home repairs, yard work, that kind of thing."
"Mattichogue has a bachelor auction?" I can't help grinning. "And you actually signed up for this? What happened to 'I'm too cool for small town events'?"
"Hey, some of us didn't run away to become adrenaline junkies." Evan tries for dignity, but the effect is ruined by his loopy smile. "Some of us take our community responsibilities seriously."
"It's for charity!" Mom wrings her hands, pacing in front of the fireplace where our childhood photos still line the mantel. "Such a wonderful cause. Clara Gable's been running it for years, and now we have to withdraw one of our headline bachelors at the last minute."
Clara Gable. The town librarian. Darcy’s mom. I push the thought away. My curiosity—not to mention my guilt—over Dictionary Darcy can get back in line with everything else I'm not thinking about this week.
"I can still do the auction," Evan says. "Just because I’m on crutches doesn’t mean I can’t compete."
"Don’t be silly, Evan. If you participate you need to be able to perform your duties afterward."
"You’re assuming he was capable before the accident," I say, not even trying to hide my amusement. "But I would love to see you up there on stage. Please tell me they parade you around first. Maybe make you flex a little before the bidding starts?"
"They do have a small runway," Evan admits, slumping further into his pillows.
I lose it. The laughter bubbles up despite Mom's disapproving look. "A runway? Like a fashion show? This just keeps getting better. Is there a Speedo portion of the program?"
"At least I've still got a hard body to show off," Evan mumbles. "Unlike some people who peaked in high school."
"Boys." Mom's tone carries a decade of weary patience. "This is serious. The library building fund is counting on this event. What will people think if Evan withdraws a day before the auction?"
"That Evan fell out of a loft?" I suggest. "Seems pretty straightforward. I’d still pay to see him up on that stage."
Mom gives him one of her looks. "You’re can’t participate. End of discusssion."
"You know," Colton says slowly, and his tone alone makes me sit up straighter. "There is a solution..."
I feel the hairs at the back of my neck rise. I don't know what he’s got in mind but I already don’t like where this is going. "No."
"One Bardot bachelor is as good as another. Especially the celebrity of the family..."
Ah, fuck. "Absolutely not."
Mom's eyes light up like Christmas came early. "Oh! Finn, you could—"
"No. Not happening."
"But you're here anyway," Evan points out, perking up despite the pain meds. "And it's just one weekend."
"I would rather jump out of a helicopter." I hold up my hand. "Which, by the way, I have actually done. Multiple times. And I'd still rather do that than—"
"You know, this town has been very good to our family," Mom says quietly, her fingers finding the wedding ring she still wears. "Your father never missed a local charity event."
Oh, she fights dirty. "Yeah, well, Dad's not here, is he?"
Silence falls. Even through his pain-med haze, Evan winces. Colton's watching me with that same steady look he used to give me whenever I was about to do something stupid, like the time I "borrowed" Dad's vintage Mustang and wrapped it around a tree.
I drag a hand down my face. Ten years of carefully maintained distance, and it takes less than an hour for them to pull me right back in.
"Fine," I growl. "But I'm not flexing on any runway."
Mom's already tearing up. Colton's trying not to smirk. And I'm wondering if I can book that helicopter jump for tomorrow night instead.
But I can handle this. One weekend of honey-do chores for some sweet old lady of Mattichogue, in exchange for a library roof and my mother's peace of mind.
Seriously. How bad could it be?