Every Little Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 2)

And he didn’t like it.

Because when he had time to think he only thought of one person.

She made him feel weak.

This obsession with her . . . it made him feel weak.

He resented her a little.

Or a lot.

But he never stopped wanting her, and at night, when he fell into bed exhausted and closed his eyes, he saw her beneath him; he smelled her perfume, felt her soft skin, remembered the way it had felt to move inside her . . . and the longing would make him hard. He’d come by his own hand, climaxing in frustration like a pubescent teen.

Vaughn felt himself stirring at the memory of her gasping his name as he thrust into her for the first time. He clenched his fists, determined to think of anything but Bailey Hartwell.

His phone buzzed and he felt nothing but a deep-seated gratitude for the distraction. He reached over to switch the phone speaker on. “Yes?”

“Sir, a Mr. Oliver Spence is here to see you.” Ryan’s voice crackled over the line.

Not surprised by his friend’s appearance, he glanced at the clock. It was seven p.m.

“Send him in. And Ryan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go home to your wife and daughter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He smirked. Ryan was never anything but professional and respectful, to the point he was almost amusing. But only because Vaughn could sense the hunger in the young man. He was ambitious. And he was smart. So smart, that if he’d had more experience and qualifications, Vaughn would have hired him as his new manager.

The office door opened and his old friend, Oliver, strode in like he owned the place. That was how Oliver entered any room. His air of superiority and entitlement groomed by a lifetime of privilege. They had been friends since they were small boys, but they’d grown into two entirely different men. Vaughn, his father’s son, was plagued by the constant desire to strive for achievement and success, to build a name not off his father’s accomplishments, but from his own determination. Oliver hadn’t worked a day in his life, having been granted his eye-wateringly large trust fund at eighteen. He was smart enough to make good investments, however, and not to piss the money away.

In all honesty he wasn’t the kind of man Vaughn respected very much, but he liked him even so. Oliver was charming and he was a loyal friend. He was the only person who had visited him in Hartwell, the only one who seemed to still give a damn now that Vaughn had apparently turned his back on the Manhattan social circle.

Plus, Oliver knew everyone. He was a useful man to be friends with because he made networking with the right people so much easier on Vaughn. In fact if it weren’t for Spence, Vaughn probably wouldn’t have considered buying the hotel on Hart’s Boardwalk. For years the Spences had a mansion in the neighborhood where Vaughn now owned a home. They sold it a number of years ago but Oliver, who had spent a considerable number of summers as a young man in Hartwell, got wind of the sale of the boardwalk hotel and had suggested it might be a lucrative business opportunity for Vaughn. Once Vaughn had arrived in Hartwell to look into the property, that was it. Something about the town had hooked him immediately. It was the exact opposite of his life in Manhattan. It was earthy, it was vibrant yet low-key, and there was something incredibly soothing about the boardwalk atmosphere.

He had Oliver to thank for the birth of Paradise Sands. Mostly, however, he liked his friend because he didn’t make issue of Vaughn’s lack of interest in relationships. Where Vaughn was a serial bachelor, Oliver was a serial monogamist. He’d been engaged at least five times that Vaughn could remember, falling in love easily, and falling out just as easily.

When he was single he was a good wingman to have around.

A good distraction.

“I heard you were back. Rumors are flying about this place.” Oliver grinned at him.

Vaughn gritted his teeth. One thing he didn’t admire about Oliver: his enjoyment of gossip. “Oh?”

“Something about the ship on the brink of sinking until its good captain came to its rescue.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. Anyway”—he stared around the office with distaste and boredom—“I’ve come to rescue you.”

And at that moment Vaughn was not averse to being rescued. “What did you have in mind?”

His smile was wicked. “I’m dating a ballet dancer. Vaughn . . . Fuck me, what that girl can do in bed. And she has a friend.”

Something tight, ugly, gripped his chest at the thought of screwing a stranger.