“What did they say?” I needed to know.
“That it was a shame for such a magnificent place as Blackwater to go to people who wouldn’t have the connection to the island.”
“Your parents are right.” Blackwater wasn’t going to go to strangers. I knew that much. It might be sold, though . . .
To me.
“I also need Spence to get the chopper ready for seven tonight, so set that up with him, please. I’m staying with Lucas this weekend and visiting Blackwater for myself.”
“Lucas,” she said quickly, “tell him—please tell him I said . . . hi.”
That was weird. Victoria always kept her emotions in check, but seeing she’d just lost that careful composure the second I mentioned my brother’s name meant something was going on. Lucas was a touchy subject for a few people. His twin, Wyatt, and our mother were at the top of that short list. I stayed out of it since it wasn’t my battle.
“Will do, Victoria,” I said with a smile—something I rarely gave, but sensed she needed right now. Which just goes to show I’m not always an asshole.
IN the car I had time to ponder, and more importantly, to digest, what I’d learned about the Blackwater estate and its management. Much of it didn’t sit well with me, with the most disturbing revelation being the letting go of employees who had no retirement compensation in place. How had that been allowed to happen? I was still in disbelief over what I’d discovered in those files. My father had never been mercenary like that. He took care of his people, and loyalty was always rewarded generously. There hadn’t even been any health insurance. It took some major self-control on my part to keep from confronting my mother, but I managed to hold myself back.
All I could hear was Brooke. “And no job for a woman who gave thirty-five years of her life working for one of those fine west-side mansions before they closed it down and dismissed everyone.” Every ounce of her bitterness justifiable. Mrs. Casterley deserved so much more than what she’d received. It was now on me to fix it.
“Isaac, take me to Harris & Goode on Hereford Street.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be wanting Starbucks as well?”
“Not this time. I need to engage the services of an interior designer.”
It was just after five o’clock on a Friday so traffic was all jacked up. People were hurrying to get a head start on the weekend and to beat the rain, which couldn’t decide if it wanted to piss down or not. Isaac stopped at a red light on the corner of Massachusetts and Newbury, and in the twisting mass of humanity crossing the street . . . I saw her for the third time in my life.
Brooke.
Brooke whose last name I didn’t even know yet.
Beautiful Brooke walking full-on in my direction, toward what I guessed would be the Convention Center T stop. From there she would take the train to get off at Aquarium, where the ferries transferred people and cars to the different outlyin
g stops: Cape Cod, Provincetown, and Blackstone Island being the main destinations. I had a perfectly clear view of her, too.
I didn’t have to worry about being caught staring because of the window tint. Thank fuck for window tint.
So I enjoyed every second of her walk across the street right in front of me, from her approach, to her passing the car, to her retreat.
My heart pounded mercilessly as I devoured her. Completely and utterly devoured every detail I could see of the girl who had infected me with desire from the first moment I laid eyes on her, and then sealed the deal when she spoke to me in her beautiful, sultry voice.
Her hair was down again, but this time she had on a soft black hat. She stood out in the crowd because of the baby-pink military jacket she wore, with the same high black boots over tight-fitting leather pants. Brooke possessed goddamn amazing legs. Legs I wanted to have wrapped around me with my hands free to touch the rest of her. I’d kiss every inch of those legs first before I moved on to the part where we fucked good and sl—
No, not fucked because it wouldn’t be like that with her. Would it? I didn’t want it to be . . . I was so confused about what I wanted at this point; I’d talked myself out of pursuing her several times already just to shelve that plan the second I saw her walking across the street.
Jesus Christ, I was in major powerful lust with this girl. Lust? It was a different feeling for me, though. It wasn’t like the lust for sex I’d known in the past. It was more of a need. A raw, unfiltered, almost frightening need—that quite honestly scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I couldn’t explain why, but I felt like I just needed her. Brooke was like a breath of fresh air into my very narrowly constrained life. Refined, yet not haughty. Strong, but wielding her strength with a careful sense of purpose. Fiery, but not with anger, just wickedly intelligent sass on the tip of her tongue ready to fly. Someone who knew who she was, but not through entitlement and prestige. In other words, a complete anomaly in my world.
She had a leather bag over her shoulder and a Starbucks in her hand. Her expression was what I remembered from the cocktail party—beautiful but with that same touch of sadness. I kept on taking in my front-row show until she was swallowed up by other bodies moving in front of her once she stepped onto the sidewalk.
She was going home after the end of her work day. Home to Blackstone Island where she lived in a cottage above Fairchild Light at south-end—a place I probably hadn’t been since my high school days when James and the rest of us drank beer under the lighthouse in the summer and indulged in general teenage mayhem.
I would be on the island in a few hours. Maybe I could see her this weekend. I reached for my phone and pulled her number up on Messenger . . . and just stared at it with absolutely no idea of what to say. The light turned green and the car moved on. I closed the Messenger app and put my phone away.
She was so young. The weird thing was she didn’t seem as young as her years. Losing her parents at fifteen probably had something to do with it. That would certainly make a kid grow up fast. But there was also the evidence of a life lived and the maturity of experience in how she handled herself. The scar on her face possibly? The comment about “nobody puts their hands on me anymore”? I’d bet those two clues meant her life experience had been painful and she’d been hurt, so maybe that was the reason she appeared older than twenty-three.
No, I wouldn’t try to see her this weekend. That wouldn’t work for what I had planned over the next two days. I had to be patient so I could fix the mess with Blackwater first. I had to take care of family business and do what I knew my dad would if it were him.
“Harris & Goode, sir,” Isaac announced as he pulled up to the curb.