Potential.
That’s what Ellery said it had last night. She’s right. That’s what I see when I look at the weathered façade that’s worn and needs some attention. The immediate landscaping could be improved, the entry to the facility made more attractive, and the retaining wall to the west redone so it fits the inn’s overall style.
My thoughts are reflexive. Curb appeal. How to draw people in. How to make a lasting impression so customers come back. It’s what I’ve been taught to assess and correct and refine. It’s what we, my brothers and I, all have actually. It becomes second nature when you grow up with a father who’s a hospitality mogul and who would quiz you at random.
What’s wrong with this place?
What would you change to attract more customers?
How would you increase their revenue?
What do you think they’re doing well?
I can hear my father’s voice asking the questions, and it’s a bittersweet, hollow feeling I don’t expect to have.
Just Ford.
Did he see me as that when I answered those questions of his? Did he hear the thought I put into my responses to prove to him that I knew my shit? That I had made certain I was worthy of the last name I was dually blessed and cursed to be given?
Lost in thought and brought back to last night and that goddamn biography, I wander to the rear of the property. There’s a meandering path that like everything else, could use a lot of attention. Add some flowers to the beds on either side and throw in a few benches for the social media crowd to take pictures and tag the resort. You can never go wrong with built-in marketing opportunities like that from guests.
But thoughts—of my dad, of the biography, of the shitshow that was last night—fade to the background when I look up to find a gorgeous beach.
If you’ve seen one beach, you’ve seen them all is a bullshit misnomer.
Some are littered with garbage. Some have shitty sand. Some have rocks and kelp and everything in between.
But this beach, shit, this beach lives up to the inn’s name even after a violent storm. In fact, maybe the wind and the rain added to its beauty. The sand has been windswept into waves of white, not a footprint to be found on its perfect surface. The water is a deep blue that laps at the shoreline.
I can picture what summer could look like here. Umbrellas and cabanas set up for guests. Servers carrying rum punches and daquiris across the boardwalk and into the sand to keep them happy. Add a horseshoe pit and a volleyball net for those who can’t keep idle. Team up with a bike rental or electric scooter company to supply guests at a discounted rate.
Out of habit when I’m looking at sites, I lift my phone to take pictures. “Shit.” It’s dead.
You’re not supposed to be working, Ford.
But the instinct to observe and assess and improve has been ingrained in me my whole life, so it’s easy to slip back into that mode without thinking about it.
On that note, get the fuck out of here. Go to Sag. Figure out . . . whatever you need to figure out.
And eventually, deal with the endless texts from Callahan and Ledger.
I shove my hands in my pockets, and my fingers hit the napkin Ellery left me. The one I kept for some reason. The one that reminds me it will all work itself out.
That remains to be seen.
With one last look at the unexpected view, I turn on my heel and head toward my rental car.
It’s then that I see the sign posted in the window of the inn. For Sale. Huh. Guess that makes more sense why things haven’t been kept up here. But you’d think you’d make it look its best to get a higher sale price.
Then again, maybe it has been dressed up and it was worse before.
Not your problem, Sharpe.
And it’s not. S.I.N. deals in sophisticated, luxurious resorts that are massive in scale, not mom-and-pop hotels on postage stamps of land like this. It’s not our brand. Not our expertise.
But it doesn’t stop me from taking one long, last look before I climb behind the wheel and start the engine.
Potential.
CHAPTER SIX
Ellery
I study him.
Just like I did this morning as he slept. I contemplate why it felt so hard to walk out of the bar earlier this morning.
Those thick lashes on tanned cheeks.
The wave of his hair over his forehead.
A faded white scar above his right eyebrow I didn’t notice in the dim light last night.
The inexplicable pull he somehow has on me when I’m usually immune to second glances and electric touches.
There’s a reason I chose to leave without saying goodbye.
I could tell myself it was because I had things to do and a schedule to keep, but that’s total bullshit. I have no schedule or set place to be. Truthfully, the reason I stood in front of the settee for a good five minutes, debating whether to wake Ford up before I left, has a lot more to do with the object that with the sun’s help is creating prisms all over the inside of my car.
Or rather everything that’s tied to it.
My engagement ring.
Chandler Holcomb.
And the duty that comes with being a Sinclair-Haywood.
But I don’t think about any of those things as Ford stands with his back to me, shoulders broad, ass tight, and studies the inn with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
And it sure as hell didn’t cross my mind when I woke up last night with my head on his chest and his hand absently and possessively spread over my thigh.
I know he was asleep.
I know he didn’t mean it.
Yet . . . it seems so vivid in my mind when normally I don’t remember a thing when or if I wake up at night.
I push the ignition button and my engine jumps to life.
Get going, Elle. Move on. It’s not like any of last night mattered.
With one last look at Ford, I shift my car into drive and turn out of the parking lot.
I think of opportunities missed.
Of what ifs.
And how I need to push a little harder on the gas before I do or say something I might regret.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ford
Four Weeks Later
“What’s this?” Ledger asks from the door of my office, holding up a file folder that I can’t exactly differentiate from the hundreds of others we have in our office.
“What’s what?” I ask. “Pretty sure that’s what we call a folder. It opens and you put papers inside of the two flaps to protect and keep them all together. You can even put a label on it for quick reference of its contents.”
“A regular, fucking comedian,” Ledger says drolly as he walks into my office and drops it on my desk.
The file’s label, White Sands Property, written in my block-style handwriting, looks up at me. I knew this would be coming. No time like the present to get down to brass tacks.
I lean back in my chair and simply stare at my brother. “Since when do you take shit off my desk?”
“Since when do you make moves on your own regarding properties without consulting Callahan or me first?” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting in the chair in front of my desk.
“I wasn’t aware you were the king of all things around here.” I pick up the folder and toss it back onto the other side of my desk. “Last I checked, my last name is on the sign out there in the lobby too.”