“True, but it’s my name too. And considering all your correspondence is on company letterhead, that would seemingly make it my business as well.” He shrugs, but his eyes narrow. “Funny though how I’ve never heard of this place before and here you are about to bid a shit ton of fucking money to buy something that doesn’t even fit in our portfolio.”
“The amount is a blip on our financial radar.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s okay.”
“No. It doesn’t. It doesn’t make it wrong either.” I point to the folder that our real estate team has composed for me. Comps for similar properties. Preapproval papers from our lenders. Notes on other buyers who might be competition for its purchase. “It’s going up for auction, and I plan on being there to buy it.”
“This motel, inn, whatever the fuck it is, is beneath S.I.N. and you know it. Let’s end the charade. Move on.”
“Jesus, Ledger.” I push up out of my chair and pace to the window, hands shoved in my pockets, and look at the city below. I don’t really see it through my anger, though. “Can you just stop being . . . so Ledger?”
It’s been four weeks since our fight. Four weeks where in typical Sharpe fashion, we’ve brushed it all under the rug and acted like it never happened.
Things have smoothed out between us—we don’t bring it up so we don’t have to talk about it—but it’s not the same.
I’m still hurt, and they still think I’m being a pussy.
The kicker was I thought my brothers and I’d gotten better at this. That we’d learned how to talk or communicate or whatever the hell you call it. We’ve worked through a lot in the past four years since our father’s death. How to cope with his loss, how to be a family when there are no parents left to parent, and how to be who the other one needs when they need it.
Or maybe it only matters when the issues pertain to Callahan or Ledger. After all, I’m Just Ford.
Yeah.
It still fucking bugs me.
And I think what fucking pisses me off more is that they still don’t understand why I’m hurt. Or moreover, haven’t even addressed it with me again other than to ask, “We good?” when I came back from Sag Harbor that next week.
It’s not like the book or the fanfare around it is going away any time soon. With its release day coming up, and a sizeable advance having been paid to the biographer, the publishing house will do everything they can to recoup their money and then some. Press junkets. Radio ads. An hour-long special in prime time. My father would love all the attention. Too bad the mere mention of it feels like a knife twisting in my back.
“What’s going on, Ford? What are you not telling me?” His voice sounds sincere, and I hate that.
Because this is what I wanted. For him to ask and for me to answer but now I don’t want to. It’s suddenly easier to be angry at him and Callahan rather than to talk.
I rock back on my heels and sigh. “Do you ever just get a feeling sometimes . . . one that . . . you know what, never mind.” It’s not worth it.
“Do I ever what?”
His words hang in the air as I turn to face the man who is the spitting image of me, save for a few scars and a slight difference in height, and wonder how we can be so close yet feel so far apart.
I glance down to the file folder, its label, and then back at him.
“I’m buying the property.”
“For what? To tear it down and restore the beach’s integrity by getting rid of that eyesore?”
“Don’t look, Ledger, but your privilege is showing.”
“So is yours when you assume you can take millions without asking and throw it away on a pet project.”
“Fine, I’ll use my own money. Not a problem.” Our glares hold as the silence stretches. I pace from one side of my office to the other before scrubbing a hand through my hair and groaning. I’ve been working nonstop for over a decade. Nonstop to build this company and its name. The constant pressure. The relentless pace. My brothers have found love, taken breaks, and created families, while I’ve stayed put and held down the fort through it all. God for-fucking-bid I want something that I can call my own. Sure, it’d still be under the Sharpe name, but it’d be mine. My vision. My success. My failure. “I need a break.”
“Okay. Take one. You’ve been working nonstop and deserve some time off. You know you don’t have to ask. Just fucking take it. Hell, it’s not like we don’t have over twenty resorts worldwide to pick from. Ocean. Desert. Mountains. What’s your pick and what woman are you taking?”
“Not that kind of break.”
“Then what? What are you saying? Do we need to wait for Callahan for this kumbaya? I can call him in here after his meetings and we can—”
“No.” I hold my hand out in front of me to get him to stop. “You can fill him in later.”
“Fill him in on what?” he asks and, for the first time, I sense he comprehends that I’m struggling here.
“I have an idea I want to go with, and you two are going to back me on it.”
Ledger leans back in his chair, his eyebrows raised, an indifferent, bordering on surprised look on his face. “Go on.”
“The Sharpe Signature Collection.”
His brow furrows, but ever the businessman, ever curious, he nods. “Keep talking.”
“What if we create a new series, and a new select branch of our hallmark? A signature collection that we market to the elite or famous. A smaller venue with a private concierge, security, or added rooms for the security teams guests like that usually travel with? The elegance and luxury that S.I.N. is known for . . . but at the same time, making them feel normal again. A seaside inn per se.”
“You mean as in the White Sands type of seaside inn?”
I bite back my smart-ass remark when his distaste for the outdated hotel rings through his tone. And knowing by-the-book Ledger, he’s already looked up and scrutinized pictures of the inn. But pictures won’t do it justice, even with our trained eyes for potential. I would have never believed it either if I hadn’t seen the place firsthand.
“Yes, I mean as in the White Sands, A Sharpe Signature Collection type of inn.”
Ledger is the one of us who needs to think before he reacts, and he doesn’t disappoint me right now by being any different. I study him with his pursed lips and furrowed brow as he ponders the idea, knowing he’s weighing the pros and cons like I did when the idea first came to me.
It was on the back patio of the family Sag Harbor house. I was sitting there, and the sun was warming my skin as I nodded off. In that state of in-between sleep and awake, I could picture it perfectly. The inn remodeled with luxury suites where we combined three or four standard rooms into one great, big one. Balconies that looked out toward the sea and let the ocean breeze in. Private Jacuzzis with each suite. On-site chefs to cater to the clientele’s tastes. A private beach.
Potential.
Isn’t that the word that kept drifting through my head as I flipped channels earlier that night? One channel had a story about the press hounding a pop star who just wanted privacy on her vacation. Another story featured a software magnate who couldn’t escape his everyday life and just feel normal. Memories of our own family trips when we had to skip activities because the paparazzi were trying to get a shot of us to earn a paycheck.