Page 10 of Make Me Yours

I pull on my pajama pants and charge out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. By the time I reach the living area, a shadow is creeping down the stairs from the deck, calling my name.

Judging by the hair sticking up in spikes around the shadow’s head, it’s Mark, my worthless nephew.

The kid who thought he could handle a woman like Sully…

A surge of irrational, unexpected anger washes through me as Mark squeaks, “Weaver? Is that?—”

“Back upstairs,” I say in a low growl. “You haven’t been invited into the living quarters.”

He stops mid-step, his chin jerking back into his neck in surprise. “What? This is the family yacht. We come aboard whenever we?—”

“Not anymore,” I say.

“But we—” His words end in a startled grunt as I spin him in a circle and shove him none-too-gently back the way he came.

“It’s after midnight,” I say once we’re on deck and Mark is blinking in shock in the moonlight. “This is where I’m staying while I’m in town. It’s my temporary home and guests aren’t welcome in my home without an invitation.”

“Okay,” Mark says, though he’s clearly not pleased. “Sorry, I just… I can’t find my phone. I’ve looked everywhere, but it’s not at my place or at the bar or in Simon’s backyard. I think I must have left it here earlier, when I gave you the keys.”

Grateful that Mark didn’t set foot inside the living quarters this afternoon, I start toward the seating area at the front of the ship. “This could have waited until the morning. A lost phone isn’t an emergency.”

“I don’t have a landline,” he says, his tone lifting toward a whine. “And Mom throws a fit if she can’t get in touch with me.”

The mention of Laura, Rodger’s wife, makes my jaw clench. By all modern conventions, my brother’s assets should have gone to his spouse, but that’s not the Tripp way. My father made it clear before he passed that he expected Rodger to secure the safe continuation of our family empire.

That meant ensuring a Tripp was in control, not a spouse.

As Rodger’s eldest and only child, Mark was next in line, but the executor of the trust, Darren, is a friend of mine from boarding school. Our phone call last night left no doubt that I’m still in line to inherit my brother’s assets and control of the company.

Sounds like Rodger didn’t leave much to his twenty-four-year-old son.

Though, so far, I can’t say I blame him. It was obvious from the moment my plane touched down this morning that Mark is more concerned about what he stands to gain from his father’s death than what he’s lost. There didn’t seem to be much love between the two of them—another reason I feel comfortablekicking Mark off the boat without ceremony. If he were a normal, grieving son, I would have more compassion.

I’m an asshole, but I’m not a monster, not unless someone has proven they deserve it. And so far, Mark’s proving to be the latest selfish, money-hungry bastard in a long line of the same.

He’s going to lose his fucking mind when he learns how little he stands to inherit. He already knows some of the details, but the full picture is even more bleak…for him, anyway.

The full conditions of the trust won’t be revealed until the official reading of the will, but Darren has already begun the transition of my brother’s assets into my name, including the deed to the mansion and the yacht, Rodger’s fleet of lobster boats, and a vacation home in the Outer Banks in South Carolina.

I want a McMansion in a community likely to be swept off the map by the next hurricane like I want to be standing in the cold ocean air with my nephew instead of down in bed with my sexy cat burglar.

But we don’t always get what we want, at least not without a fight.

Speaking of a fight…

“I hope your mother knows I have no intention of removing her from the family home,” I say, flicking on the lights near the outdoor living area. “No matter who Rodger left Brookhaven to on paper, she’s welcome to live there as long as she likes.”

“She’ll appreciate that,” Mark says, with a nod. Anger flares in his gaze as he adds, “She would have appreciated my dad not being a fucking asshole, more, though. We all would have.”

I motion toward the sage cushions covering the couch and chairs. “Feel free to look around for your phone.”

“Why do you think he did it?” Mark asks, making no move to start searching for his lost cell. “Why did he leave so much to you? Do you think he just forgot to modify the trustor something? I mean, no offense, you’re obviously a great businessman, but you don’t live here and you never wanted to be part of the family business. I’ve been busting my ass every day on a lobster boat, proving I could work my way up from the bottom, just like Dad did with Grandpa. I’ve put in the hard work. I deserve to be in charge now that he’s gone.”

I hold back a sigh. His father isn’t even in his grave and he’s turning on him.

But that’s the Tripp family for you—mercenary to the end. It’s one of the many reasons I don’t intend to have children.

“It’s late, Mark,” I say. “I suggest you find your phone and go home. Get some rest, and we can discuss this after we know the full conditions of the trust.”

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