Page 68 of So Close

This morning she’d woken with a whole different set of emotions. In the dark room in the pre-dawn, she remembered the claustrophobia of Patrick’s world and the terror of realizing she’d completely lost herself.

Hadn’t she promised herself she wouldn’t do this? Mix money, sex, and power? Let herself catch feelings for someone before she’d established herself—sister, friend, owner of Beachcrest?

She hastily dressed and slunk back to her room to change. A hot shower and her own clothes, the sun beginning to cast gold through the Beachcrest breakfast room windows, restored her somewhat. In the daylight, the memories and sensations of last night were more vivid and compelling than the awfulness of her old mistake.

She wasn’t the woman who’d lost herself.

Trey wasn’t Patrick.

As if in answer to this thought, Trey looked up from his giant stack of pancakes and beamed in her direction. He raised an eyebrow in a way that made her body instantly recall the touch of his mouth and crave it again. She bit her lip, and his smile vanished and his eyes went dark.

Maybe they should go on a beach hike today to that secret cove—the one no one was ever at—and take a picnic and a blanket—?

For a moment, she let herself imagine that this might be her life. Trying to decide what delight of the Oregon coast to show Trey next.

But there was no point in thinking about that, was there? About a time when Beachcrest was hers and his company had been saved, andmaybehe would occasionally make a jaunt up to Tierney Bay to see Carl and Brynn and the boys?

Because what if itdidn’tplay out that way?

What if she weren’t running Beachcrest and he didn’t have his company in San Francisco?

Both those things were still real possibilities.

And she couldn’t imagine this—whatever it was between them—outlasting either of those defeats.

It was Friday, not a bank holiday, and in all probability she would hear back from Diane Cooper today. She’d checked the Bootstrapper this morning, and while James’s strategies had clearly kicked up the action a few notches—and all four of the romance writers and her siblings had made generous donations—at their current rate it would take them far past Monday to raise even half the money she needed.

If she couldn’t get the money, then one of them would lose the thing that mattered most to them.

Trey was sandwiched between the fishermen and the romance writers, entertaining them all with a story about the time, back when he’d been flipping houses and working as a contractor, when he’d accidentally built a front porch on the wrong house.

“And the owner—the husband—comes home from work and I’m almost done, and he comes storming up, yelling, ‘What are youdoing?” and in my head, I’m like, what? I did exactly what we agreed on. And finally, it becomes clear what’s happened, and—so, obviously, I agree to not charge them for the work I’ve done, or the materials. I mean, they’re going to get this front porch for free. And if I do say so myself, it’s a beautiful front porch. Big and broad, with plenty of room for furniture, and perfectly situated in a nice spacious front yard—probably going to add fifteen-K in curb appeal to the value of this cute little suburban house—and he says, ‘Take it down.’”

“No!” gasps Aria. “Oh, my God, I wouldkillfor a front porch. I would sell my soul for one. If I were him, I would have thought I won the lottery.”

There was a murmur of yes from the romance writers and even Dewann was nodding his agreement.

“Well, not him. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t convince him that he should keep it. I hoped that when his wife got home, she’d talk some sense into him, but no, she was even more pissed than he was about the whole thing. By the end they were both talking about suing me for disrupting the integrity of the house, or something like that, making me promise that I’d restore everything to exactly how it had been, putty up any holes I’d made, all that. So I spent the whole next day unbuilding it.Two dayslost work. But it taught me a really good lesson. After that, I was like a surgeon: ‘Mark yourself with permanent marker before I cut.’ ‘You’re sure you want a porch. Right here? On the front of your house? Here’s a sharpie, make an X where you want it. And then sign in blood, please.’”

Auburn watched him, watched him demolish her pancakes and bacon and fruit, watched him make the guests smile, watchedhimsmile, and wondered until she couldn’t wonder any more.

As the other diners started to drift away, she sat down next to him.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

His eyes moved over her face, soft and admiring. It made her warm.

“Trey?”

“What?”

She wanted to ask him what would happen if she couldn’t get the money. She knew how it would affect Beachcrest and Home Base, but she wanted to know what it would mean forthem. But he dug his fork back into his pancakes and crammed a mouthful in and followed it with a slice of bacon and a swig of orange juice. When he’d finished chewing, he grinned at her. “There isn’t any more bacon is there? Worked up an appetite yesterday. Must have been the three-legged race.”

And she couldn’t make herself ask. Sometimes you didn’t want to know the answer. Instead she said, “There’s this secret beach.”

“Is there?” he asked mildly, but his eyes darkened.

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