Page 1 of Blame It on the Bikini
Chapter One
Grayson Holt's jaw tightened in frustration as his father's voice crackled through the car speaker.
"It's just one month, Gray. Four weeks. That's all I'm asking," Emerson Holt said.
"Four weeks is a ridiculous waste of time," he replied, navigating his Audi along the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean stretching endlessly to his right. The GPS indicated he was five minutes from Oceanside—five minutes from an obligation he'd been trying to avoid for months. But he'd run out of time and options. "The financial analysis is crystal clear. This building is an underperforming asset we should have divested years ago, Dad. You know that."
"What I know is that there's more to Ocean Shores than numbers on a spreadsheet."
"Actually, there isn't." Grayson fought to keep his voice level despite his rising anger. "The property values in this area have skyrocketed. We're sitting on prime beachfront real estate that's generating a fraction of its potential return. We could sell it tomorrow and make a substantial profit."
His father's sigh was heavy with disappointment. "You're thirty-three years old, Grayson, and you still think everything can be reduced to profit margins."
"That's literally the point of our business." He glanced in the rearview mirror before changing lanes. "Holt Enterprises isn't a charity. We acquire properties, optimize their value, and sell when the market conditions are favorable. You know this."
"And yet I've held onto Ocean Shores for thirty-five years."
"Which has never made sense to me."
A moment of silence followed, and Grayson could picture his father in his expansive corner office in downtown Los Angeles, staring out at the skyline, gathering his thoughts.
"That's why you need to stay there," Emerson finally said. "You need to understand why some investments are worth more than their market value."
"I don't have time for this. I have quarterly projections due next week, the Singapore acquisition is at a critical stage, and the board meeting?—"
"The company won't collapse without you for a month. Our team is more than capable."
"But—"
"This isn't negotiable, Gray." His father's voice took on the steely edge that had intimidated countless business associates over the decades. "You want my approval to sell Ocean Shores? Fine. But I'm not signing off until you've lived there for one month. Helen has set everything up for you. Your apartment has been furnished, and the refrigerator and cupboards stocked with essentials. You'll have everything you need."
"That's not the point."
"The point," his father said firmly, "is that you need to experience Ocean Shores for yourself. Meet the residents. See what we'd be taking from them if we sell."
"We'd be giving them a generous relocation package."
"Money isn't everything, son."
Grayson nearly laughed at the irony of those words coming from Emerson Holt, a man whose singular focus on wealth acquisition had built a billion-dollar real-estate empire. "That's rich, coming from you."
"Perhaps I've learned a few things over the years. Things I'd like to spare you from learning the hard way."
An uncomfortable knot settled in his stomach. His dad's words were more emotionally weighted than most of their conversations, and he didn't know what to make of them.
"One month at the beach," his father continued. "Not the roughest assignment you've ever been given. You might enjoy yourself."
"One month. The second it's over, we're listing the property."
"We'll see."
The call ended, and Grayson continued down the highway for another few miles, his mind far away from the endless blue sea. He had so many more things he'd rather be doing than this, but it was four weeks. He just had to get through it, and then he would never have to think about Ocean Shores again.
A few moments later, he pulled into the parking lot behind the two-story building and turned off the engine. He sat for a moment, staring at the structure in front of him. He'd made a brief visit here in September, seven months ago, and doubted much had changed. The sign at the parking lot entrance looked freshly painted, and the newly landscaped hedges and flower beds added to the neat appearance, but there was no denying the eighteen-unit apartment building had been built fifty years ago and was showing its age.
He grabbed his leather briefcase from the passenger seat and got out of the car, immediately assaulted by the pungent scent of salt air and the distant rhythm of waves. It was a warm, sunny Friday evening with the temperature still in the low eighties. He decided to leave his bags in the car until he located his apartment. Then he'd get settled in.
As he made his way toward the entrance, he started sweating. He was definitely overdressed in his suit and tie, his Italian loafers crunching on the gravel as he approached the building. The courtyard entrance was unassuming—a simple gate with a small plaque bearing the Ocean Shores name. Grayson pushed it open and stepped into what felt like another world.
