“Professor Blackman recorded your presentation for me.”

  He had my mock proposal presentation recorded so he could critique it? What the actual fuck? Is there any place his far-reaching arms can’t touch? My professor at Wharton? Jesus fucking Christ.

  “You know Blackman?”

  The muscle tics in his jaw as he takes his time answering. “It’s a small world, Ledger. That’s something you best remember.”

  Now that the shock has almost worn off, the anger starts to fire. “What do you mean it wasn’t good enough? Blackman said it was excellent. The content. The packaging. The presentation.” I’m top of my cohort. Top of my fucking class. What in the hell does he mean it’s not good enough?

  “I would have fired you.” He shrugs with indifference as if he didn’t just rip me apart. “It was sloppy and meandering. Your figures need work. Your presence needs to be more commanding.” He takes a few steps toward me as I try to keep my face stoic, despite how his words devastate me. “What have I always told you?”

  “Set goals. Meet goals. Adjust the goalposts. Start over again,” I say, repeating the mantra he has drilled into my head.

  “Good.” He nods and crosses his arms over his chest where he stands a few feet from me. “Tell me what yours are right now.”

  I struggle momentarily to come up with them. “Graduate Wharton. Take my place beside you here at Sharpe.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that?” I ask.

  “Yes. After that? Where do you reset the goalposts to?” If someone were to overhear us, they’d think my father was talking about the weather. Only my brothers and I know this tone means anything but that. He’s getting irritated.

  Well, so am I.

  Why aren’t Ford or Callahan in here getting the third goddamn degree? Callahan is the one who dropped out of Wharton, for fuck’s sake, and is already working here. Why doesn’t he have to reset his goalposts? Ford is busy being Ford, gladly flying under the radar without the pressure of being the oldest or the ease of being the youngest.

  “After that, son, what is next? Take the company from me? Work on taking us internationally? Make Forbes magazine before you’re forty? Carry on the family name? What. Is. Next?”

  “Dad. Yes. To all of that,” I stammer out.

  “Not good enough, Ledge.” His voice rises in pitch. “Not for you, anyway. Do you want to shame the Sharpe name with your laissez-faire attitude? My firstborn. My protégé—”

  “Callahan is already working here. Ford will be soon too.” I shove up out of my chair, needing to move. To pace. To not be sitting down while he stands tall over me. “Did you have this talk with them too? Did you demand to know their goals?”

  “No.” The chill is back in his voice, and it infuriates me.

  “No? Why the hell not?”

  “Check your tone.”

  I squeeze the bridge of my nose and bite back the retort on my tongue. When I turn back around, I hope he sees the love and frustration in my eyes. The want to please, but also the need to be my own man. My respect for him but not how he goes about things sometimes.

  “I ask this of you, son, because I know you’re capable of it. I demand this because nothing less than perfection is good enough.” His tone softens for the first time in this conversation. “The three of you are my legacy, but you, son . . . you have something special that money or education can’t buy. I’m looking to you to uphold the Sharpe name in more ways than I ever could.”

  I hate that my throat burns with emotion as I nod in response.

  “I want a status report every Monday morning from you. What your goals are for the week. Which ones you completed last week. Structure and planning equal success.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walks over to where I stand, puts a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “We didn’t do all this work, all of this posturing, for you to be second best, son.” When his eyes meet mine there is so much pride in them that it makes my chest ache.

  Is he a hard son of a bitch to work for? Definitely.

  Is he a perfectionist to the nth degree? Indisputably.

  Does he love the three of us unconditionally? Yes, each in our own way.

  So why does a lump form in my throat at his praise?

  Because he’s my idol. Because when your idol criticizes you, it’s hard not to be overwhelmed.

  “I won’t let you down, Dad.”

  He nods and pats my back. “Expectations are a funny thing. They can weigh you down or they can make you shine. What will your response be?”

  Asher

  “Gran? You awake?” I knock on the door to her room and push it open to check for myself.

  She’s propped up in her bed, her eyes closed like she’s sleeping. Her hair is like a halo of silver around her head and her complexion is flawless, including the wrinkles that illustrate a life well-lived. My beautiful gran.

  She’s had a rough couple of days, so I’m glad she’s resting now. Resolved not to disturb her, I tiptoe into the room with a fresh bouquet of lavender to replace the one dying on her windowsill, as I do every few days.

  “Asher. You’re here.”

  Her lopsided smile is wide when I turn to face her. “Did you think I’d miss a chance to hang with my favorite person?”

  “Pop was your favorite person,” she says and doesn’t even try to hide the tears that well in her eyes. “He snuck you candy, let you eat ice cream for lunch, and called you in sick to school to go fishing with him. I could never compete with that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” I take a seat beside her and press a kiss to the top of her hand. “You gave me spa days in your bathroom, let me sit on the counter while you made pies, and snuggled with me whenever it thundered.”

  “I don’t want to be sad, Ash. Tell me something happy.”

  “Well . . . I may be seeing someone.”

  “Mr. Handsome.” My eyes meet hers, and I nod. “I knew something was going on when you came here the other day. You never could keep a secret from me, you know.”

  “Guess not.”

  “It was in the way he looked at you. Words can fool, but eyes can’t lie.” Gran’s wisdom at its finest. “He looked familiar. Was he a high school friend?”

  I nod and hope she doesn’t catch the lie. Maxton’s words not only hurt me that night, but they devastated Gran and Pop too. She said as much the other day when I asked her what she remembered. It agitated her just talking about it. The last thing I need to do is upset her when she’s had enough pain over the past few months. “Something like that.”

  “And he treats you well?”

  “Yes, but we’re just in the seeing each other phase. That’s it.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says in that way that says she doesn’t believe me.

  “Do you want to get outside for a bit? We can take a stroll in the gardens? Get some fresh air?”

  “No.” She pats her hand over mine. “I’m too tired today. Everything hurts.” She yawns. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” I press a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll leave you be so you can rest.”

  “Hmm.” She smiles softly as her eyelids start to droop. “I remembered something about that night. The one you were asking me about the other day.”

  “Oh?” There’s not much more she can tell me considering her reiteration of events was basically word for word how I remembered it happening.

  “When Pop came inside after talking with that . . . horrid man, he had something in his hand. A tan envelope.”

  “What was in it?”

  “That’s the thing. Pop told me it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you. I never saw it again.”

  I stand there beside her as her breathing starts to even out and her eyes flutter closed. “Will you take him some lavender for me too?” she whispers, her voice already drugged with sleep.

  Pop’s headstone. She wants me to take him lavender too.

  My heart squeezes in my chest.

  “Of course, I will. I promise to bring both of you lavender always.”

  Ledger

  “That won’t work.”

  “Why not?” Hillary asks, hands on her hips, a crease in her brow.

  “Because if we put local craftsmen in the hotel who already have a store in town, they’d be getting less profit after we take our cut. Grossman will accuse us of stealing from them or taking advantage of them or some shit like that,” I say and sigh in frustration.

  “Then let’s find people who don’t have brick-and-mortar stores. There have to be locals we can showcase. Ones that are just starting out or who can’t get representation in local shops.”

  “That’s an angle.” A shitty one, but one nonetheless.

  “Don’t sound so enthused.” She chuckles. “I think it’s worth a shot. Maybe use one of the shops as a locals-only fare. Give it a catchy name. Place it off the main lobby next to the gift shop.”

  “Get someone to work on that and see what we come up with. Quality is key.”

  “As is everything.”

  “Where are we on the school library thing?” I ask, frustrated that we even have to deal with bullshit like this. The look on Hillary’s face says she feels the same way since she should be elbow deep in the details of the resort’s construction—contractor problems, supply chain issues, decisions that have to be made on the fly.

  Hillary updates me over the next hour. On her meeting with the school district superintendent over a donation that S.I.N. can make to give the library a facelift. Then we moved to her follow-up meeting with the director of the assisted living facility. They’re willing to accept our generosity of a new HVAC system, but have to cut through some red tape first.

  It’s amazing how much money talks.

  Then again, I’ve never known anything otherwise.

  One meeting rolls into another. Union issues with the staff in our Aspen resort. A possible property acquisition in California Wine Country—a market we’ve wanted to move into for years. It’s still a long way off, but it’s a rarity something comes up for sale there, so I welcome the first step. Conflicts with supply chain at our resort in the Virgin Islands.

  And it doesn’t matter how much shit like this, the details, the complications, and the nitty-gritty of our business generally turn me on, my mind has a hell of a time concentrating this week.

  Asher.

  Jesus.

  The woman.

  Last night.

  This morning.

  How can each time get better with her?

  That’s a stupid fucking thought considering I was a fumbling teenager the first time we were together . . . and yet, usually the memory of something is better. Call it selective amnesia or wishful thinking, but my memory of her doesn’t hold a fucking candle to the Asher I left behind in the farmhouse this morning.

  Focus, Ledge.

  Ha. That’s funny.

  “You’re knocking down fires all over the place today,” Callahan says in greeting when he answers the phone. “We should have you vacate the office more often. Your productivity level seems to go up.”

  “Fuck off.”

  His chuckle rumbles through the line. “Nah. It’s too much fun giving you shit.”

  “Tell Sutton she needs to keep you on a tighter leash,” I say, referencing his wife.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I like how tight she grips me.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. When are you two leaving to take on Japan?” I ask in reference to the property we’re buying from Takashi. Callahan and his wife will head there and manage the transition of the resort.

  “After we close escrow.”

  “Yes. Sorry. Every day here feels like ten.”

  “That bad, huh?” He chuckles. “At least you’ll get to escape back to the city next month for the gala.”

  “Shit. Yes. That,” I say, my mind completely blanking on the charity gala we’re sponsoring for the Alzheimer’s Association, something we’ve done every year since Dad’s diagnosis. “I’ve been preoccupied with this bullshit.”

  “You forgot something? How unlike you. And here I thought you were counting down the days until your return to civilization.”

  “Like I said, I’ve been busy.” I pull on the back of my neck, confused over my sudden desire to make up an excuse as to why I can’t go back. Seriously, Ledge?

  “Or preoccupied. Everything okay?”

  “Yes. Yeah. Sure.”

  He laughs again. “What’s up with the three-word answers? That’s your tell.”

  “My tell?”

  “Yeah, when you’re lying about something.” He pauses. “So, what exactly are you keeping from me?”

  I shake my head and practically flip the phone off. This is the problem with having brothers who are as close as we are. They know too much about you even when you don’t say a word.

  “I’m not keeping shit from you. I’m just trying to get this whole shitshow here sorted out and fixed. You know how much menial crap like this drives me crazy,” I deflect.

  “It’s a necessary evil though.”

  “I mean, we’ve always had to grease palms in one way or another for a new project, whether it be in discounted room rates for an inspector or whatever, but this ask is flat-out ridiculous.”

  “Bribery. Extortion. Blackmail.” He makes a noncommittal sound. “Sounds about right. The question we should be asking though is do you think it will work?”

  “Only time will fucking tell, but I swear to God, if we do all this shit and Grossman moves the bar again for us to jump over, I’ll be fucking pissed.”

  Set the goal. Meet the goal. Adjust the goalposts.

  If it were Dad in Grossman’s shoes, he’d definitely move the bar.

  “Agreed. That’s why you need to move as fast as possible and get shit finished before new ideas can materialize. We need Harrison to double-check the contract to ensure there is nothing else they can legally pull on us.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Now you know how it feels.”

  Both he and Ford swear I’m just like our father. They tease me about it relentlessly.

  But after the revelations of the past week, the thought sits differently with me now.

  “Hey, Callahan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Remember that last night we were here? In Cedar Falls?” I ask.

  “You mean when Dad had a deal go sour, and we had to get home right away so he could salvage it? That night?”

  “Yeah.” My chest constricts.

  “What about it?”

  My mouth opens, my need to tell him everything—finally, after keeping it quiet for so many years—eating at me. But I don’t say a word. I find myself shoving up out of my seat and walking to the window to look outside, one hand fisted, my jaw clenched.

  “Ledge? You there?”

  “Yeah. Never mind.” I can’t do it. As much as I want to tell him, I can’t ruin his vision of who our father was. I can’t tarnish a memory simply to make myself feel better.

  Like that night and its aftermath, I’ll have to stomach this one alone.

  “You sure? Because it sounded important.”

  I smile simply because I’m hoping it will carry over to my voice. “Not important at all. I just happened to drive by that old field we used to go hang out and drink at.”

  “It’s still there?”

  “It’s about a quarter of the size because it has houses on three sides now, but . . .” I continue rattling on about a field neither of us cares about. Because I’m afraid if I stop, my brother, my triplet, will pick up on something in my voice that tells him otherwise.

  “I swear I thought you were going to tell me you ran into Asher and either hit it off or found out she has six kids or something like that.”

  “Uh . . .” I’m caught flatfooted by his comment, rattled by a moment of uncertainty.

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” he says. “You have seen her, haven’t you?”

  I scrunch my nose up, wanting and not wanting to tell him simultaneously. “Yeah. It slipped my mind. I just so happened to run into her at a bar.”

  “You didn’t forget to tell me shit.” He snorts. “You’ve always been so damn secretive when it comes to her. Back then, it was like she was everything and then suddenly, poof, she was nothing. It was like she’d dropped off the face of the earth, and now you tell me you ran into her, and that’s all you’re going to give me?” he asks. “Because that screams to me she’s either dog ugly now and you ran the other way, or you guys fucked like rabbits.” I don’t respond. “So, which one was it?”

  Fucking Callahan. I hate that a smile breaks onto my lips. I hate that I want to confide in him so badly. I hate that I still want to keep whatever this is with Ash close to the vest.

  “Neither,” I lie.

  “Uh-huh.” Spoken like only an annoying little brother can.

  “She’s fucking gorgeous is what she is.”

  “Ohh.” More sounds from the asshole. “Why so sensitive?” His laughter fills the line.

  “Are you trying to be a prick?”

  “Only if you’re trying to evade the question.”

  “We talked for a bit. Agreed to meet up at a later time to catch up. That’s all.”

  “Liar.”

  “Go away.”

  “And she’s fucking gorgeous,” he says, mimicking my tone.

  “She is. Full stop.”

  “When Ledger pulls out the full stop, you know he means business.”

  “I’m going now, Callahan.”

  “Oh, I figured you were coming.” His chuckle fills the line. “And hey, Ledge?”

  “What?” I snap.

  “This is when you act like the old me since I’m now an old married fucker.”

  “Act like you?” But the minute I say it, I start laughing, because I know what he’s going to say. Him and his penchant for telling me I have a stick up my ass.

  “Yeah. Sleep with the woman. Skip some work to fuck off with her. Your lists can wait. Live a little outside of the office.”

  “I’m going now, Callahan.”

  “I bet you are.”

  I glance at the clock. Let’s see how long it takes for Callahan to tell Ford and for Ford to call me.