I can picture what summer could look like here. Umbrellas and cabanas set up for guests. Servers carrying rum punches and daquiris across the boardwalk and into the sand to keep them happy. Add a horseshoe pit and a volleyball net for those who can’t keep idle. Team up with a bike rental or electric scooter company to supply guests at a discounted rate.

  Out of habit when I’m looking at sites, I lift my phone to take pictures. “Shit.” It’s dead.

  You’re not supposed to be working, Ford.

  But the instinct to observe and assess and improve has been ingrained in me my whole life, so it’s easy to slip back into that mode without thinking about it.

  On that note, get the fuck out of here. Go to Sag. Figure out . . . whatever you need to figure out.

  And eventually, deal with the endless texts from Callahan and Ledger.

  I shove my hands in my pockets, and my fingers hit the napkin Ellery left me. The one I kept for some reason. The one that reminds me it will all work itself out.

  That remains to be seen.

  With one last look at the unexpected view, I turn on my heel and head toward my rental car.

  It’s then that I see the sign posted in the window of the inn. For Sale. Huh. Guess that makes more sense why things haven’t been kept up here. But you’d think you’d make it look its best to get a higher sale price.

  Then again, maybe it has been dressed up and it was worse before.

  Not your problem, Sharpe.

  And it’s not. S.I.N. deals in sophisticated, luxurious resorts that are massive in scale, not mom-and-pop hotels on postage stamps of land like this. It’s not our brand. Not our expertise.

  But it doesn’t stop me from taking one long, last look before I climb behind the wheel and start the engine.

  Potential.

  Ellery

  I study him.

  Just like I did this morning as he slept. I contemplate why it felt so hard to walk out of the bar earlier this morning.

  Those thick lashes on tanned cheeks.

  The wave of his hair over his forehead.

  A faded white scar above his right eyebrow I didn’t notice in the dim light last night.

  The inexplicable pull he somehow has on me when I’m usually immune to second glances and electric touches.

  There’s a reason I chose to leave without saying goodbye.

  I could tell myself it was because I had things to do and a schedule to keep, but that’s total bullshit. I have no schedule or set place to be. Truthfully, the reason I stood in front of the settee for a good five minutes, debating whether to wake Ford up before I left, has a lot more to do with the object that with the sun’s help is creating prisms all over the inside of my car.

  Or rather everything that’s tied to it.

  My engagement ring.

  Chandler Holcomb.

  And the duty that comes with being a Sinclair-Haywood.

  But I don’t think about any of those things as Ford stands with his back to me, shoulders broad, ass tight, and studies the inn with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

  And it sure as hell didn’t cross my mind when I woke up last night with my head on his chest and his hand absently and possessively spread over my thigh.

  I know he was asleep.

  I know he didn’t mean it.

  Yet . . . it seems so vivid in my mind when normally I don’t remember a thing when or if I wake up at night.

  I push the ignition button and my engine jumps to life.

  Get going, Elle. Move on. It’s not like any of last night mattered.

  With one last look at Ford, I shift my car into drive and turn out of the parking lot.

  I think of opportunities missed.

  Of what ifs.

  And how I need to push a little harder on the gas before I do or say something I might regret.

  Ford

  Four Weeks Later

  “What’s this?” Ledger asks from the door of my office, holding up a file folder that I can’t exactly differentiate from the hundreds of others we have in our office.

  “What’s what?” I ask. “Pretty sure that’s what we call a folder. It opens and you put papers inside of the two flaps to protect and keep them all together. You can even put a label on it for quick reference of its contents.”

  “A regular, fucking comedian,” Ledger says drolly as he walks into my office and drops it on my desk.

  The file’s label, White Sands Property, written in my block-style handwriting, looks up at me. I knew this would be coming. No time like the present to get down to brass tacks.

  I lean back in my chair and simply stare at my brother. “Since when do you take shit off my desk?”

  “Since when do you make moves on your own regarding properties without consulting Callahan or me first?” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting in the chair in front of my desk.

  “I wasn’t aware you were the king of all things around here.” I pick up the folder and toss it back onto the other side of my desk. “Last I checked, my last name is on the sign out there in the lobby too.”

  “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.

  Who else could build what is needed better than someone who has experienced it firsthand?

  I stare at my brother as he considers what I’ve said. He knows what it feels like to have your privacy invaded. He knows what it’s like to want to make memories with your family but not have the space or place to be able to do that.

  “The rich like to be treated like they’re rich. They also like to be made to feel normal. We know that better than anyone. Why do you think Dad took us to Montana every summer as teens? To let us feel like everyone else in America.” I sigh and pause for a beat, thinking of the summer months spent away from New York. It was a shift from the time we’d normally spend at the Sag Harbor house, but after our Mom had passed, it was too painful to stay there. “It’s a tricky balance, but one we could pull off in a venue that’s a smaller magnitude than our normal ones.”

  “Everyone says they want to be treated normally until they are, and then they bitch they aren’t being stroked enough.”

  “Know from firsthand experience?” I taunt and receive a middle finger in the air and a roll of the eyes in response.

  “Look, in theory it’s a good idea, but we’d never recoup the money we’d sink into a place like that. It would take years to come close to the type of overhaul you’re talking about.”

  “And you think we made back the fortune we spent at Ocean’s Edge or The Retreat in a day?” I ask, pointing out the two most recent property purchases and resort overhauls.

  “It’s not the same and you know it. It’s a moot point. As I said, it’s not on-brand for us.”

  “Fuck the branding. Step outside of it. Redefine it. Add to it.”

  “This isn’t an exercise at Wharton. This is our company. Good idea. Bad business decision for us.”

  “Tough shit. It’s my business decision and as I said, you’re going to go along with it.” I don’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. By the look on Ledger’s face, I don’t think he does either. “You make decisions every day about S.I.N. and the directions we take. Decisions we all follow. Now it’s time for you to do the same for me.”

  Ledger’s forehead creases as he huffs out a breath. I’ve ruffled his perfect feathers. Good.

  He crosses his legs. He looks around the room. There is no hurrying Ledger when he’s in this mode. But it’s when his eyes meet mine that I see the concern deepening in them. “Where’s all this coming from, Ford?”

  “Sometimes it’s about more than the money. And yes, it’s so very easy for me to say that considering we’re drowning in it. I won’t deny that. But it’s about needing to do something more. Different. To stretch and challenge myself. It’s not an unreasonable ask.”

  His nod is slow and measured. So is the sigh that falls from his lips. “It is about the book then.” When I don’t respond other than to stare at him, he continues, his tone softening, ever the big brother. “Dad loved each of us in his own way. Just because some author and publisher decided to edit the biography in whatever way they decided, doesn’t mean he loved you less. The people who matter to you, know the truth, Ford. And buying some dilapidated seaside something or other isn’t going to fix what it is that did upset you.”

  I clear the emotion clogging my throat. “I’ve never asked you guys for anything like this. I’m asking now.”

  Ledger rises from his seat and heads to the door but stops before heading out. He waits for a beat before looking over his shoulder and meeting my eyes. It’s a simple nod. It’s all he gives. But it’s enough to know I’ve been heard and while he might not understand the why, he definitely understands that it’s important to me.

  Ellery

  “Elle . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Of course, you don’t.” My smile is tight, and my need to keep this uneventful even more so. “You and my brothers, or my dad, and whoever decided it was a good idea for you and me to get married. It was simply a merger of sorts to tie our families together personally and professionally.”

  “That’s not—”

  “It is.” I reach out and grab Chandler’s hand, the diamond ring on my left finger sparkling. A symbol of love that we don’t really feel.

  Or at least I don’t.

  “It was easy to get caught up in everything. You. Me. The promises that were made behind my back to bring you into my family business and cement the future of our families simultaneously.”

  “How did you . . .”

  I didn’t know. I assumed. But his response just confirmed my hunch. That makes my need to do this even more urgent. Our chance meeting that wasn’t by chance. My brothers’ encouragement to go out with the man they deemed to be a great guy. Good stock. All the right boxes ticked. The whirlwind romance and the over-the-top proposal.

  Everything you’d think a girl could want. Textbook romance but with a clinical feel to it.

  It was all manufactured for a desired result. A successful business merger disguised as a picture-perfect relationship.

  And I went along with it. Until I didn’t want to.

  The question is, what made me have a change of heart?

  Maybe waking up one day after a storm to realize that I wanted more than a contract to decide my happiness.

  “Elle. Sure, it—us meeting, us dating, how beneficial us being together would be for both of our families—was an idea floated by your brothers, but then we actually fell for each other.”

  “You realize how that sounds, right?” My nervous chuckle fills the room.