Bidding on Brooks: The Winslow Brothers #1 (11 page)

Skye didn’t know what she’d been expecting to hear, but such a deep and honest answer stunned her. In just a moment their conversation had gone from breakfast foods and first kisses to Brooks’ single-minded yearning to feel connected to his late father. And thinking of her own father, how close she was to him and how much she loved him, her heart clenched.

She had a vague recollection that Mr. Winslow had been a sailor, and she knew he had passed away a long time ago, but she had no idea that he’d been the motivation for Brooks’ Olympic dreams. To discover that Brooks’ lifelong love of sailing and fiercely competitive spirit had been borne from his grief touched her deeply.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking at him, “…about your dad.”

He flinched for just a moment, locking his eyes with hers. Then he looked away, back out at the water. “Me too.”

“What happened to him?” she asked.

The change in Brooks was immediate. His whole body stiffened and his jaw clenched. She watched his fingers curl around the deck railing and he shook his head, looking down at the deck. Finally he turned to her, his eyes closed and cool.

“It’s my turn to ask a question.”

Her eyes widened at the change in his tone—from warm and reminiscent to hard—but she nodded to let him know she was ready.

“What’s the deal with you and Pat?”

***

His father’s heart attack wasn’t something he discussed. Ever. It was something that ate away at Brooks quietly. It was a silent killer he was convinced lived somewhere inside of his own body, waiting to take him down as surely as it had his dad. He couldn’t bear discussing it, so he’d changed course deliberately, distracting her with a loaded question.

She raised her eyebrows at him before turning her glance back out to the bay. They were about halfway to Elk Point now, and soon they’d need to go to work, but they had enough time for a few more questions and this one had been burning a hole in his brain. What was someone as guileless and down-to-earth as Skye doing with a pretentious douchebag like Pat?

“What do you mean?” she asked, keeping her eyes trained straight ahead.

“Can I be candid?”

“Why stop now?”

“You and Pat don’t seem… I don’t know…
obvious
.”

“Ummm…?”

He shrugged, glancing at her, then away. “You’re not an obvious match.”

“Why not?”

“I knew Dionne. You two are like night and day.” In that Dionne was a bitch on wheels and Skye was one of the nicest people he’d ever met.

“They’re divorced. It’s probably a no-brainer that he’d look for someone different than his ex-wife,” she observed, avoiding his question.

“Okay, here’s what I really want to know—”

“You already asked a question.”

Brooks cocked his head to the side. “It’s not a new question. I’m just rephrasing.”

“Fine,” she said, though the look she gave him said she thought he was cheating. He didn’t care. He needed to know.

He waited until she looked back over to him, raising her eyebrows for him to get on with it. “How come you didn’t go with him?”

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips before she dropped his eyes, jerking her head forward and staring out at the sea.

“That wasn’t the plan,” she said softly.

“Yeah, it was,” he said quickly, pressing her. “It
was
the plan. The original plan. I remember, because you were excited about going. I remember one day while you were changing the oil on my Passport, you talked my ear off about it. So, why didn’t you go?”

“Plans change.”

“Come on, Skye.”

She lifted her chin, her blue eyes cutting to his. “Why does it matter?”

“Because if you were mine, there’s no chance in hell I would have left you behind,” he said, his tone harsh.

Wait! What? Shit! Did I just
say
that out loud?

He heard her tight gasp and watched as her lips parted and her eyes widened. She stared at him, completely distracted from the helm.

He cleared his throat, dropping her eyes. “Sorry.”

She was silent for a long time, and when Brooks looked up, she was staring out to sea, her face sad. And he hated that he’d had anything to do with putting sorrow on her face. In fact, he was about to apologize again when she finally turned, raising her eyes to Brooks.

“He wanted to go alone,” she said in a little voice.

Looking back at her, Brooks flinched, reminding himself of his promise not to touch her again and restraining himself from taking the two steps that would allow him to pull her into his arms. Instead, he crossed them over his chest uselessly and felt his face grow hard.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but if that’s true, then Patrick Flaherty is even more of a jackass than I ever gave him credit for.”

He stared at her, wondering if she’d protest. Or admonish him. Or feel genuinely hurt on Pat’s behalf. Which is why he felt like such a rockstar when she turned her lovely face back to him, licked her lips, and smiled.

For most of the day they worked without time for or interest in conversation, their only goal to help the Cutter achieve maximum speed. Skye barked orders and Brooks was—unsurprisingly—the most capable, intuitive crew she could have asked for, anticipating her needs almost before she asked. In addition to keeping the sails trimmed and changing them for every tack and jibe, he had somehow found time to slip below at noon to fix them each a ham and cheese sandwich on wheat bread, and he’d always made sure Skye had a bottle of water in the holder by her hip.

Ten hours later, they’d practically
flown
south, slicing through the Chesapeake Bay waters by Maryland, and arrived in Gloucester Point, Virginia, by five o’clock.

Luffing the sails as they approached the marina where Brooks had booked them a slip for their first night, Skye motored into the harbor and Brooks, who’d been below since the sails had come down, reappeared on deck with two longneck beers hanging from between his fingers.

Grinning, he offered one to Skye.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, she smiled back at him, accepting the cold bottle and lifting the smooth green glass to her lips.

“Wait!” said Brooks. “We need to make a toast!”

Skye stopped, lowering the bottle with surprise.

“That was
fast
, Skye!” he said, his eyes twinkling and animated. “I mean, that was
racing
fast!
Excellent
racing fast.”

She glanced down at her watch and had to admit that yes, they’d made damn good time. A winning race time from Baltimore to Norfolk would be nine and a half hours, and they’d made it to Gloucester Point, close to Norfolk, in a little over ten.

She looked up at him, her smile widening as she nodded. “It was good.”

“I don’t know what I expected…but you’re
amazing
,” he said reverently, staring deeply into her eyes. “Why don’t you skipper more often? Why aren’t you racing? I mean, all the time? Every weekend? We’d win every race!”

A few things happened immediately in Skye’s head, all of which made her stare back at him, slack-jawed.

One.
We?
“
We” like, you, Brooks, and me, Skye, sailing regattas and races together?
Her heart stuttered as her mind conjured a slideshow of pictures showing her what life would look like racing one-on-one with Brooks every weekend. The wordless teamwork, the heady sense of satisfaction. She bit her lip to keep herself from sighing with longing. One look at his gorgeous face forced her back down to earth. It was only his excitement after a long, successful day of sailing had led him to say such a thing, she reasoned. He didn’t mean it. He was an Olympic medalist. He could race with anyone on the east coast, anyone in the world.

And two. She was a nobody… a mechanic at her father’s modest marina. A
decent
crew, but—by her own boyfriend’s own admission—
not
a racer.

And three. She didn’t even own a boat to skipper. Yes, she’d crewed for local teams over the years now and then, but the
Zephyr
was her first opportunity to skipper a sailboat.
Any
sailboat. She didn’t skipper more often because it wasn’t an option unless she borrowed someone else’s boat or bought one for herself.

She looked at his face, searching it for flattery, and even though he looked open and honest, she took a mental step back. He was just being kind. They’d had a good day and he was supporting her, which was a function of a good crew member. He didn’t mean what he was saying in any special way, and taking his words seriously would just embarrass them both.

She shrugged. “I don’t race much. I’m…at the marina, you know, a mechanic. That’s really what I do.”

“Well, you
should
be racing,” said Brooks, still smiling at her, his eyes warm and admiring, and she saw a little wonder in them, too, like he was seeing her for the first time. And then she realized…it was exactly how he’d looked at her the night of the auction—like she was new to him.

Skye swallowed, losing herself in his green eyes, feeling her grin fade with the hot intensity of his gaze. He was still pumped up on the adrenaline of the cruise, his hair windblown and messy, his face tan, his eyes wide and fascinated. His energy was riveting and exhilarating, and her tongue slipped between her lips to wet them.

His eyes dropped immediately to her mouth, his nostrils flaring lightly as he rested his gaze for a long moment before raising his eyes…and his bottle.

“To Skye Sorenson,” he said in a husky voice, “a better skipper than most of the Olympians I know.”

She blinked at him, the weight of his words heavy and wonderful as she processed them. He was comparing her to world class racers? To internationally recognized skippers? Her heart thundered, and she wanted to accept his words as truth, but his praise was too high, especially when weighed against Pat’s words which had indicated the very opposite. Brooks couldn’t possibly be serious. And to take him seriously would place her in jeopardy, because she might believe for a moment that she could be more than she was; that life could be bigger than it was. The last time she’d trusted in a big, beautiful plan, she’d stood on a dock waving goodbye as Pat sailed away alone.

She dropped Brooks’ eyes, a soft, embarrassed laugh escaping from her throat, as she clinked his bottle with hers. “And the fastest oil change on the Chesapeake.”

He flinched, turning away from her to take a long sip from his beer. His voice was flat and business-like when he asked, “Buoys out, skip?”

“Not yet,” she said, looking at him and instantly feeling terrible. He couldn’t have been serious, and yet…it almost looked like she’d hurt his feelings. His whole face had lost its exuberant, childlike excitement, and she didn’t like it one bit that she’d taken it away from him. “Hey…?”

“Hmm?” He turned to look at her, his eyes cautious, lifting his beer for another sip.

“I just…thank you, Brooks. Thank you for saying such nice things, but—”

His forehead creased. “I wasn’t just
saying
them. I
meant
them.”

Her cheeks flushed. She still didn’t believe him, but she sensed that his kindness was genuine, and she hastened to return it. “I’m sorry…You’re being really nice. I have a hard time with compliments.”

“You seemed okay when I told you that you were beautiful.”

Her head tilted to the side in confusion.

“At the auction,” he added.

“Oh. Yeah, but…” She shrugged. “That wasn’t really me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Getting dressed up like that? It wasn’t me. I’m not a…girly-girl.” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “Obviously.”

“I don’t know,” said Brooks, shrugging with an adorable grin. “It might not be your natural habitat, but you still nailed it, Skye.”

She took another sip of beer, shaking her head, incredibly pleased by his words, but wanting him to understand what she was trying to say about sailing, about being on the water, how important it was to her—it wasn’t a joking matter. In as much as it could be, it was her church, her religion. It was sacred to her, and she’d prefer he treated it as sacred space too, and didn’t just hand out empty flattery.

“You’re sweet.” She took a breath. “But this? Sailing? It’s—”

“This is really you,” he said softly, his eyes connecting with hers, his voice low and soft. “The wind and the water are in your blood.”

Yes!
she thought, amazed and a little spellbound to hear him repeat her own words back to her.
This is me. All of me. The
real
me.

“This is practically me…
naked
,” she murmured as an extension of her thoughts, her eyes widening as the words ricocheted around her brain in a rat-tat-tat of inappropriate fire.

His lips parted and his eyes flashed at her, the heat in them unmistakable.

“Is that right?” he asked slowly, raking his eyes down her body.

Her fingers flexed on the wheel, her face almost painfully hot, and she was so flustered she could barely put her next sentence together. “I only mean…this is…I mean, this is the
real
me. This is as real as I get.”

“This… the water, the wind, sailing, boating… this is your natural habitat.”

“Exactly.” She sighed, her shoulders relaxing a little.

“And it matters to you.”

“A lot,” she said.

“Which is
why
you should
believe
me,” he said. “Because like you, I don’t bullshit when it comes to sailing. Not now. Not ever. I think you know in your bones that
you
are one of the most intuitive sailors you know.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” she murmured.

“Yes, it does.” He stared at her and she drew her bottom lip between her teeth, feeling over-exposed and vulnerable in a way she wasn’t sure she liked or disliked. “When you look around at other skippers, you know what you’d do differently. You quietly assess when they’re doing wrong and how you’d correct it. I watched you today. It took one hour before I stopped judging your skills and just fell in line, doing whatever you asked me to do because I trusted your instincts and your experience. You’re not a
good
sailor, you’re a
great
sailor, Skye…and you know it. Maybe something shook your confidence, but you must know what I’m saying is true.”

You’re a decent crew, Skye, but I want to make good time and you’re not really a racer.

“I don’t—”

“Well, I
do
. This is my natural habitat, too.” He leaned forward from the railing, taking a step toward her. “I’m one-hundred percent serious, Skye. You’re a fantastic skipper. I’d sail with you any day, any time. And we’d win.”

His words were like honey, like water in the desert, like coming up for air and filling your lungs with goodness. She hadn’t realized exactly how much Pat had hurt her until that moment, but uninviting her to go with him had been a terrible blow. It’s just that she’d been so concerned with keeping the peace, she’d buried her disappointment instead of examining it. She examined it now. And somehow, by acknowledging it, for the first time since Pat withdrew his invitation, she felt stronger. She didn’t feel the pain of his unkindness, his selfishness, weighing her down. For all that his words had hurt her, perhaps they hadn’t, in fact, been true.

Brooks took another step closer and she looked up, caressing his expression with her eyes. She searched his face—still beautiful—but found it new, too. Somehow more real, more genuine, deeper, like an intimacy that she missed had already been established between them and she was just realizing it now.

His thick black hair was waved and unruly, his tan cheeks cut from burnished marble, the shadow of a beard outlining his jaw with dried salt in tiny round flecks on his chin. She could smell a hint of sweat on his warm skin, the slight scent of beer on his breath. He’d taste like beer if he kissed her right now, and she leaned closer to him, her fingers slackening on the wheel as she—

“Buoys out, skip?” he asked softly, inches from her face.

“Buoys out,” she replied, pulling her eyes away from Brooks’ broad shoulders as he turned away from her to get to work.

***

As Brooks fastened six buoys on the port side of the boat and tossed them over the side, he thought about their conversation.

Although it was clear that Skye was new to skipping—her hands were tight on the wheel and her concentration was singular and intense, while a seasoned skipper would be more relaxed—he was serious about her intuition and skill. He’d sailed with skippers as good as Skye, but very few with better natural instincts.

Why had she protested his praise so hard? Why had she immediately assumed he was being disingenuous?

It bothered him. It bothered him a lot that Skye felt like she couldn’t trust him, because…because, damn it, he wanted her to. He liked her. It was dangerous and inconvenient and it couldn’t actually go anywhere, but he
really
liked her, more than he could ever remember genuinely liking a woman. And sure, it helped that she had a body to kill for, soft breasts that he remembered pressed against his chest, delectable lips that he was aching to taste again. But it was more than how she looked or his attraction to her—he liked who she was. She was modest and self-deprecating, low-maintenance and proud. He appreciated the way she’d had a course charted and memorized it so she didn’t have to refer to her notes mid-sail. He liked the way she quietly and effectively took charge. He liked working with her and for her. He respected her.

And if his health, if his father hadn’t… hell, he might actually be thinking more seriously about her, wondering how his life could mesh with that of a marina owner’s daughter, and his heart tightened with longing at the very idea. He might imagine her body, naked and trembling, beneath him, as he pushed into her slick heat. He might imagine telling her that he loved her, asking her to marry him, holding their first-born on his shoulders while she pushed a stroller holding a baby. He might even imagine her eyes, still blue, but softer with age, after the wind of a thousand sails, looking back at him with the sort of love that had lasted a lifetime.