Bidding on Brooks: The Winslow Brothers #1 (12 page)

If he was able to do anything about it, he might let himself imagine it all.

But he wasn’t able, he reminded himself, throwing the last buoy over the railing.

He wasn’t able.

Because chances were, when Skye’s eyes were soft with age, Brooks Winslow, like his father before him, would be long gone.

***

Fifteen minutes later, tied up in one of the many slips at the York River Yacht Haven marina, Skye watched as Brooks lowered his sunglasses and lay down on the dock with his beer by his side.

“Okay with you if I take a cat nap?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Skye, knowing that his body must be ten times as tired as hers since he’d done a lion’s share of the work today.

Since their loaded conversation about her skills as a sailor, he’d been standoffish, almost like he was avoiding her, so it surprised her a little when he added, “We have a dinner reservation at seven,” his voice low and dull as he relaxed on the sunny deck.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah,” he said, sitting up to take off his T-shirt, then balling it under his head. “There’s a good restaurant here.”

“Oh,” she whimpered softly, checking out his toned chest, tan and glistening with sweat under the late-afternoon sun. He was godlike—so hard and beautiful, her mouth went dry and she had to force herself to look away. “I didn’t know.”

“Mm-hm. There’s a swimming pool too…and showers…and wifi,” he added, yawning, “if you want to go online to say hi to your dad…or Pat.”

She flinched for absolutely no good reason.

Why shouldn’t Brooks suggest she connect with her boyfriend?

Why did it bother her so much that he did?

To distract herself, she turned her attention to the marina. Skye hadn’t checked it out closely after pulling the
Zephyr
into its assigned slip, but she looked up now and realized that it was bright and well-kept, almost like a mini resort. And she had to admit, a hot shower sounded like pure heaven.

“I think I’ll take advantage of the showers,” she said.

“Go for it,” he mumbled, though unless her eyes deceived her, his pecs had tensed for a moment, at odds with his lazy voice.

Taking one last look at his long, lean, muscular body, Skye turned and headed below to grab her toiletries and a towel. She walked down the polished wood staircase, holding onto the railing and making her way into the small salon that had built-in cabinetry, seating and a table, serving as library, dining room, and living room. Noting Brooks’ duffel sitting prominently on the table, she darted her glance up the stairs and winced, shaking her head and wondering if he was napping on the deck because he hadn’t yet been assigned a berth.

“Shoot,” she muttered, flinching with disappointment in herself.

It was unkind and unprofessional that her inability to make a quick decision for her crew would cost Brooks a decent nap. Grabbing the heavy bag off the table, she held it in front of her as she made her way down the narrow passage to her bedroom. Sighing as she looked at the made, but unused, full-sized bed taking up the unoccupied port side of the cabin, she plunked his bag down in the middle of the down comforter, then turned to the starboard side, where she’d already settled in. She sat down on the small bench built into the side of her bed and eyed his bag, hoping she had made the right choice.

To Skye Sorenson, who’s a better race skipper than most of the Olympians I know.

She looked down at her lap, feeling her lips slide into a grin as she recalled his words.

He had no idea how much she would savor his compliment—likely for the rest of her life. Even when she’d bargained with Brooks to skipper, one of her key insecurities was that maybe her sailing skills
weren’t
up to the task of leadership. But he’d assured her that they were and in one wonderful, supportive swoop, Brooks Winslow had repaired the damage Pat had inflicted. He respected her skills and she respected his opinion, and just as Jessica, Alex, and Brooks had all encouraged her, she decided to trust him from here on out. For the next seven days, they were a team. Skye grinned at his bag. A team. Two people dependent on each other, trusting and respecting each other. Maybe even—

Maybe even what, Skye?

She stood up, opening one of the dresser drawers built into her berth, and taking out a towel, then opened another drawer and took out fresh underwear, khaki shorts, and a clean, crisp light pink polo shirt.

Maybe what?

Pat’s latest escapade with Inga notwithstanding, the more time she spent with Brooks, the more she was starting to see her boyfriend through an entirely different lens: selfish, self-absorbed, shallow and, yes, even cruel. Perhaps she’d only been settling for Patrick Flaherty because she was flattered by his attention and tired of being alone. They had sailing in common, but when she compared Pat to Brooks, there was
no
comparison. Brooks hadn’t wanted to be in the auction, but he’d agreed to it because he loved his sister. Brooks had devoted his life to sailing because of his love for his father. Brooks had allowed her—an inexperienced skipper—the chance to captain his boat, and then encouraged her and praised her effusively. Brooks, it seemed more and more, was a giver. Pat was a taker. And Skye was getting sick and tired of being taken.

Opening the top dresser drawer, she found her cellphone in the back and quickly signed onto the marina’s wifi, pulling up a fresh, blank email.

Hi, Pat,

Made it to Gloucester in 10 hours.

Feels good to be out on the water again.

Assuming Inga is still with you on the Cat.

I think we need to take a break.

Write back to let me know you got this.

Skye

Her finger hovered over the Send button as she read and re-read her words. “Take a break” was essentially a soft way of saying “break up,” and he’d know it. She was breaking up with him. Pat, who’d seen beyond her overalls and greasy fingers and asked her out. Pat, who’d been her boyfriend for a year. Pat, who liked having her at home waiting for him while he enjoyed Inga’s company on the bright blue waters of the Pacific.

Shouldn’t it hurt more?
she wondered, staring at the words.
Shouldn’t it feel messier?

The fact was, it wasn’t messy.

There were no rings to return.

No leases to dissolve.

No pets to co-share.

They didn’t even leave clothes at each other’s places since they lived in the same town and Pat preferred to shower and change at his own place.

And her heart…

Placing a palm gently on her chest, she realized that her heart—which should have ached at the idea of losing Pat—had already started and finished its aching at some point: she’d been hurt by Pat, said goodbye to Pat, fruitlessly hoped that Pat would tell her that he missed or loved her while he was so far away. None of that had happened, and now that she was saying good-bye to him, she realized that her heart had probably moved on weeks ago.

It
wasn’t
messy and it
didn’t
hurt, which meant that this message was just a necessary formality to let him know things were finally over.

She took a deep breath, her eyes flicking upward where Brooks Winslow napped in the sunshine. If she sent the message, she’d be single again. She’d be free to do whatever she wanted with whomever she wanted. She wouldn’t be a cheater. She’d be taking a chance that there was something—someone—out there in the world better for her than Pat.

Her finger hovered for one more moment before touching down softly and pressing send.

Across the candlelit table from Brooks, Skye grinned at him, her teeth white against the tan of her face, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in natural waves. He assumed she’d let it air dry after her shower because it looked beachy and sexy. The collar of her pink polo shirt was popped and the edges brushed the soft skin of her cheeks, one of which was dented with a small, beguiling dimple. She was naturally stunning and he couldn’t look away, but staring at her had the unfortunate side effect of keeping his shorts tented for the entirety of their dinner.

“I swear,” she said, giggling as she reached for her coffee cup. “It’s true.”

“Never? You’ve
never
skippered before today? Ever?”

She shook her head, that tiny dimple beckoning his eyes like a beacon, teasing him like crazy.

“How is that possible?” he demanded, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I don’t have my own boat.”

“I could remedy that.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile widened just a little. “You gonna buy me a boat, Brooks Winslow?”

“It’d be a good investment if you’d race it with me. I’d make back the purchase price in prizes.”

She laughed heartily then, shaking her head back and forth. “You know? You might be a little crazy…or a little too rich. Offering sailboats to every girl you meet!”

He laughed with her and gestured to the waiter to bring him another beer. When he looked back at her, the grin was gone and she was holding her phone, her finger sliding down the screen as she checked her messages.

While she was away from the boat this afternoon, after his nap, he’d gone below to grab what he needed to take a shower, shocked to find his bag—which he’d purposely left in the common room so she could assign him a cabin—on the bed opposite hers. He’d looked in the other two, tiny bedrooms first, then—feeling confused—he’d peeked in hers, only to have his jaw drop when he saw his duffel sitting deliberately in the middle of the bed on the port-side berth. They were
sharing
the master bedroom?

He’d leaned against the door, his eyes wide, stroking his stubbly jaw with his thumb and forefinger and wondering what it meant. He acknowledged that she could just be as good a skipper as he gave her credit for and was ensuring he had the most comfortable possible accommodations, regardless of her own sensibilities about sharing a room with him. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping it meant something more.

That Brooks was deeply attracted to Skye was a well-established fact at this point even though his body still took every opportunity to remind him. What had really shocked the hell out of him, however, was the intimacy of their conversation this morning. For the first time he could ever remember, he was letting a woman into the sacred space with which he surrounded and protected himself. He could barely believe how forthcoming he’d been with her about his father and how much he wanted to understand her relationship with Pat, or—more accurately—find vulnerabilities in that relationship that could work to his benefit.

What benefit?
he questioned as she pursed her lips at her phone, her fingers flying over the screen to type a message.

Skye wasn’t someone to play with.

And Brooks had already decided long ago that pursuing a meaningful relationship with a respectable woman wasn’t fair. He’d have to be a truly selfish bastard to allow that to happen, to allow someone to care for him when there was no guarantee he’d still be around five years from now.

But this growing easiness between them felt so unfamiliar to Brooks, yet so rare and special and fine, he couldn’t help wanting it to continue. Tonight at dinner was the first time she’d allowed his eyes to linger on her without asking him to stop. She seemed more open, more comfortable. And their sleeping arrangements, sharing a room—God, he couldn’t get it off his mind and the anticipation was so hot and distracting, he’d found himself fantasizing about her more than once over dinner.

Suddenly she gasped, looking up from her phone, her eyes sparkling and her sudden smile dazzling. “Oh, gosh! I love this song.”

It wasn’t especially familiar to Brooks, but he cocked his head to the side and listened to the ‘50s-style song playing softly from a speaker over their table.

What if I-I-I-I…I want to kiss you to-morrow?

It was sweet and soulful, and for a moment, Brooks thought about asking her to dance, about how much he’d like to hold her in his arms and feel her body pressed against his.

“Your dad likes the old stuff,” he said. The radio in the marina shop was always tuned to a ‘50s and ‘60s music station.

“It only
sounds
old,” she said, then sang softly,
“Don’t be ner-vous, I’m so in-to you…”

His heart raced as he stared back at her, mesmerized by her pretty voice and soft pink lips mouthing words he wished were true. “But it’s not?”

“Not what?”

“Old?”

She shook her head, closing her eyes, and singing, “
What if I-I-I-I….I want to kiss you to-morrow?”
She grinned at him, shrugging adorably. “It’s Meghan Trainor.”

“Meghan…”

“Trainor. You know, ‘All About That Bass?’ She’s all over the radio. She’s…amazing. I heard her sing, you know. At a bar in Nantucket…before she made it big.”

“Oh!
Meghan
Trainor.”

“Yeah!” She nodded, beaming at him. “See? You know her!”

“Nope. Actually, I have no idea who she is,” he said, chuckling softly before catching her eyes. “But I think I might be missing out.”

“You are,” she said, sighing as the song ended. “And yes, my Pop loves songs from the ‘50s. My grandparents played those tunes all the time, my whole childhood.”

“I remember your grandma. She used to help out at the front desk now and then.”

Skye nodded, grinning sadly. “She was great. A real salty dog.”

“What about your Mom?” asked Brooks. “You never mention her. How come I’ve never met her?”

Her face fell immediately, closing up, the pretty, happy smile from a moment ago fading quickly.

“Skye?” he asked softly, wincing because her mother must be a painful subject and he felt obliged to extend sympathies or apologies if appropriate. “God, did she…did she pass away? I’m so sor—”

Her face was cautious and her tone cool when she looked up at him. “As far as I know, she’s alive. She’s just…she moved to L.A. a long time ago. She’s not a part of my life.”

“I didn’t know.”

“This,” she said, pointing out the window beside them at the marina and boats bobbing in the evening breeze, “wasn’t really her thing. She’s… I mean…it’s just better that she stays out there.”

***

Skye’s cheeks felt hot with shame as she imagined her cheap escort of a mother ever meeting wealthy, respectable Brooks Winslow and suppressed a cringe.

Every moment she spent with Brooks, she felt her lifetime infatuation for him deepening into something more substantial and infinitely more troublesome. Because Skye had never really considered Brooks a realistic romantic interest, she’d never allowed her imagination to envision how their lives would mesh. Now she imagined it. And they didn’t. Mesh. At all.

As an ex-Olympian, Brooks was still in the news from time to time, chairing benefits and judging regattas for ESPN or NBC Sports. He wouldn’t want to tarnish his reputation by dating a woman whose mother was a glorified hooker. Not to mention, Skye was a middle-class mechanic and he was an upper-class trust fund baby. Although she’d appreciated his reaction when she’d dressed up for the auction, she had no interest in regularly attending fancy galas, and she highly doubted a lifetime of sunsets viewed from dock ten of her Pop’s marina would satisfy Brooks’ well-known wanderlust.

He wouldn’t fit into her world and she wouldn’t fit into his. Despite their mutual love of the water and undeniable chemistry, Brooks really wasn’t an option. It hurt her heart to acknowledge it, but Skye believed in being honest with herself and looked down at the table with disappointment.

Spying her phone, she frowned, picking it up for a moment, then turning it over so it was face-down. Pat had gotten her message and responded with anger, accusing her of sleeping with Brooks and demanding that she call him and explain herself. She texted Pat back that she wouldn’t speak to him again until Inga was off his boat, and since he hadn’t written back, she assumed Inga was still in the picture.

But suddenly she wasn’t anxious for Brooks to find out about their breakup. She was fairly certain that Pat’s role as her boyfriend was the major reason Brooks hadn’t made another move on her, and it was probably for the best that he continued to keep his distance.

For a moment, before Brooks had asked about her mother, while Meghan Trainor’s super romantic ballad was playing, Skye had almost spilled the beans about her recently single status, thinking maybe he’d wind his fingers through hers on the short walk back to the boat, and pull her against him in the moonlight to revisit their first kiss.

Now with the reminder of her mother’s tawdry lifestyle front and center, she wondered if it was better to keep the news to herself. She and Brooks were friends. Better friends every moment, but still just friends, and as long as they didn’t give into their attraction, that’s how they’d stay. And as much as she longed for more from him, she wondered if it was best for them to keep their distance.

“When did she go?” he asked gently, lifting his eyes from her phone.

“I was very little,” she said curtly, folding her hands on the table and giving him an annoyed look, even as the mantra,
Please, oh please, stop asking me about my mother
, circled in her head.

He reached for her hands from across the table. “Skye…”

“Do you think we could get the check?” she asked, jerking her hands back and dropping them to her lap. “We’ll get gas and water in the morning, but I have a few things I still need to do before bed.”

“Sure,” he said, sitting back in his chair, looking confused and disappointed. When the waiter came back, he asked for the check before turning to Skye. “Not to make things more awkward, but speaking of bed…”

He let the words trail off and clenched his jaw, his handsome face otherwise expressionless as his eyes burned into hers. He’d found his bag in her bedroom, of course. When she’d returned from her shower, he was gone, but his bag was open on his bed, and she wondered when he’d bring it up.

She shrugged, keeping her voice crisp, though her fingers trembled in her lap. “We’re getting up at six and sailing for twelve hours straight tomorrow. If you think you can get a better night sleep in one of those little bunk beds, go for it.”

“No, I’m… I’ll stay where you put me.” He searched her face. “Listen, I shouldn’t have asked about your mother, but I didn’t know—”

“It’s fine.”

“I just—”

“Really, Brooks. It’s fine,” she said again, her heart twisting a little as she maintained a cool tone that shut him down. “Thank you for dinner. They have great food here. You were right.”

His eyes flicked to her phone, as though he was still trying to figure out what had changed so suddenly and drastically between them. She could see his mind working: 
If it wasn’t her mother…
“Who were you texting before?”

“Pat,” she answered levelly. “My boyfriend.”

Brooks’ lips tightened into a thin line as he placed several bills in a wallet with the check and stood up from his seat. “I’m going to get a few things at the marina store. You need anything?”

“Nope. All good,” she answered, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Great,” he said, reaching for his beer and chugging the rest before placing the glass a little rougher than necessary on the table. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

She didn’t let herself wince until he turned his back and walked away.

***

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The thing about sealing yourself off from the possibility of liking someone—or God forbid, falling in love with someone—is that when your heart suddenly starts feeling something real, you don’t know what the hell to do about it, because you haven’t had much practice falling for someone. But Brooks was learning quickly that if the object of your affection seemed disinterested in your attention—or worse, is taken by someone else—it stings like hell.

“Shit,” murmured Brooks, taking a deep breath of brackish air and walking along the docks away from the restaurant, away from Skye, headed nowhere.

She wasn’t reaching out to him or trying to get closer to him by letting him share her room. Her purpose was practical, not personal, and certainly not romantic. She needed him well rested for tomorrow’s sail, and that was it.

For God’s sake, she has a boyfriend, Brooks!

And yet, the disappointment that he felt was worse than he could have anticipated clued him into something important: he was past the point of deciding whether or not he
should
have feelings for Skye. He already had them.