Bidding on Brooks: The Winslow Brothers #1 (2 page)

Was he honestly wooing his friend to sail with him by selling her on the antique boat’s original bathroom? Why, yes. Yes, he was. He had resorted to the equivalent of sailboat seduction, because the thought of being trapped on a sailboat for a week with some privileged, stuck-up miss who had no respect for the art of sailing was unbearable.

“And one other thing,” he said, pushing one of two thick blonde braids off her shoulder and practically whispering in her ear. “Well, two, actually. Original Pitch Pine mast
aaaand
Douglas Fir boom…still…intact.”

At that, she whipped around, her eyes wide as she licked her lips and pursed them together. “Damn it, Brooks.”

He grinned at her. “Did I mention it’s for charity? Plus, you’d be doing a favor for a friend, which means I’d owe you one.”

“When would we lift anchor?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth in thought.

Brooks’ eyes flicked to her lips then lifted quickly. “Auction is this Saturday night. Cruise starts on Sunday the weekend after.”

“Two week round-trip?”

“One week,” said Brooks, forcing himself not to chuckle at the sudden change in her demeanor. “Flight home’s on me. I’m planning to stick around Charleston for a while and get the Cutter outfitted with new fixtures.”

“And you’ll pay me?” she reconfirmed. “Going rate for crew?”

“Absolutely.”

***

Skye paused, Patrick’s face flitting through her mind. Her boyfriend, Patrick Flaherty, was presently circumnavigating the globe on a maxi-catamaran and was on month four of the two-year journey. Skye planned to meet him in Mexico in August as one of three planned visits they’d agreed upon before he left.

Pat knew Brooks, of course. They were members of the same yacht club, about the same age, both exceptionally good looking and had competed against one another in local regattas many times. And though Skye had sensed a rivalry between them, especially on Pat’s side, he wouldn’t take issue with her helping Brooks out on such a short cruise, would he?

No, of course not. That would be ridiculous because she was Pat’s girlfriend, and regardless of how shamefully handsome Brooks was, he and Skye were just friends. For heaven’s sake, he’d just made it abundantly clear that he had no interest in romantic entanglements and didn’t even want to touch her for the sake of pictures.

All she and Brooks had in common was boats. And rationally, thinking of everything she could learn from a world-renowned sailor like Brooks, she’d be foolish to pass up the chance to watch him skipper up close for a week. Anyway, when Pat heard about the 1929 Cutter? He’d more than understand why she couldn’t turn down Brooks’ offer. Antique boats were the cheese to her mouse, and Pat knew it.

As though he knew what she was thinking, Brooks asked casually, “Hear anything from Pat lately?”

“I’m talking to him tonight,” she answered, ignoring a niggling feeling of guilt. “He’s in Panama.”

“Wow. He made it in four months. Not bad.”

Skye sniffed. “Speed was one of his priorities.”

“He crossing over land or via canal?”

“Canal…but he couldn’t guarantee four knots, so he’s being tugged tomorrow.”

Brooks grinned at this bit of information, and Skye frowned. The idea of Pat’s little thirty-foot boat being dragged along the famous canal by a tugboat somehow felt ridiculous, which made her feel defensive on Pat’s behalf.

“Pat’s a good sailor,” she said.

“No arguments here,” he said. “You don’t think he’ll mind, do you?”

“Mind?”

“You and me doing a weeklong while he’s away?”

“Don’t be silly!” she exclaimed too quickly as her cheeks flushed. “We’re just friends.”

“Exactly. I don’t even see you as a girl, really. Just an awesome sailor.”

Skye blinked at him, taken aback by his words and how off-handedly he’d shared them. Skye didn’t dress and act like a typical woman, but that didn’t change the fact that she
was
one. And though this information really shouldn’t have surprised her, and even further, she ought to have been pleased that he admired her for her nautical skills more than anything else, it pinched that he didn’t “see her as a girl.”

“Will they
let
another
man
bid on you?” she sniped back, turning around and stalking down the dock to
Dreamy Delight
.

“Oh, come on,” he said, his voice immediately taking on a sheepish tone as he realized he’d insulted her. She heard his footsteps behind her but didn’t stop until she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Hey! Skye, come on. I just meant that we’re not like that—we’re just friends, which actually means quite a lot to me.”

“Why’s that?” she asked without looking back at him, her ego still bruised.

“Because I don’t have that many female friends…and I definitely meant it when I said that you’re one of the best sailors I know. It’s true. You are.”

Skye turned around, surprised by his confession about not having many female friends because she’d never thought of Brooks Winslow as lacking much in his life. It made her soften toward him, even as she suddenly felt self-conscious about her dirty overalls, braided hair, and baseball cap.

“I get it. I’m flattered that you’d want me to go with you.”

“So you’ll do it? You’ll bid on me?”

The hopeful expression in his deep green eyes was her undoing, and she offered him a grudging smile.

“How much can I spend?”

“As much as it takes,” he said, grinning back at her.

“And one other thing,” she said, still smarting from the “I don’t even see you as a girl” comment and unable to resist an opportunity to prove to the world that a boat mechanic, the daughter of a marina owner, could manage a boat as pretty as the one Brooks was describing. Plus, it might be her one chance—her one opportunity—to ever call the shots on a boat like that. She may as well go for broke. “I get to skipper.”

Brooks’ smile faded a little. It was one thing for her to crew his boat, but the skipper of any maritime vessel called all of the shots. Maybe he wouldn’t want to give up that privilege.
How badly did he need her?
she wondered. Would he trust her to be in charge of such a sumptuous boat?

As his eyes narrowed, Skye worried for a moment that she’d overplayed her hand and was about to say “Just kidding” before he suddenly answered.

“Every other day you can skipper. We’ll switch off.”

She grinned broadly and nodded, sticking out her hand which he clasped in his.

“You just won yourself an auction.”

Although Westerly, the Winslow family estate in Haverford, Pennsylvania, technically still belonged to Brooks’ mother, he was the only Winslow in full-time residence this summer. As the eldest of five Winslow siblings, Brooks would inherit the sprawling estate one day, but the Winslows practiced an open-door policy when it came to any family member staying at the estate whenever they wanted, for as long as they wanted, which meant that Brooks’ siblings were constantly coming and going from the nine-bedroom, fourteen-thousand square foot mansion.

As he pulled into the circular driveway in front of the house, the front door opened and his little sister, and youngest sibling, Jessica, bounded down the stairs. She and her fiancé, Alex English were back in Philadelphia for the summer and although Jessica wasn’t living at Westerly—she was living with Alex in his downtown apartment—she was using Westerly as “Wedding Planning Central.”

“Brooks!” she exclaimed as his BMW convertible rolled to a stop.

“Hey Jess!” he greeted her, stepping out of the car and pulling her close for a hug.

There was an eleven year age difference between Brooks and Jessica, and after their father passed away many years ago, Brooks had stepped in as a surrogate father for her. In fact, he couldn’t be prouder to be walking his little sister down the aisle in three short months.

“How’s the wedding planning going?” he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders as they headed into the house.

“Divine! I finally got the caterer booked, and even though they refused—initially—to let Daisy English do the cake, I won them over.”

“With your charm?”

“With my wallet.” She shrugged, grinning at him.

Daisy was Alex’s sister-in-law and owned the most popular bakery in Haverford,
Daisy’s Delights
, but she was still making a name for herself with local caterers.

“It’s not like you could have used someone else,” said Brooks, knowing Jessica’s great love for her new family, who were—conveniently—lifelong friends and next-door neighbors of the Winslows.

“Unthinkable. Plus, Daisy’s cakes are really good.”

With Jessica still beside him, Brooks checked his watch, heading back to the kitchen to see if Mrs. Pugh, his housekeeper, had left something out for a late lunch.

“So, um,” said Jessica as they entered the kitchen and Brooks dropped his arm from her to open the refrigerator. “Are you still pissed at me?”

“Pissed?”

“About the auction?” Jessica hopped up on the kitchen counter, her face contrite when Brooks glanced in her direction.

“I’m still not thrilled,” he said, thinking,
It’s going to cost me a
lot
of money.

“I know. I should have asked first…but I was sure you’d say no.”

“Safe bet,” he confirmed, taking out a ham and brie sandwich wrapped up carefully on a plate.
God Bless Mrs. Pugh.
“By the way, I need an invite sent to the Sorenson Marina in Havre de Grace, Maryland.”

“You’re inviting a marina owner?” asked Jessica, furrowing her forehead.

“Yeah. They service my boats.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “I’m sure the marina people will be big-spenders.”

Brooks looked away from her to hide his smile. “You never know.”

“Well, you can comfort yourself that it’s for a good cause,” persisted Jessica.

“Uh-huh. So you’ve said. Though I still don’t understand why Preston, Cameron, and Christopher got off scot-free,” said Brooks, referring to his three younger brothers who were all as unattached as Brooks, yet spared the humiliation of being auctioned off “for a good cause.”

“Do you want an honest answer to that question?” asked Jess.

Brooks grabbed a can of Diet Coke and walked through a swinging door to the small round breakfast table in the morning room with Jess at his heels.

“No. Lie to me.”

“I’m serious,” said Jess. “If you want to know, I’ll tell you the truth.”

He sat down and placed a white linen napkin on his lap from the place-setting before him.
Hmm. Did he want the truth?
From Jessica’s tone, it might be loaded. Not entirely a stranger to his little sister’s attempts to “help” his love life now and then, he wondered if this was just another ploy to add to the pile…only one way to find out.

“Sure. Go for it.”

She took a deep breath then fixed him with her emerald-green eyes, her words coming out in a rush. “You’re thirty-five and you’re not married. You’re not even dating anyone. Aren’t you lonesome? You travel around the world training teams and reporting on races. You don’t have a real home. Don’t you want a wife and children? Don’t you want to settle down? I’m worried about you!”

Wasn’t this always the way?
he mused. People who were hit with the “true love stick” wanted everyone else around them to be whacked too.

“No need to worry,” he said, taking a big bite of his sandwich.

“You’re not thirty-five?”

“I am.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“I’m not.”

“Aren’t you lonesome?”

Brooks flicked his eyes to Jessica’s face before digging into his sandwich again, realizing that he didn’t have an easy answer for her.

Was he lonesome for companionship? No. He had plenty of friends—at the Penn alumnae club, at the hunt club, and at his yacht club down in Maryland, not to mention it was a rare day that he didn’t see Pres, Cam, or Chris.

Was he lonesome for female company? No, again. There were plenty of woman who were happy to ease that particular loneliness…for a fee. He used a discreet service that he called when his “needs” arose.

Was he lonesome for a wife and children? Did he want to settle down?

He glanced up at his little sister’s expectant face before looking away and taking another bite of his sandwich.

N—
Hmm
. He wanted to say “No” because saying “No” would be best. He even thought the simple word and envisioned it, but somehow his mind wouldn’t
say
it, which made his heart clench painfully.

Too busy for a love life by having the responsibility of male head-of-family thrust on him when he was seventeen, he’d missed out on college girlfriends, careful to spend his college weekends at home with his grieving younger siblings. And by the time his mother, Jessica, and Christopher had relocated to London, he was graduating from college and utterly devoted to training, conditioning, and racing to be a part of the Olympic sailing team. In 2000, that dream had come to fruition and Brooks medaled on behalf of the USA at the Summer Games in Australia, which had led to over a decade of promotional speaking, endorsement tours and judging races and regattas for major television networks. Although Brooks was home for the summer in preparation for Jessica’s wedding, he had an offer for a short-term consulting job in San Diego he was considering, and as soon as Jess was married, he’d set up TV, consulting, and judging gigs from October through Christmas.

A wife and children.

Brooks hid the wince he felt by taking another bite of his sandwich.

Truth be told? Deep, deep in his heart, he longed to fall in love, and he had always sort of dreamed—as one dreams of impossible things—of becoming a father. But, he’d kept himself from actualizing that dream because if he was honest, the idea also scared him stiff. He was thirty-five, and his own father had passed away from a totally unexpected heart attack at forty years old, leaving a widow and five fatherless children. Brooks had had an up-close seat to his mother’s grief and his siblings’ deep loss and confusion. He’d done his best to be a good big brother and substitute father, attending Jessica’s father-daughter events at school, and helping with Christopher and Cameron’s Boy Scout meetings whenever possible. Having a taste of fatherhood at such an early age hadn’t deterred Brooks from wanting his own children one day; it had just strengthened that desire in his heart.

But he couldn’t lie. In a very real way, he was frightened that if he allowed himself to fall in love and have children, he’d only end up abandoning them if he met his father’s tragic fate. And that wouldn’t just be heartbreaking, it would be irresponsible.

So it didn’t really matter what he wanted. What was best for him was to keep a wide circle of friends for companionship and seek out safe, anonymous encounters when he felt the need for a woman. But he kept his heart carefully guarded, off-limits, and impenetrable to love, so that he’d never find himself gasping on an early deathbed, leaving tear-stained faces behind.

Unwilling and unable to answer the uncomfortable question for Jessica in any simple manner, he defaulted, as he often did, to the stern tone of an older brother out of patience for his little sister’s shenanigans.

“I’m fine, Jess. I don’t require—or appreciate—your interference.”

She gave him a sour look, tilting her head to the side before resting her elbows on the table. “Well, I still haven’t answered
your
question, but now I will. I entered you in the auction because I’m hoping that if you get trapped on a sailboat for a week with a nice woman, you’ll let propinquity take over and fall in love.”

Brooks blinked at Jessica, quickly looking away before she saw him smirk at her outlandish suggestion.

He couldn’t help it…thinking about Skye’s shapeless body in men’s overalls, the filthy, omni-present grease-stained bandana sticking out of her back pocket, battered topsiders covered with dried sea salt, and a face largely hidden by the brim of a beat-up Orioles cap, he almost laughed. Like every other man on earth, Brooks had a favorite type: blonde, blue-eyed, and willowy with an ass and breasts that a man could hold onto in bed and legs that went on forever. He wanted the type of girl who made other men turn around and gawk with envy when she walked into a gala, who knew how to be feminine and graceful and still take care of a man’s needs without awakening his heart. He knew his type, and it
didn’t
include a certain marina mechanic who was more comfortable with a socket wrench than a champagne glass.

“Yeah, well. Good luck with that,” he said, grinning to himself that he’d somehow managed to foil Jessica’s matchmaker intentions.

She huffed. “I’m not giving up on you, Brooks.”

He took the last bite of sandwich and swallowed as he stared at his little sister. “You probably should…or at least trust me when I say that it’s not going to happen this time.”

Jessica rolled her eyes as she stood up, but she did that super annoying thing girls sometimes do: as she headed out of the room, she tossed over her shoulder in a knowing, sing-song voice, “Never say never, Brooks. Never say never.”

***

Whenever she could, Skye tried to catch the sunset over the marina. The way the oranges, golds, and purples colored the clouds, reflecting off the water and silhouetting the tall masts of sailboats was—hands down—the most beautiful thing in the world.

After Brooks left her, the bilge pump job had taken twice as long as she’d anticipated because it wasn’t a pump problem, but a wiring problem that had led to hours of testing the electrical board on the boat. Happily, it was now completed, and she’d saved the owners a couple of hundred dollars by not having to replace the pump. She’d done a good job, and per usual, she took a great deal of pleasure from a job well done.

As she watched the sky turn from blue to Technicolor, Skye thought about how much she liked working with and for her father. She’d learned about boats and their maintenance from the best, and although she’d grown up without the benefit of a mother, she felt certain that her father’s love and affection had more than compensated for her mother’s absence.

Her mother hadn’t loved the simple life of living by the water in Maryland, and had left for Los Angeles to be a singer when Skye was a little girl. If she hadn’t cheated on Skye’s father before leaving, Skye would have probably forgiven her mother for leaving, but she still remembered her father’s pain at learning of her mother’s betrayal. Though her mother had tried to explain the very tawdry adult situation to eight-year-old Skye before her flight to L.A., Skye had already sided with her father. Her relationship with her mother had suffered irreparable damage. Not to mention, her mother’s lifestyle once in L.A. was R-rated, at best, which meant that aside from a couple of visits to Maryland over the past twenty years, Skye had barely grown up with a mother at all.

“D’ja fix that pump, Skye?” asked her father, ambling down the dock where she sat, making it bob up and down. The pleasing sound of water lapping against the sides soothed her like a beloved lullaby.

“Sure did. Nothing wrong with the pump, Pop. Just a wiring problem.”

“Figures.” He grinned, taking a seat beside her and looking out at the dramatic sky. “Nice one tonight.”

“A beauty,” she agreed, pulling off her cap and taking the rubber bands out of her tight braids. She ran her fingers through her soft, blonde hair until it flowed past her shoulders in waves. “Hey, Pop. I took on a crewing job. Week after next. Sunday to Sunday.”

“With Brooks Winslow?” asked Jack Sorenson, giving his daughter a side glance.