heads collided.
I was thirty years old before I had a decent first date. It was with a single mother who was a couple years older. Just as jaded as I was, her because of her divorce, me because I’d never been good at dating. We traded horror stories, laughed ourselves sick, and I moved in with her and her kids six months later.
Lived with them for two years, hearing I love you, but I’m never getting married again.
Turned out, that meant I don’t love you as much as you love me.
All four of my sisters are married. Living the dream, with kids and laughter and the good times and the bad times. Settled. Happy.
Is it so wrong to want that kind of life for myself now? I gave twenty years to Uncle Sam. Now I want some years for me.
Becca and I part in the parking lot. “Call you later,” I tell her, though I think we both know I probably won’t call her later.
Whoa, hotties in the sand volleyball pit, my nuts offer when I slump down onto the beach.
I look closer, realize the skimpy bikini crowd is probably just barely legal, and I take off for a walk on the shore while thunderclouds threaten to move in from the south.
I stroll past the condo I’m housesitting on the beach and break into a jog. My baby brother, who plays pro hockey, knows people. People with money who need nurseries re-done and beach houses babysat, though I have this suspicion he’s actually playing older brother to me right now.
Arranging a place on the beach for me to chill at for the first six months after my time in the military. Introducing me to people who know people who need renovations done so that my business can take off.
Maybe he knows rich women who need a lube job, my nuts offer.
I tell them to shut the fuck up and ramp my jog into a full-on run. Might not be an active Marine anymore, but that doesn’t mean I let myself get soft.
And I need to work out some feelings.
Fucking feelings.
Dating Becca was supposed to be about not having feelings.
Not feelings that could get hurt, anyway.
My sisters will undoubtedly tell me that’s why it was doomed, but I like to think there’s a woman out there somewhere who wants a companion with regular sex, but not the all-encompassing, obsessive, rainbows and chocolate flowers love that leads to heartbreak when it’s over.
After a while, I turn around and head back. I’m almost breathing normally again when I hit my front door. Becca’s long gone.
Probably off to see whoever it is she’s dating.
“Mr. Westley Jaeger?” a guy in a suit asks as I trudge up the stairs of my temporary home. “Wonder West Construction?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Dudes in suits don’t normally track me down. “Yeah?”
“Stanley Chihuahua. I represent Mrs. Imogen Carter and the Carter family. There’s an issue with Julienne Carter-Roderick’s will, and I need you to please come with me.”
Julienne Carter-Roderick. Judgy Julie. What the hell? “What kind of issue?”
“Just a small note. I’m sure we can clear it up quickly.”
“If she’s saying I still owe her work because of that statue—”
“No, sir. All’s well. Relatively speaking. You’ve been named as…well. Considering the sensitive nature of a will of this size and the relative fame of the recently deceased, I’d prefer to speak in private.”
“You couldn’t send a letter?” I don’t know shit about legal stuff beyond what my commander suggested I do for my own will back when I was a gunnery sergeant, but this feels off.
“There’s a time factor involved. You can follow me in your own vehicle if you wish.”
“To where?”
“Daisy Carter-Kincaid’s house in Bluewater on Key Biscayne, sir.”
Daisy Carter-Kincaid.
I know that name.
Why do I—aw, hell.
Daisy Carter-Kincaid is a rich party girl. Which probably means my baby brother—the hockey star who runs in high-profile social groups—is punking me.
Or coming through with that rich girl who needs a lube job! my nuts cheer.
They’re hopeless.
“Daisy Carter-Kincaid’s house,” I repeat.
“Yes, sir.”
I gesture him toward the row of beach houses. My baby brother knows things. And I’m pretty sure he’s tricking me into going to a party.
Bring it on. “My truck’s parked down the way. Let me get it, and I’ll follow you.”
Three
West
On the drive out to Key Biscayne, all the traffic lights turn green for me, nobody flips me off or cuts me off, the guard at the private Bluewater community entrance gate on Tiki