Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“You should wear sunscreen.”
“I know,” I say as I turn from the controls again, “but it’s easy to forget at three-thirty in the morning, when you’re stumbling out of the bathroom with your eyes barely open.”
He considers me for a beat before he says, “You’re an impressive, hardworking person, Sully.”
My mouth twitches at the nickname. I like it on his lips. I like the friendly look in his eye, too, even if it does mean the steamy part of our relationship is over.
But that’s for the best. Even if he didn’t sleep with my mother, there’s a lot of bad blood between our families and he’s still a Tripp. He’s also on his way out of town as soon as possible. It’s obvious that he hates it here. The few glimpses I’ve caught of Weaver around Sea Breeze in the past two days, he’s looked miserable, his permanent scowl enough to dull even his striking good looks.
“Thanks, but not really,” I say. “All harvesters get up early. Our outfit gets up a little earlier because Gramps is hardcore, but it’s just part of the job.”
“A job you love?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, ignoring the soft voice niggling at the back of my brain, insisting “love” is too strong a word. I love the sense of community and being my grandfather’s right-hand woman, but if I’d had more options, this probably isn’t the career I would have chosen.
But I didn’t have options—Gramps needed me here—so there’s no point thinking about that.
“I like being part of a legacy,” I continue. “Sullivans have been out on this water for over two hundred years. That feels pretty special.”
He cocks his head. “You feel pride in your family.”
“Yeah, don’t you? The Tripps have been around just as long. And you’ve made a lot more money.” I sweep my arm out to one side, encompassing the yacht bearing us smoothly northward.
This thing had to cost at least a million dollars, if not more, and according to Mark, his father has another one just like it down in South Carolina, docked at their vacation home.
“Maybe I should,” Weaver says, rising from his seat and crossing to stand beside me at the wheel. He gazes out over the choppy water, churning beneath the clear blue sky. The hurricane passed by far enough out to sea that we didn’t get much rain, but the ocean still shows signs of the recent storm. “Where are we headed?”
“I thought Saint Mary, right before you reach Canadian water,” I say. “They’ll have room to dock a larger boat and it’s big enough we can disappear into the city and not be spotted by anyone we know.”
“Perfect.” He pulls his cell from his pocket. “I’ll make a reservation for two. Any preferences on the restaurant? I was thinking French but I can look for something else if you’d like.”
“French is good,” I say, not wanting to tell him that I’ve never had French food before. I mean, I’ve had French onion soup down at the Moose Club—they always serve that and a side salad with the prime rib on Friday nights—but I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of French he’s talking about.
Even more than the difference in our ages, the difference in our backgrounds and social status is something that makes this feel…a little strange. If we were actually dating, I’d be nervous all the time, afraid I was going to make a fool of myself by not knowing all the rich person rules.
I’m rough around the edges for a girl, even by Sea Breeze standards, let alone to a swanky New York investment banker. (And yes, I did an internet search on Weaver. I couldn’t help myself. I also couldn’t find much on the man. He’s as private and reserved online as he is in person.)
“But we don’t have to get lunch,” I say, wanting to give him an out if he’d rather head for home now that we’ve had our talk. “That’s all I really wanted to know.”
He turns to me, the clean, fresh scent of his cologne stronger now that he’s so close. It makes me want to lean into his neck and inhale. I love the way he smells, like a fancy hotel lobby and something masculine and raw that makes my mouth water a little. “You wanted to know if I’d slept with your mother?”
I force a tight smile. “Yep, that’s about it. I was just wondering how grossed out about the other night I should actually be.”
“Is that all?” He angles even closer, bracing his hand on the console behind me, until he’s looming over me in a way that makes me feel unusually small.
I’m tall and broad through the shoulders for a woman. I’m strong and tough and can count the times I’ve felt “dainty” on one hand. Hell, on one finger. The first and only time was the other night, when Weaver pulled me up the mattress, showing off the unusually large muscles he keeps concealed under his well-fitted suits and dress shirts.