Bidding on Brooks: The Winslow Brothers #1 (7 page)

“And what precisely are you supposed to do for two freaking years? Sit at home with your legs locked, acting like a nun? Nuh-uh. Nope.” Clay paused and Skye waited for his voice to fill the silence of her car again. “Tell me this, honey…did you
like
kissing Brooks?”

Skye took a deep breath, remembering the firm pressure of his lips on hers, the satin touch of his tongue, the way her nipples had hardened and her skin had ached for more of his touch. “Yes.”

“Then do it again,” said Clay gently. “You’re not married to Pat. You’re not even engaged.”

“But we’re in a relationship.”

“Really? Because it seems to me he left you for two years. Sorry to be the homo harbinger of ghastly news, but that doesn’t scream ‘commitment’ in my book.”

Skye pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She had to admit that she’d been having very similar feelings lately where Pat was concerned. It
didn’t
feel like they had much of a commitment, or much of a relationship, for that matter.

But Brooks? Forasmuch as Skye had lusted after Brooks for years, she’d never actually allowed her mind to wander to a place of
being
with him, and she had no idea of what that looked like. For one thing, Brooks had a different girlfriend every time she saw him, and Skye wasn’t exactly someone who had recreational sex. Not to mention, Brooks was her father’s most lucrative account, and she didn’t want any awkwardness between them. Getting entangled with Brooks—even casually, not that she knew how to do casual—had the potential of getting very messy.

“Okay, so maybe Pat isn’t being a model boyfriend right now…but I think Brooks is, well, a player.”

“Mmm. A girl can hope.”

“Hope? No, I—”

“Tell me what’s wrong with some hot, sweaty, ex-Olympian, casual sex?”

Skye gasped, her mind overloading with the image of Brooks looming over her, his body hard, hot and sweaty as they…

“What? No! I-I don’t—”

“Skye? Just breathe,” said Clay, laughing lightly at the sudden panic in her voice. “Okay. I tell you what…take sex off the table. Just let him kiss you again. See what happens.”

“You’re counseling me to cheat.”

“I’m counseling you to keep your options open,” Clay scolded softly. “And don’t be so hella serious. Have a little fun.”

A little fun. Hmm.

It
had
been fun kissing Brooks…until it wasn’t—until her conscience had ripped her a new one. And anyway, she highly doubted Brooks would ever touch her again. She’d been so upset with him, so aghast by his actions, he’d been resolute when he said he’d never lay a hand on her ever again. She couldn’t imagine a scenario wherein he made another move on her. Which meant that if she ever wanted to kiss him again, it would most likely be up to her to make a move on him.

And
that
would never happen.

She sighed.

“Honey, it’s closing time. I have to go. You call me again, though. I
need
to know what happens!”

“Thanks, Clay,” said Skye, “I will.”

As she hung up, she wondered about the gray lines that had seemed so black and white to her just a few minutes ago. Skye had always considered cheating a hanging sin—the worst of the worst. She’d seen the way her mother’s pre-California affair had decimated her parents’ marriage. And when her father had discovered that his wife’s failed career as a singer had prompted her to take a job with an LA escort service? His pride had suffered a terrible blow. When he found out, they were still technically married, but faced with her multiple and ongoing infidelities, her father had initiated divorce proceedings immediately. That’s when Skye had realized that he’d held onto the thin hope that her mother, Shelley, would someday come home. Her father had hardened after that—all pictures of her mother had been boxed and taken to the garage, her clothes given to Goodwill and most traces of her removed from their house. It was how Skye knew that her father’s heart had been shattered.

Skye’s definition of cheating, as a result, had always been conservative, strict, and firm. So why did it feel so much more tenuous suddenly? It wasn’t just Clay’s advice, which felt so tempting, but her frustrating relationship with Pat and brutal attraction to Brooks. She
wanted
to kiss him again. She wanted to do
more
than kiss him.

So, break up with Pat
, her conscience urged.
Break up with Pat and you can do whatever you want with Brooks.

Except she wasn’t scheduled to talk to Pat again for another four weeks, and there were still months before their visit if she wanted to break up with him in person. She could send him a text, but that rash action begged the question: was she ready to break up with Pat?

The answer came swiftly…No.

Between her profession and intense interest in sailing, not to mention her total lack of feminine wiles, Skye hadn’t had a lot of romantic opportunities. When Pat had asked her out, it had meant the world to her. There was a security in being his girlfriend. She had a standing weekend date, someone to sail with, someone to have dinner with and sometimes, when one of them slept over, someone to fall asleep with and wake up next to. Before meeting Pat, she’d been lonely, married to the marina, and—aside from the occasional date for dinner with her cousin or her pop—very much on her own. She wasn’t ready to give up the comfort and security offered to her by being Pat’s girlfriend.

“Well, that’s that,” she said firmly in the dark silence of the car. “You want Pat. Your decision’s made. No more kissing Brooks. In fact, no more Brooks at all.”

She nodded once to her reflection in the dashboard glass, promising that she’d call Brooks tomorrow and explain that she was no longer able to go with him for the weeklong. He would understand. After what happened, she was positive he wouldn’t pressure her, and she hoped that over time their friendship would find its footing again.

Her decision made, she waited for a feeling of righteous relief to overtake her, but as the miles flew by, it didn’t. As she pulled into her driveway an hour later, all she felt was heavy-hearted.

As Brooks parked his car at the Sorenson Marina on Wednesday afternoon, he waffled between feeling excited to see Skye again, worried that she’d refuse to sail with him and irritated that he’d brought this situation down on himself in the first place. He’d checked with Jessica and his bank to confirm that Skye hadn’t used his credit card to pay for her bid before leaving the hotel on Saturday night. She’d run away from him, and the gala, without looking back…and if she didn’t pay by Friday, Felicity would be contacted and offered the win. Brooks groaned as he checked his reflection, opened his door and slammed it behind him.

He went over the plan in his head again.

First line of attack? Promises and reassurances.

Second? Groveling.

Last? His lips twitched. His last-ditch attempt to convince her had the potential of being a hole in one, but he wasn’t crazy about the conditions. He crossed his fingers that reassurances and groveling would be enough.

Added to the general anxiety of the situation? A picture of Brooks and Skye dancing had appeared on the website of
Celeb!
magazine on Monday morning, with a short description of the gala, auction, and the excitement of Skye’s winning bid.  The caption under the photo? “Newly-minted lovebirds, ex-Olympian, Brooks Winslow, and his charming, but mysterious, partner, Skye Sorenson, trip the lights fantastic! Stay tuned as this romance-on-the-high-seas unfolds exclusively with
Celeb!
!”

He could only imagine what Skye had felt when she’d seen it. Since she hadn’t called or texted him over the last three days, despite his two voicemails apologizing to her, he assumed it hadn’t been good. And yet Brooks had stared at the photo many times, gazing at her lovely face, which tilted up, smiling at his. The delicate curve of her neck haunted him and as his eyes dropped to her breasts, pressed against his tuxedo shirt, he could almost feel the sensation of her stiff nipples brushing against his chest. The expression on his face bothered him, too—an open, bewildered mixture of lust and captivation. It made every moment with her rush back in startling detail: how she felt in his arms, how it had felt to kiss her, how much he’d wanted it, and how much he wanted it to happen again.

No. No, no, no. Promises and reassurances, Brooks, starting with this one:
We’re just friends and I will never make a pass at you ever again.

He took a deep breath as he opened the door to the marina shop, and walked over to the counter to chat with Jack.

“Hey there, Brooks,” said Jack with a tight smile.

Jack Sorenson was second-generation Swedish and his body—tall, thick, and muscular—sometimes reminded Brooks of the legendary Vikings. His shock of shaggy, blond hair, the same color as Skye’s, only added to the illusion.

“Jack. Good to see you.” He offered the older man his hand, noticing Jack’s expression and wondering if Skye had confided the details of their short episode on the hotel patio. Mortified at the thought, he felt color creep into his cheeks. “Cutter come in yet?”

“Yep. Got her moored at dock five.”

Dock five where Skye watches the sunset.
Brooks didn’t know what made the fleeting thought slip into his mind, but it distracted him for a moment as he imagined her blonde hair made golden by the setting sun.

Jack was looking at him strangely when Brooks blinked and re-focused on him.

“You taking her out tonight?”

“No, sir. I’m just here to see the Cutter.”

“Yeah,” said Jack slowly. “That’s what I meant.”

Brooks shifted gears as quickly as he could. “The Cutter! Yes. Yes, I am—I’m taking
her
out. The boat.”

Jack tilted his head to the side, looking at Brooks thoughtfully before pursing his lips and crossing his beefy, tattooed arms over his chest. “It’s none of my business and she’d kill me for saying anything…but I’m her father and I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t speak up. Skye’s a good girl, Brooks.”

“Yes, sir.” Brooks tightened his jaw, wondering how much of his “social life” had been witnessed by Jack Sorenson over the years. Jack’s expression indicated that he’d seen quite a bit and didn’t at all approve.

“She’s not racy or fast. She’s a
nice
girl.”
Unlike the ones you bring around here from time to time.

“I know she is,” Brooks said seriously, meeting Jack’s eyes.

Skye’s father nodded, looking away as though uncomfortable and reaching under the counter for the key to the Cutter’s cabin. He held it firmly in his hand as he spoke again, “She’ll make you a good crew, but…”

“Jack,” Brooks heard himself saying. “I have no designs on Skye. We’re just friends.”
The older man nodded again, a good deal of the tension leaving his face as he handed the keys over to Brooks. “Glad to hear that.”

“Guess I’ll go see the Cutter,” Brooks said, bobbing his head in farewell before heading out the door that led to the docks.

Brooks wasn’t sure if he should be insulted by Jack’s words, but they sure didn’t make him feel very good. From an outsider’s perspective, Brooks knew how he looked—a rich playboy who occasionally got his rocks off with escorts on his yacht. It was, admittedly, disgusting when seen through that lens alone. Only Brooks knew that his use of escorts was a means of protection, to eliminate any possibility that his sexual needs would land him in trouble or hurt someone else.

It didn’t matter that Brooks hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Skye since Saturday, fairly assaulted by the power of his dreams every night. Brooks had engineered his whole life to
avoid
any meaningful romantic relationships that could lead to the emotional devastation he and his siblings had endured when his father had suddenly died. He had zero interest in any romantic attachment—
frankly, it was stone cold terrifying to him
—and even if Brooks occasionally engaged in casual/social sex with someone from the club, he knew that Skye wasn’t the sort of woman he should pursue for casual sex. She was strong, yes, but Brooks sensed an innocence about her that made her seem more vulnerable than other women. He felt protective of her. Hell, he’d have no problem pummeling the man who used her and walked away, leaving her hurt and disappointed. Skye deserved better than that. Better than him.

She
had
better than that, Brooks reminded himself. While Brooks didn’t necessarily love Patrick, he was, in fact, Skye’s boyfriend, and had been for quite some time. Aside from the fact that Brooks wasn’t in the market for a relationship of any kind, he certainly had no interest in messing up her relationship with Pat, especially when he couldn’t offer her something equally substantial in return. The truth was that Brooks had nothing to offer her but friendship and the opportunity to skipper an antique Cutter. Kissing her had definitely sent a wrong—and incredibly unfair—message.

More than regretful, he was deeply ashamed of his behavior at the ball. When he thought of Skye in her beautiful dress in the moonlight, poetry pouring from her lips, her eyes wide and luminous, he wasn’t sure he could’ve stopped himself from kissing her even if he’d wanted to, but he was still furious that he’d let his cock overrule his character. It wasn’t like him, and he needed to understand why he’d given into his urges so it wouldn’t happen again.

There had been other conditions at play that had weakened him, he’d reasoned and resolved. He’d been shocked by her transformation, check. He’d been drinking, check. He’d been so grateful for the way she swooped in at the last minute and saved him from Felicity Atwell, check. He reminded himself that she’d be back to her greasy-fingered, overall-ed self on the weeklong, eliminating any temptation. But just to be sure, he’d forbid himself even a sip of alcohol and thank God she wouldn’t need to save him from anyone. He wouldn’t touch her. It simply wouldn’t happen again.

He’d do his best to erase the image of her stunning beauty as she walked down the center aisle of the ballroom: the pleased twinkle in her dark blue eyes when he mouthed “Wow,” the way her breath hitched when he jumped off the stage and approached her, the way her breasts had puckered against his chest as they danced, the low, hypnotic sound of her voice telling him that the wind and water were in his blood, the way she’d felt and tasted in his arms… Yes, he’d erase it all. He would. He
had
to.

Because he still needed her help. If she wouldn’t crew for him, Jessica was obligated to offer Brooks and his cruise to Felicity, and he shivered when he recalled the wet, chilly unpleasantness of her saliva drying on his ear. He cringed as he made his way down the gangplank, heading for his new boat moored at dock five.

As he passed dock seven, his steps slowed until he stopped, distracted by half a dozen Optimists tied to the end of the dock, and the six little faces that looked up at their instructor. Their instructor who, for once in her life—
goddamnit!
—wasn’t wearing overalls and a scrubby baseball cap.

Brooks didn’t mean to stand there and ogle, but today she was wearing denim cut-off shorts and a yellow polo shirt that was an almost-perfect match to the single braid that ran down her back. Her legs were long and tan, her ass a work of art, and her feet were bare. Staring at her ankles for an extra minute, he realized that she was wearing a thin silver anklet on the left one, and for no good reason at all, that narrow strip of silver made his breath quicken and he clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath.

He couldn’t explain why he found it so sexy, except that Skye had seemed almost androgynous to Brooks for so long, this tiny concession to her femininity was a reminder of the woman he’d kissed on Saturday, and therefore, erotic to him on a level that was at once intense and ridiculous. But his whole body tightened as he imagined her ankles locked around his back with that fine chain digging in his skin, sounds from the back of her throat deep and—

“Uh…Brooks?”

He shook his head, swallowing, and focusing his eyes on Skye, who was staring at him as her students giggled behind her in their little boats.

Had she said his name more than once? From her slightly annoyed, slightly curious expression, he guessed she had. Damn it. He’d been so prepared to act like he was totally unaffected by Saturday night, and here he was, sabotaging himself before even saying a word to her.

Trying to recover, despite the uncomfortable flush in his cheeks, he raised his hand, taking a few steps down the dock toward the little group, like they were his destination all along. “Hey, Skye. Hi, kids! Having a lesson?”

Skye’s brows furrowed and she gave him a deadpan look that passed just as well for,
No, we’re having a tea party.
She turned back to her students with her hands on her hips. “Do you all know who this is?”

One little girl with blonde ponytails nodded gravely. “That’s Brooks Winslow. He won the ‘Limpics.”

“He didn’t win it, dummy,” said a little boy. “He only came in third.”

Skye turned back around and grinned at Brooks in wide-eyed surprise, on the verge of laughing.

“Third still medaled,” mumbled Brooks.

“Oh, yeah?” said the kid from his bathtub of a sailboat. “Well, it sure wasn’t first.”

The other children nodded, humming variations of “Mm-hm.”

“Third’s just third,” offered another mournfully.

“Like last.”

“They didn’t play ‘The Star Spankled Banner.’ They played some other song.”

“Yeah,” said the little boy, narrowing his eyes at Brooks in challenge. “Third.”

He may as well have spat the word “poop” for all that he respected Brooks’ bronze medal.

“Well, I don’t see any medals around
your
neck,” pointed out Brooks, standing beside Skye with his hands on his hips, and wondering how much pressure it would take on the bow to capsize the kid.

“You can bet when I win my medal, it’ll be gold,” said the little boy and the other children nodded in enthusiasm and support.

“You did your best,” said the little girl with the ponytails, shrugging with sympathy.

“Geez!” Brooks turned to Skye, incredulous. “I give up! Tough crowd!”

She was laughing silently, her eyes sparkling with tears of mirth, and he suddenly he felt his own chest rumble with laughter, looking down at the crew of pipsqueaks who looked back and forth at Skye and Brooks in confusion.

“Weirdest lesson ever,” lamented one of them, and Skye lost it, turning to Brooks and dropping her head to his shoulder as she erupted in gales of laughter.

And yes, Brooks laughed right along with her, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t affected by her forehead on his shoulder, a wisp of her blonde hair tickling his ear, the smell of coconut sun tan lotion an unexpected aphrodisiac.

His laughter faded as he looked down at her head, reminding himself that he couldn’t have her, remembering his promise not to touch her again, and took a sudden step away from her. Without his shoulder for support, she lurched forward, falling into him, and while Brooks’ arms reached out instinctively to steady her, she’d already barreled into him, her weight setting him off-balance. And
oh my God,
the dock was simply too narrow for a graceful recovery.