My plan to avoid sibling contact until I’ve calmed the fuck down lasts roughly nineteen seconds after I get home from meeting the woman of my goddamn dreams.
That’s Chelsea, in case it wasn’t obvious.
And that’s Bree, my pain-in-the-ass sister, banging on the door of my cabin just as I’ve dropped into an oversized leather chair and popped open a can of grape soda.
“What?” I ask, soda can gripped in one hand.
I’ve cracked the door only a few inches, but my sister shoves her way inside like a curly-haired bulldog and marches right past me. Even in her high-heeled shoes, she barely comes up to the middle of my ribcage.
“We have a meeting,” she announces, grabbing the soda can from my hand and taking a slug. She makes a face. “How can you drink this stuff? It’s pure sugar.”
I snatch the can back. “What meeting?”
She rolls her eyes. “The pre-meeting for tomorrow’s meeting of the entire resort ownership team. Remember? Jonathan is flying in?”
Crap. She’s right; all four of us who live on-site—me, Bree, Sean, and James—plus our brother Jonathan, who’s been halfway around the globe doing God knows what with some humanitarian group, we’re set to have some sort of annual review. It’s the first time in ages that the core of Bracelyn sibs will be under one roof, and Bree’s been talking about it for weeks.
An uneasiness settles in my belly as I think about sitting down with all those pedigreed half-sibs with their dark hair and eerie green eyes.
“Who the fuck has pre-meetings?” I ask. “Isn’t one meeting enough?”
More than enough, actually. I love my brothers and sister, but holy hell, what is it with them and meetings?
Bree sighs, but she’s not really annoyed. She’s only here to quiz me about Chelsea anyway, but I might as well make her work for it.
She leans against the wall and grabs my soda again. “Jonathan hasn’t been here since before we opened.” She takes another slug of soda and makes a face. “Hell, James is the only one who’s seen him recently, and that was just to sign all the legal paperwork saying we could run his share of the resort however we want.”
I consider opening a can of soda just for her, but I’d rather not prolong this discussion. I’m not a fan of conversations about the awkward family dynamic. All of us—Bree, Sean, Jon, James, and God knows how many other Bracelyn progeny are out there running around—have different mothers, and most of us grew up in different states. I was raised right here in Oregon, the only kid to somehow avoid getting hauled off to some snobby boarding school.
That’s not the only thing that separates me from the rest of the bastard Bracelyn clan, but I digress.
“Come on, Mark,” she says. “You’re part of this family and a member of the leadership team. We need you.”
Something knots up tight in my gut, and it’s not because I’m needed. That’s the part I like, the part that leaves me feeling like I have a place in this whole crazy plan to turn Dad’s ranch into a luxury resort.
You’re part of this family.
I grab the soda can and gulp until I don’t hear Bree’s words anymore. “I’ll be there in five.”
“Great.” She grins and leans back against the wall. “So, how was she?”
Gotta appreciate that my sister’s not even pretending there wasn’t an ulterior motive behind her cupcake errand. She’s been on me for months to meet the owner of the cupcake shop. Blame my sweet tooth for the fact that I caved.
“She’s nice.”
Nice.
Bree’s not the only one who knows what a bullshit answer that is. Nice is for tepid water and saltine crackers. Not for stunning brunettes with fiery streaks in her hair and clear blue eyes and freckles like sprinkles of cocoa powder on her nose. God, those eyes. And that mouth. And—
“Hello? Earth to Mark.” Bree frowns. “You did remember to order the cupcakes, right?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “She’ll have them ready for you to grab on Friday.”
“Oh.” My sister frowns. “You’re not picking them up for me?”
There. That’s my opening. My chance to see Chelsea again.
But no, that’s a bad idea. Like a bull in a china shop—or a toddler in a cupcake shop—I’ll just make a mess of things. Besides, she’s got a kid. I know damn well how messed up it is for a kid to bounce between his dad and his mom’s “man friends” with no real certainty who’s staying or going and who the hell that makes you in the grand scheme of things.
I might have issues, as Bree would say.
“Come on,” I tell her now. “Let’s go to the pre-meeting.”
She watches my face for a moment, then grabs back my soda can and polishes it off. When she sets the empty can on my counter, determination glints in her eyes. “We’re not done here.”
I close my eyes and sigh, pretty sure she’s right.
It’s nearly eight-thirty by the time I make it back to my cabin.
It’s both a blessing and a curse having a brother who’s a Michelin-starred chef. A curse, because every meeting turns into a three-hour, six-course dinner party.
A blessing because it’s fucking delicious.
And because I love my family. I do, even though I don’t always show it. Even though I’m not sure I belong.
I kick my boots off by the door and head for the fridge. I shouldn’t still be hungry, but it takes a lot of calories to fuel someone my size. Besides, I haven’t stopped thinking about those cupcakes all night.
Fine. Fine, it’s Chelsea I haven’t stopped thinking about, but I’ll take the cupcakes if I can’t have her.
You can have her. You caught the vibes coming off of her back there.
It’s not a matter of interest. I’m not stupid; I can tell when a woman’s into me. True, her interest has a sweet, warm quality, while mine might trend more toward nuclear energy. Either way, the chemistry’s there.
But no. That’s a dangerous path to start down, the single mom thing. I could pick up the phone right now and call my own mom if I wanted a reminder of that.
Mistress to a millionaire—okay, gazillionaire—my mom bore zero resemblance to Cort Bracelyn’s other wives. That’s probably why she never became one, content to turn down his marriage proposals while raising me mostly on her own.
I’ve wondered sometimes if that’s what kept him hanging around. The fact that my mother left him wanting, that he stuck around waiting for her to say yes—is that what made me the only Bracelyn kid who got dear ol’ dad in his life on the regular?
Or maybe it was proximity, the fact that he liked coming out to his vanity ranch in Oregon. Maybe that’s why he sometimes did normal dad stuff like showing up for Little League games and even the occasional dinner while my brothers and sister got fat checks and tiny scraps of time during their boarding school breaks.
Shaking off the grim thoughts, I open the bakery box and pull out three cupcakes. One with pale yellow frosting that I fear might be lemon—not my favorite—but that turns out to be pineapple. That, and something chocolate, plus another with pink frosting and a fresh raspberry in the center. I slide them all onto a plate and start to close the lid when I notice the card.
At first I think it’s just a business card—one shaped like a cupcake, but a business card nonetheless. Then I spot handwriting on the back.
Mark,
Would love to hear how you like the caramelized pineapple, it’s a new flavor.
That’s followed by a tiny heart and her name. Below that is a phone number. I flip the card to see the digits are different from the ones on the front, which means she’s given me her personal number.
Don’t do it. Don’t call. Don’t fuck this up.
But I’m already dialing.
She picks up on the second ring sounding breathless and cheerful. “Hello?”
I hesitate. I could hang up now, pretend it was a wrong number or something.
But my big, dumb heart forces the words into my throat without consulting the rest of me.
“Chelsea,” I say. “It’s Mark. Mark Bracelyn.”