It was seven the next morning when a car pulled up next to Luca’s van with luggage for Mr. Theodore Wishart: three smart, monogrammed cases driven all the way out from New York City in their very own car. How the one percent lived!
Luca wondered who’d packed them. Did Wishart have a boyfriend at home? Some metrosexual hipster who drank kale smoothies and rode a skateboard? Was that why he’d been all up in Luca’s face? Hell, maybe he’d been wrong and the guy had a wife. Or a maid. No—he smiled to himself—a valet. Yeah, someone as uptight as Theodore Wishart would have a valet to iron his impeccable shirts and style his sleek hair.
Not that Luca cared whether he had a boyfriend. He had zero interest in the snooty bastard with his stuck-up accent and unfathomable expression. Wishart hadn’t even had the balls to look him in the eye when he was trying to sell his aspirational branding crap. Probably because he knew it was bullshit, and that made him a liar.
Jude was kidding herself inviting him here, thinking she could somehow convince him to refurbish the Majestic instead of demolishing it. Make him fall in love with the place, she’d implored him. Make him fall in love with it and he won’t be able to tear her down. But even if it were possible—and Wishart was definitely the sort to prefer golf courses over wild beaches—what would it achieve? No matter what Wishart thought, Lux Properties was never going to refurbish an old place like the Majestic. It would cost a fortune and companies like Lux were only interested in profit. Luca had told Jude as much—even Don had agreed—but she wouldn’t listen. If there’s a chance I can leave her in the hands of someone who loves her, then I’ll take it.
That, he knew, had been aimed at him. But he hadn’t risen to the bait—that argument was long over.
Grumbling at the stupidity of it all, he slung the smallest of Wishart’s bags over his shoulder, grabbed the larger two in each hand, and started trudging up to the third floor. Jude had given Theo the Whitman suite, the largest in the hotel and the honeymoon suite back in the day. If she wanted to impress him, she was on the right track; the view was to die for and if Wishart hadn’t been stunned by the sunrise this morning then he had no damn soul. A possibility Luca hadn’t yet ruled out.
He’d broken a sweat by the time he reached the third floor, and dropped the bags outside Wishart’s room with a grunt of relief. There were only three suites up here, and neither of the other two was occupied, so Wishart had the whole floor to himself. Luca rapped on the door, taking no pains to be quiet despite the early hour. No answer. He knocked again and was about to try a third time when the door opened and Theodore Wishart stood there blinking at him. He’d clearly just gotten out of bed. Rumpled shirt half untucked, feet bare, and hair all smooshed on one side: he looked disheveled, undone, and totally unlike the city slicker Luca had met yesterday. In fact, he looked rather lost, as if he didn’t want to be there any more than Luca wanted him there, and for a moment he felt a flicker of empathy for the guy; Wishart was only doing his job after all. But the emotion was short lived, snuffed out when Wishart stepped back with a haughty nod, indicating that Luca should haul his luggage inside like the help.
Only loyalty to Jude kept him from leaving Wishart to deal with his own damn bags. Instead, with a glare, he picked them up and dumped them unceremoniously at the foot of the wide bed. All the pillows had been piled together in a messy heap, a person-shaped dip in the center of the mattress suggesting where Wishart must have slept. Bed hog, Luca noted. Typical.
“Uh...?” At the sound of Wishart’s voice Luca turned to find him hovering by the door, gaze averted as per usual. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Luca said it with exactly as much enthusiasm as he felt. “Have a nice day.”
He started to leave, but Wishart lurched forward with his hand outstretched, giving Luca’s abs a glancing blow. “What the—?”
Wishart recoiled with a frustrated tut, five bucks clutched in his fingers: a tip? Luca got tips around the hotel all the time when he was helping Jude out. It had never bothered him before, but the thought of Wishart offering him money... He retreated a step, lifting his hands in refusal. “Just doing you a solid, man. That’s how things work around here.”
Wishart frowned, crumpling the bill in his fist. “I see. My mistake.” A faint flush returned to his cheeks, a couple of unruly dark curls tumbling forward over his forehead. He pushed them back irritably.
He was quite appealing when he was disheveled. Which was annoying.
But Wishart was also at a loss for words, and that was fine by Luca—he had no desire to make small talk, either. “See you around,” he said, and strode out the door.
As it closed behind him, he heard Wishart growl, “I bloody well hope not.”
The feeling was decidedly mutual.
* * *
Theo perched on the edge of his bed, sleep-mussed and embarrassed by yet another awkward encounter with Luca Moretti.
How the hell was he supposed to know not to tip? Didn’t you always tip people who carried your luggage? He kicked grumpily at a suitcase, which wasn’t smart in bare feet, and flopped back on the bed. Staring at the ceiling, he called Miranda.
“Hey, boss,” she answered right away. “Your luggage arrive okay?”
“Just got here. Thanks for doing that.”
“You should thank me!” Her voice sounded light over the phone, comforting. “Digging through your underwear drawer goes above and beyond, dude.”
He grimaced at the thought. “Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s fine. At least you don’t keep your porn stash in there.”
“I don’t have a porn stash.”
“Uh-huh,” Miranda said. “Guess you won’t need any with the delectable Luca hanging around the hotel. Have you seen him in his Speedo yet?”
“No.” A betraying flush heated his cheeks and he was glad Miranda wasn’t there to notice. Running his fingers through his hair, Theo turned his head to stare out the window where the sun was now high above the horizon. One advantage of his restless night’s sleep was being awake to watch the spectacular sunrise. “I did accidentally just punch him in the stomach while trying to tip him, though.”
“You tried to tip him?”
“I gathered it was wrong.”
A small hiss of breath came down the line. “His mom owns the place, Theo.”
“He’d carried all my bags up two flights of stairs!”
“Did you apologize?”
He thought back, uncertain. “Maybe?”
Miranda gave a soft groan. “Okay, never mind. What’s important now is showing Jude Brennan you understand the hotel and the way of life in New Milton. So, you know, you’ve got to get out there and embrace it.”
He nodded, let his arm flop down on the bed. “I was thinking of asking to see her running cost—”
“Nope.”
“Nope?”
“Theo—Look, I’m gonna be blunt: do not under any circumstances ask to see her accounts. Or, frankly, anything on a spreadsheet. Okay?”
“But...” He sat up and stared out over the ocean, glittering in the bright morning sun. “How else will I understand the place?”
A long pause, then, “I packed your swim shorts.”
“I don’t own—”
“You do now. I packed them, and what you need to do is get down to the beach. New Milton is all about the beach, Theo. It’s a surfing town. The ocean, the beach—it’s a way of life for these people, a philosophy even. And that’s what Jude needs you to understand.”
He stood up, paced anxiously to the window. “Miranda, I can’t surf. Not in a million years. You know I can’t.”
“God, no. Don’t even try. Just—paddle. Walk along the shore. Pick up a shell or two.” She huffed down the phone. “Look, you know you have to, right? You know this isn’t about understanding the Majestic’s accounts.”
And he did know that, of course. If this was about money he could have taken his father’s advice, thrown another ten grand on the table yesterday, and slept in his own bed last night. He sighed. “Yeah, I know.”
“And you can do it,” Miranda said softly. “I have faith in you.”
“Pretty sure Luca Moretti thinks I’m an arsehole.”
“Yeah? Maybe he’s the asshole. Besides, don’t be so sure—you’re more winning than you think.”
Which wouldn’t be hard, but he appreciated the cheerleading. “Any tips?”
“Just the usual three, boss: eye contact, eye contact, eye contact.”
He sighed. It was always bloody eye contact.
* * *
When Luca wasn’t helping out around the hotel, or working at the Surf Hut, he put in some shifts as a lifeguard. He often picked up work lifeguarding when he was on the road, and always when he visited New Milton, and this morning he found himself sharing the chair with Ashna Kohli, a premed student at NYMC, also home for the summer. He’d known her since she was a gangly high school kid, but now she was a beautiful young woman whose long legs drew the eyes of half the boys on the beach.
“Gonna be a busy one,” she said, pulling her ball cap lower over her eyes and handing him a chilled bottle of water. Ashna was big on hydration in the heat.
The beach was already filling up with families, the skies clear and an offshore breeze snapping at sunshades and umbrellas. After the still of the day before, the surf was up and Luca watched the surfers out beyond the breakers with envy. He couldn’t wait for his shift to end so he could get out there, too. But the higher surf caused problems closer to shore, with more people in the water and liable to drift into the rip current at the center of the bay. Not to mention idiot surfers coming in too close and city folk, unfamiliar with the power of the ocean, getting grated against the sand. Ashna was right: it was going to be a busy one.
He kept his eyes moving, scanning the water for signs of trouble or distress, his mind turning over the problems at the Majestic. Jude wanted him to come back, which was the root of their conflict. She wanted him to run the hotel and fund her and Don’s retirement in Miami. Well, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And yet the thought of Wishart getting hold of the old place...
“C’mon, Luca, dish.” He glanced over to find Ashna watching him from beneath the bill of her cap. She looked away, back to the water. “You’ve been huffing and puffing all morning.”
“Just thinking.” He reached for his water bottle. “My mom wants to sell the Majestic.”
Ashna stared. “No way.”
“Yeah. To some dork who wants to turn it into a golf resort.”
“Really? That’d blow.”
“Tell me about it. But this guy’s all—” he adopted a parody of Wishart’s British accent “—‘We’ll leverage the Callaghan bounce for aspirational branding’ blah, blah.”
“No idea what that even means,” Ashna said, taking a swig of her water. “But what about you? Could you buy them out or something? Run it yourself.”
“No chance.”
“Why not?” Her gaze was still on the water, but he saw her back stiffen as she sat up straight. “You love the old place. You’d be great.”
He shook his head, following her gaze to where it had fixed along the beach to his left. “Even if I had the money, which I don’t, I could never go back there for good. Too much water under the—You see that?”
“Uh-huh.”
There was a guy in the water flailing around with a bodyboard like he’d never seen a wave before, each one sending him stumbling. “Is he drunk?”
“Maybe.” Ashna lifted her binoculars and took a closer look. “Whatever’s up, the dude’s all over the place.”
“I’ll go check it out,” Luca said, standing up on the step. “Damn—it’s barely midday. Who’s drunk at this time?”
Ashna snorted. “Have you ever been to an ER?”
He conceded the point, jumped down from the chair, and headed out over the hot sand toward the guy floundering in the water. Halfway there, he watched a large wave building—realized the guy hadn’t noticed—and winced when it broke right over him. Luca had dubbed the experience being washing-machined, the way a wave tumbled you down and over until you didn’t know which way was up. He broke into a run when the cheap bodyboard scooted up the beach ahead of the wave with its owner nowhere in sight. The guy wasn’t likely to be in any danger, but if he was drunk, or if he’d hit one of the submerged rocks on this part of the beach—
As Luca ran into the water, the man surfaced, went under as if his legs had given way, and breached the surface again, flailing and gasping. By then Luca was close enough to grab his arm and haul him, coughing and spluttering, to his feet.
“Easy, man,” he said. “You’re—Whoa!”
It was Theodore Wishart, hair in his face and looking like he was trying to hock up a lung. When their eyes locked, Wishart’s widened in horror and he yanked his arm free. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you’re peachy.”
“I’m—” Another wave hit them, Wishart stumbled forward, and Luca had to grab him again to keep him on his feet. “Fuck,” Wishart hissed, slapping the surface of the water with his palm. “Fuck.”
“Hey, man, relax.”
Wishart scowled, pushed the hair out of his eyes, and started wading unsteadily toward shore. Luca followed, not letting go of his arm. In a low voice, he said, “Listen, have you had a drink? Because, I gotta say, swimming under the influence is a crappy idea.”
Wishart tore his arm free, furious. “I’m not drunk,” he choked out. “I’m fine.”
Irritated, Luca lifted his hands in surrender. The water was shallow enough now that the waves only washed around their knees. “Hey, buddy, most people say ‘thank you’ when a lifeguard pulls them out of the water.”
“Well, I didn’t need your help!” spluttered Wishart, angry spots of color in his cheeks. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not a...a child who needs rescuing.” With that, he stomped out of the water, hobbled across the band of shingle gathered above the tide line, and carried on up the beach without bothering to collect his bodyboard sloshing about in the shallows. Luca picked it up for him, keeping an eye on Wishart’s retreating back while he headed over to the lifeguard station. He couldn’t be certain because there’d been seawater streaming out of the guy’s nose, and his eyes had been red from the salt, but for a moment Luca thought he’d seen tears in Wishart’s eyes. Weird.
“Okay?” Ashna called as Luca leaned the cheap bodyboard up against his surfboard—it had a freakin’ flamingo on it.
“Uh, I don’t know. That was—” He squinted after Wishart. “That was the asshole from the property developer. Theodore Wishart. Mom’s making him stay at the Majestic to get to know the place.”
“Theodore Wishart? Nice name.” Ashna twisted around in the chair to take a look. “Ha! Guy walks like a freaking duck.”
He did, a little: an ungainly trudge up the beach, radiating fury with every step. Unfortunately it didn’t detract from the cuteness of his ass, and Luca found his gaze lingering there and then drifting up to consider the man’s narrow hips and slender back, remembering the feel of smooth, warm skin under his hand.
A towel hit him in the face. “Hey! When you’ve finished ogling the skinny white guy, you wanna get back to work?”
“I wasn’t ogling.”
Ashna gave him a flat look. “Uh-huh.”
“I wasn’t! He’s the enemy, for crying out loud.”
She snorted, turning her attention back to the ocean. “An enemy you’d like to bang.”
“Shut up. He’s an ungrateful limey bastard.” Luca took one more look, saw Wishart closing in on the steps leading up the cliff to the hotel, and sighed. “But he’s an ungrateful limey bastard with a nice ass.”
“You’re the worst,” Ashna laughed.
He was afraid she might be right.