Brothers of Paradise Series

He shakes his head. “That you made something out of yourself. That you’re not going to become your father. That you were dealt a pretty shit hand of cards and you’re standing tall. A fucking homeowner. My nephew’s a homeowner. Not even your grandfather could say that.”

I don’t know what to say. His praise is sudden and unexpected, so much more than when I graduated from military college. He’d flown in then to see me, standing in one of the back rows, sunglasses glinting in the sun.

“You were dealt a pretty shit hand of cards, too,” I say. “You were given a sullen and ungrateful seven-year-old and you decided to take him with you.”

“Of course I did, kid.”

“Not everyone would have made the same decision,” I say. The words are hard to say-I have to force them out-but they’re important. It’s important that he knows this. “I didn’t become rich on my own. You helped that happen.”

He runs a hand along his neck, staring at the table. “Nah. You did that all on your own.”

“Absolutely not. I know how much I owe you, Gary.”

“You don’t owe me a damn thing.”

“Will you let me say thank you?”

He sighs. “Fine. Go ahead, boy.”

“I don’t know if I’m going to live in Paradise Shores. I don’t know what lies in store in my future. But I do know that the house here is too big for just me. There’s a spare wing with a guest bedroom and a kitchenette.”

His eyes narrow at me, but I keep going, ignoring the look he shoots me. I know I have to phrase this offer right-and I only have one shot.

“You can’t live in the Marchands’ beach house after you retire. I don’t know what your plans are, but if you want it, the house is yours to use.”

He shakes his head but says nothing. I wonder if it feels too much like a handout-like the kind of charity I’d been to the Marchands.

“There’s a large garage and toolshed that needs to be filled, and I don’t have the time.”

“Hmm.”

“I could use someone to look after the plants.”

Gary looks out across the ocean for a long time. I wonder if it’s as much a part of him now as it is of me. He grew up inland, far away from the coast, from boats and marinas and the sound of seagulls. But somehow, it’s become home for the both of us.

“Someone to mow the lawn,” he says finally.

“Exactly. I won’t have the time.”

He reaches over and offers me his hand. There’s a glint in his eyes I haven’t seen before, and belatedly, I realize they’re glazed with tears. I shake his hand.

“I accept, kid.”

Hayden

The drive to Lily’s house that evening doesn’t take long. The streets of Paradise Shores feel as familiar to me now as they did when I left, structured and ordered, winding around a central square. Turning up on Ocean Drive to the boardwalk, the cafés, the marina in the distance. Knowing that the Marchand house is on the far north of Ocean Drive, Lily’s cottage to the south.

The sun hangs low by the horizon and the ocean glitters with an orange hue. For the first time in a long while, my shoulders don’t feel quite so tense. Gary had accepted my offer without much hesitation. And Lily had, while maybe not forgiven me entirely, accepted me back into her life.

I park outside her house and smile as I open the gate. It’s still perfectly oiled and functioning. There are a few shingles on the roof that need to be changed too-I saw that from the start-but I know I have to start small.

Lily opens the door before I can knock. There’s an apron around her waist, her cheeks pink and blooming with heat.

“Hi.”

“Hello.” I bend and press a soft kiss to her lips. The happiness in her eyes nearly undoes me, knowing how much I’ve missed it, how close I was to losing it forever. “What’s that amazing smell?”

“Do you like it?” She dances over to the kitchen. A large pot is on the stove. “I’m trying to make bouillabaisse.”

“The French seafood stew?”

“Yes. Remember?”

“I do. It’s amazing.” I follow her, standing close enough that I can smell the fresh scent of shampoo clinging to her auburn hair. It’s braided along her back. I’m struck again by an image of it wrapped around my hand as she’s bent, as she moans- I cut off that line of thinking. I’d decided to take things slow. I couldn’t afford to mess this up again.

“The one your mom used to make.”

“The very one.” She stirs the pot, leaning back against my chest. “I think you liked it growing up, unless you were faking.”

“I wasn’t. Don’t you know I’d never fake?”

Lily laughs. I run my fingertips up her bare arms and watch as goose bumps follow my touch.

“Neither do I,” she says.

I brush a kiss against her neck and try to ignore the arousal her words produce. “I remember.”

“The stew can handle being on its own for a bit.” She turns in my arms, pressing the soft length of her body against mine. For a few minutes nothing else exists but the feel of her soft lips. I make my touch lazy, sweeping my hands slowly over her back, her hips, her shoulders. Savoring every inch of her.

Lily’s the one who touches her tongue to mine first, and I can’t help but smile at the intrusion. She’s always hated being treated as if she couldn’t keep up. My decision the other night must have felt like we were children again.

I slide my hands down and cup her bottom. It’s easy to push her closer against me, against the hardness that’s making it hard for me to think rationally. It always has been, where she’s concerned.

Lily chuckles and starts to kiss my neck. “You really can’t fake anything with me.”

“Not that.”

She slides her hand down and traces a finger along the bulge in my pants. It’s already straining against the fabric and I hiss at the feeling of her nail, softly tracing the length.

“All this could be solved so easily, you know,” she murmurs. “You know I’m willing.”

“Mhm.” I grab her wrist and pull it away from my groin, not without some difficulty. It’s almost painful how hard her words make me. Wrapping my hands around her waist, I turn her back to the stove. “The stew is boiling.”

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I smile against her hair and watch as she stirs. It’s funny how right everything feels when she’s in my arms. My fears and problems fall away, the past and the future too. As long as she’s by my side, everything feels possible.

We eat by candlelight at her kitchen table. The food is delicious, and I tell her so, even going in for seconds. There’s laughter in her warm eyes when I reach for another piece of bread, ready to dunk it in the stew.