by Nina Lindsey
More like a full weekend, but if it were up to his mother, he’d be engaged before he left San Francisco on Sunday night. Some of the women would have the same idea—not because of him, but because of his family. When you were the eldest son of the founder of the Intellix Corporation, a multinational computer technology company, people tended to notice that first.
In some ways, that was a good thing. He’d learned early on to figure out who wanted something from him, which made it easier to weed out the few real friends he’d had. But over the years, his guard had gotten thicker and heavier, reinforced by his parents and then by the woman he’d expected to marry.
“I’ll be there,” he assured his brother. “But I take no responsibility for Mom’s actions.”
“Dude, Mom doesn’t even take responsibility for her actions.” Nathan laughed. “That’s why she’s Queen Busybody. The wedding stuff has her anxiety about you kicked up to level eleven. You were supposed to be married first. And what, you’re pushing forty now?”
“I’m thirty-five, dickwad.”
“Tick tock, man. When Alice was showing Mom her wedding gown choices last year, she said Mom was worried that if you ever get married at your age, there’s no way your bride will be able to wear white.”
“For fuck’s sake. Is Alice wearing white?”
“My bride is an angel. Of course she’s wearing white.”
“You are so whipped.”
“Like cream, bro. Being whipped is underestimated. You should try it sometime.”
“How about I just come to your wedding and keep the peace?”
“That’ll do, pig.”
A grin tugged at Grant’s mouth as he hung up the phone. His little brother had been the one reason he’d second-guessed his decision to leave both his family and San Francisco. But after years of trying to toe the family line had culminated in his disastrous relationship with Vivian and an excess of his mother’s interference, his instinct to start over—to do what he wanted, instead of what everyone else wanted—had taken precedence.
But his family was still his family. He no longer cared about disappointing his parents, but not for anything would he let his brother down. He’d suck it up and get through the gauntlet of eligible women his mother was lining up for him.
Too bad he didn’t have a girlfriend he could bring along. A plus one buffer who’d also take care of the seating snafu.
Unless…
He glanced at the clock, grabbed a hoodie from the back of a chair, and headed outside. He hurried toward Starfish Avenue, where a mid-afternoon crowd was going in and out of shops and cafés. Turning on to Dandelion Street, he approached the courtyard where the Sugar Joy bakery was located.
Rory was helping a guy who stood beside the counter. Impatiently, Grant stopped to wait.
“Regular or decaf?” She grabbed a mug and looked at the guy expectantly.
“What kind is it?” he asked.
“Dark or light.”
“I mean, the dark. Is it Columbian, French Roast, what?”
Barely rolling her eyes, she picked up the bag of coffee and studied the label. “Arabian Mocha-Java. Full-bodied with complex overtones.”
“Can I have a sample?”
Rory flicked her gaze to Grant. He shrugged. He’d dealt with more pretentious assholes than he could remember.
She poured coffee into a cup and handed it to the guy. He took a sip, swished it around his mouth, and nodded. “Okay, give me a large.”
“A large it is.” She poured the coffee and rang up the purchase. “Thanks a bunch, sir.”
Only she could make a thank-you sound like, “Now fuck off.”
After the customer took his cup to a table, Rory lifted an eyebrow at Grant.
“Got any single-origin, semi-aged, organic Sulawesi-Kalosi?” he asked.
She rubbed her cheek with her middle finger.
Grant grinned. “Be grateful he didn’t order wine. I could tell you stories.”
“I’ll bet you could.”
“Why’d you leave so fast last night?”
“You noticed?” She crossed her arms and tilted her chin. “I thought you were too busy chatting up Madeline Fox to notice anything or anyone else.”
“I’m an excellent multitasker.”
“Multitasking leads to mistakes and shoddy work. You should try focusing instead.” She turned to pick up an empty baking tray. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I need to talk to you.” He let his gaze slip to her ass, which looked round and perfect in frayed denim shorts with the little bow of her apron tied right at her lower back. As usual, he also appreciated the shape of her long legs and the contrast of her scuffed leather boots.
“So talk,” she said.
“You off soon?”
“Wow, this talk requires me to get off? I’m intrigued.” Rory glanced at the clock. “Ten minutes.”
“I’ll wait.”
Maybe he could convince himself not to think about Rory getting off. Or him getting Rory off.
Christ. Heat pooled in his groin.
He backed away, fumbling to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. Of course he’d noticed Rory since she came back to Bliss Cove. He wouldn’t be a living, breathing male if he hadn’t. With her long black hair, pale skin and thick-lashed dark eyes, she’d caught his attention the second she’d first come into the Mousehole. And yeah, he often admired her body in worn jeans or ragged shorts and a seemingly endless supply of T-shirts displaying a computer pun or the logo of a classic rock or reggae artist.
When they’d first met, he’d appreciated her on a purely male level while also experiencing a tug deep inside, an urge to make her smile. But after their initial encounter, Rory had quickly proven to be a pain in his ass. She was glued to technology, she had the diet of a frat boy, she bitched at him every chance she got, and she attracted too damned much attention when she was sitting at the bar.
Grant eyed her as she stood on her toes to put a box on a shelf. She moved with swift economy, like she didn’t want to waste any energy. Her tie-dyed shirt rode up, exposing the pale skin of her lower back.
He shifted, crossing his ankle over his thigh. She was an irritant, like a pebble in his shoe. He couldn’t help noticing her.
Although, unlike a pebble, she was sometimes kind of entertaining, and she had an incongruity that he found intriguing—computer geek and sexy renegade rolled into one. He could see her slouched at her computer in a Bob Marley T-shirt and knee socks, backtracking algorithms and generating permutations. Did she wear glasses?
What the…
This was a bad idea. Why would he think she—
“Okay, I’m done.” She appeared at his side, her apron off and a ratty black backpack slung over one shoulder. “What do we need to talk about?”
“Come on.” He stood, jerking his thumb to the door. “I’m going over to the harbor to check on the day’s catch.”
“Fresh air and sunshine?”
“I’ll protect you.” He held the door open for her and they started down the street.
“So what’s this about?” She glanced at him. “You never want to talk to me.”
“I always talk to you.”
“But you don’t want to.”
“Who says?” He shot her an affronted look. “You’re the one who comes in bitching about everything from the uncomfortable booth to the singing fish.”
“That booth by the fire is uncomfortable, and the singing fish is a travesty.”
“Good thing it’s not your tavern.”
“Is that what you want to talk about? My distaste in your decorating choices?”
“Are you still looking for a place to stay?”
Wariness flickered over her expression. “Why?”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“You can stay in the cottage at the Mousehole.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”
“That’s what
I need to talk to you about.” Stopping, he turned to face her. He should’ve figured out how to word this. She’d either be offended or think it was a joke. “My brother is getting married this weekend. He’s five years younger than me, which only reinforces the fact that our parents expected me to get married first. So, of course, my mother is lining up a bunch of single women for me to meet.”
“Seriously?” Her mouth twisted. “Like a haram or a slave auction? Sounds like a dream.”
“They’ll all be women from the right families, good social connections, that kind of thing. But part of the reason I left the Bay Area was to get away from set-ups like that. I don’t want to deal with it for an entire weekend, but I have to go to the wedding. I’d also like to be happy that I’m there for my brother. So if I show up with a girlfriend, I’ll get my mother off my back, I won’t have to entertain a harem, and everyone will be happy. I might even have a good time.”
“You want me to be your plus one.”
That was another thing he appreciated about her. She always got to the core of what you were saying. No need to mess around.
“Just for a weekend,” he explained as they continued walking toward the harbor. “The wedding is on Saturday and my mother always has other stuff planned, so we’ll drive up Friday, stay a couple of nights, and come back Sunday afternoon. Done.”
“And I get the cottage rent-free until after Thanksgiving?”
“Yes.” He almost held his breath. It was a perfect plan. She was totally different from the women he’d dated before, so that would prove he really had no intention of returning to the fold. No one, not even his mother, would expect him to entertain other women if he was with his girlfriend.
“Okay.” Rory hitched her backpack farther up her shoulder.
Grant blinked. “Okay?”
“Okay.” She shrugged and crossed her arms. “Linda can take my shifts at the bakery, and Mom won’t mind if I take a weekend off. In fact, she’ll be thrilled. I’ll go to the wedding with you.”
“That’s…that’s great.” A surge of relief filled him, strong enough to be surprising.
“My lease expires on Thursday,” she reminded him.
“I’ll get the cottage ready, and I can come help you move.” Belatedly, he thought he’d need to figure out where the keys were. “You want a contract?”
She extended a hand. He gripped her fingers, recalling the press of her knuckles against his chest. She had a good, solid handshake. Her palm was warm against his.
Pulling her hand away, she kept walking. “When can I move in?”
“I just need a couple of days to clean the place up.” He stopped and lifted a hand to the dockworker who was hauling in the crates of fish and crab. “Hey, Jim. Got any salmon?”
“Set aside some for you.” He nodded to a bin by the side of the dock. “How much you want?”
“Ten pounds.”
“Give me a second, and I’ll wrap it up.” Jim disappeared into a warehouse.
Rory was looking out at the ocean. The water sparkled with sunlight. Seagulls coursed across the blue sky and pecked at scraps on the dock. Farther down the beach, music and noise rose from the boardwalk and carnival.
She turned, catching him staring at her. A current crackled in the air between them before she pulled her phone from her pocket.
“So what do I need to know?” Leaning her elbows on the dock railing, she unlocked the screen.
“First that you need to put that thing away.” He walked to stand beside her.
“I’m taking notes. It’ll be suspicious if I don’t know the basics, right?”
“I don’t see much of my family, so it won’t be a surprise if my girlfriend doesn’t know everything about me.”
He felt her glance. “What’s the story there?”
Grant flexed his fingers against the railing. “My father wanted me to go into the family business, so to speak.”
“Let me guess. He’s not a restaurateur.”
“No.” He tightened his grip on the railing. He’d always liked the way Rory looked at him—with amusement, exasperation, irritation, fire. He didn’t want her to look at him differently just because his father owned a monolithic tech company. He sure as hell didn’t want her treating him any differently.
“So you’re the black sheep?” she asked.
“I’m the disappointment. Nathan is the good one. He’s a company VP and a genuinely nice guy. Our parents always expected us to work for the company. I don’t think Nathan ever imagined doing anything else.”
A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Nathan is your brother’s name?”
He nodded. He could almost hear the pieces clicking together in her sharp brain.
“And you’re Grant Tay…oh!” She thunked her palm against her forehead. “You’re Edward Taylor’s son. Nathan is your brother. I’ve read articles about your family. Nathan must have been the one to donate all that money to the Mariposa Renovation Fund…how did I not make the connection before now?”
“Because no one would expect Edward Taylor’s son to own a small-town tavern. Not even you.”
“Still, I should have figured it out.” She shook her head, her ponytail swinging. “No wonder your father wanted you to go into the family business. And no wonder you didn’t want to.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, if you wanted to cook and own a restaurant, that doesn’t seem very compatible with application software and mainframe databases.”
“In my family, it wasn’t.” He shrugged. “I never wanted to work for Intellix. Never wanted to have the kind of marriage my mother and other people wanted for me either.”
“Did you have to pick between your life and theirs?”
“I guess so. It wasn’t so dramatic that my parents threatened to disown me or anything. I still see them sometimes and keep in touch. But my mother is still trying to get me to change my mind, and my father just uses the opportunity to remind me I’m the bad son.” He shook his head in self-disparagement. “Not that I feel sorry for myself. I’m doing what I want, and obviously I love my parents and brother. We just get along better at a distance.”
Admiration sparked in her eyes. “Good for you for figuring that out.”
His chest unknotted. Edward Taylor was a big name in the tech industry, but Rory seemed surprised rather than shocked and impressed by the fact that he was Grant’s father. Even though she didn’t know all the details of his estrangement from his family, she didn’t think he was an asshole for walking away from them.
“You still want to go through with this?” He gestured between them.
“Sure.” She shot him a grin. “Pretending to be Grant Taylor’s girlfriend will be the most interesting thing I’ve done in ages.”
He laughed. “Wait until the wedding. Interesting won’t be the word for it.”
Chapter 3
Rory flopped down on her mattress and pulled a pillow over her tired eyes. She’d gotten the contract job done, but she’d had to work to concentrate. Thoughts of Grant kept slithering into her mind, as they’d been doing since they’d made their agreement two nights ago.
The whole “be my girlfriend” proposal had been far less of a surprise than the revelation of his pedigree. If someone had told her months ago that Grant Taylor, technophobe, nutrition-police owner of the Mousehole, was actually Grant Taylor, heir to the Intellix Corporation, she’d have laughed until she cried.
But there had been no mistaking the wariness in his tone when he’d told her the truth, or the undercurrent of things left unspoken. Though he might have had a life of privilege, no one was exempt from the pain of rejection—especially by one’s family.
It was the polar opposite of her own home life and her parents’ unending support of whatever path she and her sisters chose. When her sister Aria had suggested in high school that she might want to become a circus acrobat, Eleanor Prescott had signed her up for gymnastics. When Rory had shown an early interest in comput
ers, Gordon Prescott had checked out a bunch of “introduction to coding” books at the library and read them with her in place of bedtime stories.
Of course, Callie had been such an exemplary oldest child—brilliant student, perfectionist, successful overachiever following in their father’s footsteps—that Rory was pretty sure she and Aria could have done anything except land in prison to make their parents happy and proud.
Poor Grant.
Okay, not “poor Grant.” He’d made his choice. He was doing what he wanted to do. She wasn’t going to get all squishy just because he’d confided in her. He’d had to tell her the truth so they could pull off this fake relationship successfully. Maybe that was the reason he’d asked her—his parents would probably approve of him dating a computer geek.
Faint tension threaded her chest. She pressed the pillow harder against her eyes. It didn’t really matter why Grant had asked her and not, say, Madeline Fox. The important thing was that she was getting a place to stay, and she’d have plenty of time to get organized and ready for her move back to San Jose.
A banging sound ricocheted through the room. She pulled her head out from beneath the pillow. Who the hell was knocking at the crack of dawn?
“Go away!”
The knock came louder, like a battering ram. Probably the manager coming to evict her. Maybe even the police. Bang. Knock. Bang. What was he using, a sledgehammer?
With a groan, she shoved off the mattress and stumbled to the door, pushing her hair away from her face.
“What?” Snarling, she yanked open the door, lifting a hand to block the sharp bite of the sun.
A large male figure darkened her doorstep, his face cast in shadows and the sun glowing behind him like an aura or a nimbus or whatever those holy things were.
“You said you have to be out of here by noon.”
The familiar deep voice penetrated Rory’s fatigued brain. She squinted, making out Grant’s green eyes glittering through the shadows.
“What the…what time is it?”
“Nine.”
“Nine? Why are you here so early?”
“Because moving usually takes a few hours.” He bent to pick up a stack of empty cardboard boxes and pushed past her.