My Playboy Crush: A Brother's Best Friend Romance

by Katerina Cole

  In the evenings, I turned to a Manhattan to keep me relaxed and in the zone, but in the mornings? It was all about the coffee. So I turned on my strappy Louboutin heel and walked into the coffee shop behind me. As soon as I passed through the door, I was wrapped in a wave of ice-cold air conditioning and I knew I’d made the right choice. I stepped up to the counter and smiled at the barista, a young girl with cropped blonde hair and what had to be a permanent Florida tan. I definitely envied her that—it was always a joke I made to my clients that they had to just take my word for the fact that I knew my yachts well, because with my pale skin it was probably a little hard to believe I’d ever spent much time in the sun. Still, I thought my creamy skin contrasted quite nicely with my long, sleek, dark brown hair and light green eyes. Jeff, my brother, always poked fun at me for it. He inherited our father’s golden tan and dirty blond hair, so he looked like the poster boy for yachting, whereas I looked more like someone who worked in an office somewhere and rarely saw the light of day. He was forever teasing me, prodding me to go get a spray tan or something. But that wasn’t me. I knew who I was and I was comfortable this way. As far as I was concerned, there was no need to change.

  Still, sometimes I wished I had that natural glow, too.

  “Hello. Welcome to the Java Jetty Café,” chirped the peppy barista. “What can I get started for you today?”

  “Hi, yeah, I’m going to need an iced coffee with a double shot of espresso,” I said.

  “Any special flavor? We have mocha, caramel, white chocolate, gingerbread, pumpkin spice, and raspberry,” she rattled off, her smile never wavering. I almost laughed.

  “Gingerbread? Really?” I asked, amused.

  She nodded cheerfully. “It’s seasonal for autumn,” she explained.

  I glanced back out at the blazing sunshine, the sparkling blue waters of the harbor visible through the wide window. “Doesn’t quite feel like autumn here to me,” I said, getting out my wallet. “Must be pushing eighty-five out there.”

  The barista shrugged. “It’s Fort Lauderdale. We don’t really get much of a fall. Or a winter. But the gingerbread flavor really is good if you want to try it.”

  I grinned. “Sure. Let’s do gingerbread.”

  “What size would you like?”

  I handed her my credit card and answered, “The largest size you have.”

  Once I had ordered my massive cup of iced coffee, I found a table by the big window and set up shop. I took out my tablet, my phone, and my notes on the seller I was supposed to meet in about an hour or so. I started scanning the bullet points I’d made a couple days back, taking down information from my brother about his specific preferences in regards to the yacht. He was, like our father before him, a shockingly picky guy for someone who could look at home on someone’s back deck grilling hotdogs and hamburgers.

  Jeff was a chameleon of sorts. He could look equally comfortable relaxing with a beer in his hand or seated at a table in the fanciest restaurant surrounded by billionaire businessmen. I wasn’t quite that flexible. My job was stressful, with long, weird hours and constant travel. I technically lived in Atlanta, Georgia, but I was on the road so often that it hardly felt like home when I was there. My apartment was sparse, decorated nicely but without a lot of personal character. Don’t get me wrong, I thrived on the stress of dealing in such a high-stakes market, but sometimes it did wear on me. I rarely slept more than a few hours a night, and bouncing from city to city made it pretty impossible to make and maintain a lot of friendships.

  And a romantic relationship? Well, that was pretty much off the table altogether.

  Just then, my phone rang. A FaceTime call. I quickly answered, “Yes?”

  “Jilly!” exclaimed my older brother. He was grinning. I sighed.

  “Hey, Jeff. What’s up?”

  “Just calling to check in on how the deal is going,” he said.

  He sounded out of breath, panting a little. There were trees behind him, the cry of seagulls in the background. I told him, “I haven’t even gotten to meet the guy yet. Be patient. Are you running or something?”

  “Jogging. Gotta stay in shape. I thought the meeting was at ten,” he said, moving the phone to show his running outfit. He was all sweaty. I grimaced.

  “Yeah. It’s nine-thirty. You’re in Monaco, still, right? So you’re in a different time zone,” I explained to him, rolling my eyes. “I’ll call you as soon as the meeting is done, okay?”

  “Can we just go over the notes one more time really quickly?” he asked.

  I groaned. “I need to prep for the meeting right now. I don’t have time.”

  “Come on, I just want to make sure all the details are right.”

  “I got it. All the info is correct. You just have to leave me alone and let me handle it. I have an MBA. I have experience. I know what I’m doing here, Jeff. Chill,” I told him.

  “What if the guy is a jerk? What’s his name again?” he pestered me.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I said slowly, “The owner’s name is blank. I don’t know who it is. But whoever he is, I can handle him.”

  “As long as you don’t let him handle you,” Jeff said pointedly. I frowned at him and he shrugged. “You know how some of these guys can be. They’re used to getting whatever they want, including whoever they want.”

  “I’ll be just fine, thanks,” I said, a little snippy. He gave me an apologetic smile.

  “Just looking out for my little sis,” he explained.

  “Uh huh. Well, do me a favor and look out for me a little less. Jeff, I really need to go.”

  “Aw, don’t be mad, Jilly,” he said plaintively.

  “I need to hang up. I’m in a cafe and I’m sure the other customers don’t want to listen to our sibling conversation, all right? I’ll see you when you get into town later. Don’t miss your flight,” I reminded him. He nodded and gave me a thumbs up.

  “Good luck, sis. Call me right after you’re done. I might be on the plane, but just leave a message if I don’t answer.”

  “Will do. Now, stop calling,” I said firmly, even as a smile crept over my lips.

  I hung up on him and sat back in my chair, rolling my eyes. Don’t let him ‘handle’ me. Who the hell did my brother think he was, insinuating something like that? I glanced down at the digital time on my phone screen and nearly jumped out of my seat. Too late to study my notes now. It was time to rush off to the meeting. I gathered up my things and, carrying my gigantic coffee, headed back out into the bright Florida sunshine.

  Three

  Bruin

  I wasn’t sure where I slipped from a comfortable dream into the waking world. For a while, I just let myself wallow in that space between sleeping and waking, only vaguely aware of where I was and with no idea of what time it was. All I knew was that I was comfortable, and my body felt relaxed.

  I wondered which bed I was in. Maybe the penthouse suite at the resort? Was I even still in Miami? No, that wasn’t right. I was in... Ft. Lauderdale. That was it.

  My hand slid over to my left while I tried to prop myself up on my right elbow, and I became aware of two things.

  The first was the warm skin of a woman in my bed. She squirmed in her sleep at my touch, breathing lightly. The second was the throbbing headache I felt that made me sink back down into the sheets. Memories of last night came flooding back to me. Well, most of them did. I remembered taking the girl home, and my body remembered the sex, vaguely.

  I looked over at the sleeping form beside me. My drunk self hadn’t done too bad, I figured, but I wouldn’t be holding her around for breakfast. The crying of seagulls outside was like an itch in my head thanks to the hangover, and I grumbled.

  Now I knew where I was—the master bedroom of the ship. I was on the Mirabella, one of my yachts.

  All my yachts had custom master state rooms that I personally managed the designs. The Mirabella’s was a gunmetal gray color scheme, with tile floors and a massive rug under the Californi
a king-size bed. Fine brown silk sheets covered the mattress, and the soft glow of an aquarium that took up the entire wall opposite the foot of the bed illuminated the room with blue.

  I was grateful for the blackout curtains I had drawn.

  The aquarium’s light illuminated shadows of my private gym just through a doorway on the right, and the bathroom was on the left. I saw a few towels strewn about, which made me suspect whatever fun I had with this chick last night involved either the shower or the bathtub.

  My survey was interrupted by the buzzing of my phone on the bedside table, and the rattling made me wince. I reached over and checked the screen.

  Fuck.

  It was my yacht broker, and if he was calling me this early in the morning, it must have meant there was some business to deal with. I was in no condition for business right now. I noticed a missed call icon on the screen and wondered how many times he’d tried me before now.

  I swung my legs over the bed and sat up slowly before answering the call.

  “Talk to me,” I groaned.

  “I was wondering what kind of night you’d had,” said Rob, my yacht broker. Years ago, he might have been testy, but he’d grown to work with my lifestyle. “Six missed calls, by the way, in case you’re wondering.”

  “That a record?” I said with a smile.

  “Not even close,” he said. “You still haven’t beaten the twelve after that bender in Tokyo.”

  “Oh God, Tokyo,” I moaned with a reminiscent sigh and a smile. “I still can’t touch sake anymore.”

  “Probably for the best,” Rob muttered before taking a breath. “Anyway, I’m guessing you had a fun night, but I wanted to call to make sure you’re not on the Mirabella,” he said pointedly. “Because like I told you four or five times yesterday, you’ve got a broker coming onboard a few minutes from now to tour the place, and she’s expecting it to be empty.”

  “Uh-huh, I remember,” I lied, jumping up and moving to the other side of the bed.

  “You’re not on the yacht, right?” he asked. He probably knew the answer.

  “Of course not,” I lied, and I ripped the sheets off the sleeping girl on the bed, who stirred and grunted in protest.

  I gave her bare ass a slap that made her wake up with a yelp. Covering the speaker of the phone, I said in a loud whisper, “Need you gone soon, hun. You can get some breakfast at Jerry’s on the dock and put it on the Kincaid tab. He knows me.”

  “Who’re you talking to?” Rob asked, and as the girl rolled her eyes and slipped out of bed to get dressed, I made my way into the bathroom.

  “A little company,” I said shortly. “Look, I’ve got to go, Rob. I’ll talk to you later, all right?”

  “The broker will be there any minute, Mr. Kincaid,” Rob said wearily.

  “I heard you the first time, Rob,” I said, and I ended the call. I could deal with an upset broker later. The headache was a much more present threat.

  I shut the bathroom door behind me just in time to hear the girl from last night starting to stir, and I hoped she didn’t expect me to show her the way out. I threw the shower on before getting out a few aspirin and popping them, looking at myself in the mirror.

  It was the same me as always, my dark hair mussed by the long night in bed and my blue eyes glaring back at me in the mirror, a little bloodshot. That would pass with the shower, though.

  I climbed into the shower and felt the hot water washing away the night’s sweat, sex, and booze, rippling down my tight abs and the V that pointed to my manhood, still at half-mast from waking up next to a woman.

  My body always wanted to go for another round first thing in the morning, but I almost never let myself do that. Too many strings attached where they didn’t need to be. I hoped that the Greek chick didn’t need to be told twice, though. Wouldn’t do to make it awkward. It wouldn’t have been the first time a one-night stand had awakened in one of my yacht suites and suddenly decided we were in love and going to get married.

  Turning my face, I let the hot water run through my hair as I ran a hand through it, breathing in the steaming, hot air. In the shower, the urgency of needing to get off the ship seemed to melt away. It did wonders for a hangover.

  I’d come to Ft. Lauderdale to sell this yacht. And I expected that deal to happen one way or another. I’d heard Rob mention that this broker was a she, though. I smiled up at the showerhead.

  Sure, the broker was expecting an empty yacht to do her work in peace. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t meet her when she got off the boat to sweeten the deal a little.

  I lathered my rock-hard body in soap and let the scent fill the bathroom. Maybe a personal touch was just what a deal for a ship like the Mirabella needed. While I was rinsing off, I heard the door handle click, and I turned to see the girl’s dark eyes and plaintive face peering in at me, then look me up and down.

  I smiled. Okay, maybe just one string attached for the morning wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  Four

  Jillian

  An email dinged on my phone and I quickly whipped it out of my skirt pocket to check as I walked briskly along the flat wooden boards of the docks. I squinted at the screen through my sunglasses, my heart already starting to pound. It was an email from the broker I was working with on this deal. He was letting me know it was time for me to check out the yacht, and complete my professional inspection. It was safe to go onboard. The coast was clear and the ship was ready for my tour.

  I stopped for a moment to hammer out a quick, courteous reply. I clicked send and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I took a deep breath and straightened my navy-blue skirt, smoothed down my starched white shirt that was tucked in and form-fitting. I knew I looked good, even if I felt like I was about to melt into a puddle and spill into the harbor.

  Keep your cool, Jillian, I thought to myself. Nobody can tell how stressed out you are, how fast your heart is racing. If you just smile and act like you’re totally at home, everyone will think you really are. Fake it ‘til you make it had always been my secret motto.

  In my line of business, it was of the utmost importance that my clients believed one-hundred-percent that they could trust me. Rely on me. I helped them make huge decisions, financially and in regards to the lifestyles they wanted to lead. And even though this time I was just buying a yacht for my brother, someone who would love me no matter what, failure or success, I still felt that drive to do the best I could. I had to write down everything, record every tiny detail, no matter how trivial it might seem to a third party.

  I kept moving down the docks until I reached the yacht with a name emblazoned in flashy gold lettering on the side: Mirabella. It was a gorgeous ship, even larger than most of the yachts I had bought and sold in the past. In fact, this one was of the category unceremoniously named “super yachts.” It had to have at least eight to ten rooms on it. A yacht like this was more like a house, a mansion on the waves, than just a boat. It was its own little world, complete with a full crew to staff it.

  I had spent a good chunk of my adult life cavorting around on big boats, touring them, measuring them, judging them by size, price, and opulence. But nothing had ever come close to how magnificent Mirabella was. I actually gasped a little when I first stepped in front of her. The hull was a gleaming white, nearly glittering in the hot sun, and the ship loomed so tall and majestic that it nearly blocked out the sun from my view, casting me in its hulking shadow.

  I was already impressed.

  But I needed to keep my wits about me and not rush to such a quick positive judgment. In the past, I had occasionally come across ships that looked amazing. Fantastic. Miracles of modern engineering, marvels of high-class luxury. But when I would step inside and start really, truly sizing them up, I would usually find flaws. Just tiny details that could have been done differently or better, the kinds of interior design choices or structural integrity issues that would dock thousands, even millions off the price point. When you were dealing in such a lucra
tive—or potentially financially devastating—market, those little things that might seem unimportant to the average layperson really did add up fast. And today, it was my job to stay critical and objective. I couldn’t let myself be swayed by the jaw-dropping first impression Mirabella gave me. I was here to criticize her, pick her apart, determine whether or not she was truly a good fit for my brother, who was arguably the most important person in my life.

  Sometimes, it almost kind of felt like I was walking into an interview room to appraise some beautiful stranger’s audition. Only instead of a young, idealistic actress, it was a boat. A really big, really expensive boat.

  I walked up the gangway plank, careful not to get the stiletto heels caught in the gaps between the wood boards. As I reached the top, a young man in an immaculate white uniform rushed over to offer me his hand and a brilliant smile. I could tell he was a little nervous, but I wanted to put him at ease. I wasn’t here to judge him, by any means, but I figured he probably worried that with the sale of the yacht, he might either be out of a job or forced to relocate. I knew how scary it was, not knowing where your vocation was going to take you. And this guy was young, probably hardly older than nineteen. I gave him a big smile.

  “Thank you,” I said graciously as he helped me onto the main deck.

  “Of course, ma’am.” He bowed slightly.