Confession

Get in. Get out. Get on with your life.

Devon McMillan recited the mantra as he strode through the lobby of the Bayfront Yacht Club, down one of the long hallways, and into the cocktail lounge situated between the informal and formal dining rooms.

The two-story building sat on the water’s edge in the cove of the small, affluent community of Bayfront, California. The interior featured gleaming wood-paneled walls, columns, and exposed rafters. Floor-to-ceiling windows and doors showcased the ocean, patios, and marina beyond.

It’d be the perfect day for Devon to take his boat out. A clear blue sky, a moderate early February climate, and just enough wind to catch his sails and take him south to Monterey for the afternoon.

But he wasn’t in town for pleasure. He’d flown in for business. Strictly business. Serious business he needed to conduct with his best friend, Morgan Presley, who Devon hadn’t seen or really spoken with much in the past year.

Not since the night they’d hooked up with a gorgeous blonde in a curve-hugging siren-red minidress. Devon couldn’t recall her name. But he did vividly remember her sprawled across his king-size bed while they made love to her. And he very distinctly remembered the line in the sand he and Morgan had almost crossed that evening.

Forbidden was one thing.

Unthinkable and taboo another.

Less than a week later, they’d gone their separate ways, Devon flying off to the East Coast to check on the yacht clubs they owned in Connecticut, upstate New York, and Martha’s Vineyard, while Morgan stayed on the West Coast and assessed operations at their Santa Barbara club and the one in Seattle.

It was astounding how much work a person could bury themselves in when desperate to keep their mind off of something.

However, an unexpected and highly lucrative offer on the Bayfront club was about to throw them back together.

Get in. Get out. Get on with your life.

He intended to talk Morgan into selling, despite the club not even being on the market. Then Devon would be out the door. Buying a house in the Hamptons was his plan, while he put together a proposal for building a club there. Which he’d e-mail to Morgan, rather than return to Bayfront to personally present his ideas.

Taking an oversized, tan leather captain’s chair at a table by the windows, Devon set his laptop bag at his feet and pulled out his iPad, along with the black leather portfolio containing the documents associated with the offer made by a large conglomerate from San Diego. He’d scoured the contract previously, as had his lawyers and financial advisors, but still ruminated over the salient points for persuading Morgan to sign on the dotted line with him.

“Can I bring you a drink, Mr. McMillan?” a server asked, her voice soft and sultry. Inviting. A bit breathy in a highly arousing way.

Devon didn’t look up, though. No need to fall down any tempting rabbit holes on this trip. He was here to sever ties with Bayfront. He didn’t need anything anchoring him to this place, not even a basic one-night stand. His flight back home was scheduled to leave from San Francisco at ten o’clock. Devon had every intention of being on it.

“Pellegrino, please,” he said.

“Very good.” An edge of disappointment in her provocative tone beckoned him to tear his gaze from his paperwork. But he resisted the urge, despite her darkly compelling perfume teasing his senses as she lingered a few moments more. The decadent aroma stayed with him, even when she eventually, quietly slipped away.