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.
He wasn’t surprised she knew him by name. He’d been born and raised here. And his grandfather had been the one to establish the community. McMillans were the foundation of Bayfront. The Presleys were the pillars.
But Devon had two older brothers, Max and Davis, to carry on the family legacy. They were each deeply rooted, with high-society wives from the Bay Area, a couple of kids apiece, and booming businesses, including the executive airport they jointly owned.
Max had made an offer on the yacht club mere months after Devon and Morgan had built it, but there hadn’t been enough zeroes on the check. Devon refused to be lowballed, even by a relative. Not to mention, at that time, Devon and Morgan were wholly committed to the club. It was the only one they’d designed and labored through during the construction process, whereas the others had been existing landmarks that they’d purchased. So this particular establishment held sentimental value.
Fuck.
That was the last thing he should be thinking about. He focused instead on market value.
The waitress reappeared with his drink. “Here you are. Would you like anything else at the moment?” she asked as she laid out an ecru cocktail napkin with the club’s insignia of an anchor wrapped in rich mahogany-colored rope stamped on it. Given the direction in which Devon’s thoughts had previously run, the irony did not escape him.
“Thanks, this will be fine.”
She set the glass before him. Out of the corner of his eye, Devon caught sight of her slender fingers with French-manicured nails, a tad on the long side. Enough to make him think of them raking over his bare back and leaving scratches. He fucking loved that. There was something incredibly erotic about a woman being so lost in the heat of desire and tangled limbs, so turned on, that she literally clawed at him.
Too bad it’d been forever since he’d met one who possessed that sort of innate, fiery passion. Not since the blonde in the red dress.
Devon mentally shook his head to dislodge the vision of her nails on his skin, still incapable of recalling her name because there’d been a bit too much tequila involved in the wild threesome he and Morgan had partaken in.
He had business to concentrate on, anyway. Regardless of the instant taunting brought on by another alluring woman—the one who’d delivered his sparkling water. Unfortunately, her tantalizing scent and sexy voice distracted him. Attempted to coerce him to get a good look at her.
Do not let your dick derail your thoughts.
He had a sound argument to make with Morgan about the sale and didn’t want to blow it. Even if his gut did coil at the thought of unloading the club.
Still, the offer was triple their initial investment, which would go a long way in getting them the waterfront property they needed in the Hamptons. So playtime was most definitely not on the agenda.
“Mr. Presley,” she greeted his business partner. “Gin and tonic this afternoon?”
Devon glanced over his shoulder at his friend’s approach, opposite from where the temptress stood.
“Yes, thanks,” Morgan told her. He slid into the chair adjacent to Devon as the server left them. “Good to see you, man.”
“You, too.”
Morgan and Devon could be brothers with their sandy brown hair and their light eyes, though Morgan’s were more of a whisky color, whereas Devon’s were ice-blue. They were both over six feet tall with athletic builds. Morgan had been the high school’s star quarterback; Devon had been the lightning-quick receiver who’d been in perfect sync with him. Neither had ever had the ambition to go pro. Business was their forte.
Well, when Devon wasn’t being baited, that was.
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell her to call me by my first name,” Morgan said. “She’s clearly getting a kick out of mocking me.”
“Our new waitress?”
“Fallon.”
Devon’s brow furrowed as he gazed at Morgan. “Fallon’s been in Miami for three years.”
“Fallon is the woman who just served you your drink, genius.”
Devon shot a look over his other shoulder, caving to the primal urge. “Why the hell didn’t she say anything to me? And where’d she go?”
“She’s at the bar.”
There was a redhead collecting a gin and tonic from the bartender.
A redhead with mile-long legs and an ass that made Devon’s cock twitch. She wore a short navy-colored tank-style dress with heels in the same hue. She was tanned and toned and from this perspective, damn hot.
“You’re shitting me,” he said under his breath.
“Nope. All grown up and positively stunning, isn’t she?”
The woman turned. Devon’s pulse spiked. She had shiny dark-auburn hair pulled over one bare shoulder and deep-green irises that sparkled brilliantly. A perfect nose and heart-shaped face complemented by a seductive dimple in her left cheek. A megawatt smile—all straight, pearly white teeth—and glowing honeyed skin he suddenly yearned to caress . . . with his fingers and his mouth.
Devon’s gaze slid along her graceful throat, down to her full breasts. The rounded tops crested the squared neckline of the clingy dress, the scintillating sight holding him hostage for several seconds.
His brain pretty much stalled out. Though he didn’t miss the flat stomach and the shapely hips. Again, those stellar legs.
Beside him, Morgan murmured, “Got the adrenaline pumping?”