Bachelor (Rixton Falls #2) (20 page)

S
erena

T
he crunch
of gravel beneath tires signals Derek’s return from the firm. It’s half past five. Dinner’s in the oven, and the girls are running around the back yard, chasing butterflies and giggling.

Haven is an amazing big sister to Hadley, and the two of them are inseparable on the best of days. On the worst of days, they bicker like all sisters do, and it’s all we can do to keep from laughing.

He’s so good with them too. He understands them. And he’s patient and wise and tenderhearted. They’re just as lucky to call him their father as I am to call him my husband.

Derek is used to the girl fights, and judging by some of the stories he has about his younger sisters, I can see why.

Me, I love the noise. The chaos. The laughter. The tears. I wouldn’t trade it for anything because this—
this
is what life is really about.

My husband of four years strides across the lawn of our restored farmhouse, stopping to kiss sweet baby Harper in my arms before kissing the top of my head.

“Hello, my love,” I say. I’m incapable of frowning in his presence, because after all that has happened, Derek Rosewood is still my happiness.

No one has ever fought for me the way he has. He was there through it all. The ups and downs. He stuck by me after the claims against him were substantiated, and he never blamed me once when he received a private reprimand. He was cheering by my side when Veronica pled guilty at her trial and when the judge refused to honor her attorney’s request for a reduced prison sentence. Derek was also there when Veronica left my father after the trial, when she realized she wasn’t getting a single red penny from the estate, and he was there the day my father passed peacefully at a nearby hospice center.

We’re richer than sin. Our accounts are filled with hundreds of millions of dollars—which we intend on mostly giving away. But our love? This beautiful life we’ve created? It’s priceless.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks.

“Lasagna,” I say. “Bliss’s recipe. Demi and Royal are stopping by too. I told Kyla not to come by until after seven. I want Haven to have a good meal before her weekend with her mom.”

Shortly after Derek and I made things official, he pursued full custody of Haven and won. I’d never seen the Rosewoods so happy, but I think the happiest little soul was Haven. She belongs with Derek.

With both of us.

“Appreciated.” He smiles, staring at me like he just won the lottery. But it’s nothing new. He’s been doing it since the day he proposed to me at the Mariposa waterfall over four years ago.

“What?” I ask.

“Why are you so good to me?” Derek leans in, stealing a kiss. I’m sure I taste like red sauce and garlic, but he doesn’t complain.

“Daddy, Daddy!” My red-headed Mini-Me, Hadley, runs up to Derek, breathless, and wraps her three-year-old arms around his legs.

He sets his briefcase on the ground and scoops her up. Her little limbs wrap his neck and she kisses his cheek just as nine-year-old Haven pummels into his side, almost causing Derek to lose his footing.

“Hi, Daddy.” Haven hugs his side, and he ruffles her feathery blonde hair. “We missed you.”

“I missed you too, baby.” He pulls her close, his gaze returning to mine. “I missed all of you.”

“We love you, Daddy.” Haven brushes her face against his suit jacket, beaming a gap-toothed smile.

“I love you too,” he says. “Let’s head in. Go get washed up for dinner. Aunt Demi and Uncle Royal are going to be here soon.”

The sun sets early on this late autumn Friday, painting the sky in warm pinks and oranges and yellows. It wasn’t until I moved to the country that I earned a newfound appreciation for sunsets.

I’ve realized, over the past five years, that there were many things I’d missed out on in my life. The smell of rain on country grass. The burst of unobstructed sunlight filtering through shades early in the morning. Leisurely strolls and neighborly waves. Cooking delicious meals from scratch because it’s more convenient than ordering takeout from a trendy restaurant with a two-hour wait.

Derek’s arm hooks into my elbow, and he stops me to steal a quick kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips against mine.

“I love you more.”

The five of us file inside, where our snoring pug, Munch, sleeps in his bed by the fireplace. The kitchen is scented with my sweet mother-in-law’s lasagna, and the girls impatiently take their places as Derek gently places a very sleepy Harper in her bassinette.

Demi and Royal pull up just in time, and the girls leave the table and run to the door to greet them with giggles and squeals. They can hardly wrap their arms around Demi’s swelling belly with her due date just around the corner. They’re expecting a little boy any day now, and they’re planning to call him Beckett, and the girls have been having a blast picking out plush frogs and blue onesies for Demi’s baby shower next weekend.

The timer on the stove beeps, and I tend to dinner while everyone settles in.

This is my life now.

I’m in love with every beautiful, challenging, imperfect moment of it.

And I wouldn’t trade it for the entire world.

M
AGNOLIA GRANTHAM

S
hoes
.

There are men’s shoes by the front door.

I pull the key from the door of my boss’s Montauk seaside home and crouch to examine a set of tanned leather loafers that shine like the day they were purchased.

“Hello?” My voice echoes through the two-story foyer. The call bounces off the shiplap walls and lands on the wall of windows overlooking the water.

No answer.

I pad lightly toward the kitchen. A tablet and laptop are plugged in and charging, and a breeze carrying sea salt drifts through an open window. The July midday sun blankets the day with warmth and light against the sandy dunes, and all I want after a three-hour Jitney ride is to change into something worthy of summer and dip my toes into the sand of my boss’s private beach.

In fact, that was her order. Addison yelled at me for working too much.

In the two years I’d worked as a real estate broker at Van Cleef agency, never once had I requested so much as a single vacation day.

It took forever to get here, and not just because of the Jitney’s snail pace or the myriad of stops we made during the one-hundred-twenty-mile trek. The driver was an older man, of retirement age, and when I saw him lugging fifty-some suitcases out from the bus’s storage compartment, I couldn’t let him do it alone. I stayed, handing out luggage and walking a group of little old ladies to the nearest taxi station.

Finally, I’m here.

But clearly, I’m not alone.

“Hello?” I call out again. “Who’s in here?”

Puffs of white smoke billow past the window outside, and the smoldering scent of a fired up grill wafts in front of me. I drop my bags by the butcher-block kitchen island and head for the sliders that lead to a wraparound deck.

A shirtless man in navy and white striped board shorts shimmies in front of the grill. The white cords of his ear buds dangle down his shoulders.

His tanned back glistens and his muscles flex beneath taut skin. The round curve of his tight ass keeps his low-hanging shorts intact and his head bobs to the music faintly
uhn-tissing
from his ears. He doesn’t hear me.

Damn it!

I’d recognize that thick, russet head of hair, that narrow, chiseled waist and those perfectly balled calves anywhere.

I’m just not sure what he’s doing
here
. . .

At our boss’s Hamptons home . . .

During the long weekend she designated especially for
me
. . .

I reach for one of the white cords and yank it from his ear with one fluid pull. A man I haven’t seen nor spoken to in two full years whips around and lifts his Ray-Bans. The corners of his smug mouth fall. He meets my disdainful glare with one of his own the second my face registers in that big, arrogant brain of his.

“Xavier.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“Magnolia.” His fist clenches around a pair of metal tongs.

“What are you doing here? Addison reserved this weekend for me.”

His jaw sets. “Evidently, Addison didn’t speak to Wilder first.”

You’d think a husband and wife would talk to one another, but apparently the Van Cleefs have bigger things to worry about besides to which employees and friends of theirs they loaned their vacation home during the second weekend in July.

“I’m calling Addison,” I say, whipping out my phone.

Xavier smirks, running a hand through his thick hair before folding his arms. He widens his stance like I’m two seconds from providing his personal entertainment.

“Fine.”

“What?” I ask.

“You’re going to bother your boss in the middle of her St. Thomas vacation with her family because you don’t want to share her five-thousand-square-foot, six bed, seven bath beach house with one of your colleagues.”

He sounds like such a Realtor.

“I don’t consider you a
colleague
.” I drop my phone. He has a point. Bothering Addison on vacation after she so generously offered her house to me would be rude, and sacrificing tact just to prove a point isn’t my style.

“That’s right. I forgot. We’re
rivals
.”

His head shakes as he turns to flip the generous portions of fish grilling in a basket over mild flames. His biceps tense and relax in response. Judging by the deep tan coating his smooth skin, I’m willing to wager he’s been here most of the week.

Once upon a time, we were partners. A dangerous duo. Unstoppable. Young and driven, with just the right amount of naiveté to believe we could take over the world.

And then a drunken night at a broker’s conference in Tallahassee changed everything. But it wasn’t time spent between the sheets that did us in. It was what transpired the morning after.

“You make it sound dramatic.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Adversaries. Competitors,” he says, his back to me. “That better for you?”

Every real estate broker in the greater Manhattan area is my competitor. My rivalry with Xavier Fox just happens to run deeper.

It’s a bitter kind of rivalry, defined by disappointment, false hopes, and fallacies.

Xavier plates his fish, clicks off the grill, and closes the lid, all while humming a carefree little tune from his perfectly full lips. It’s not like him to be so blithe, and I swear he’s doing it to taunt me.

“If you don’t mind,” he says after turning around. His hands are full with tongs and his plate, and he nods toward the door.

I grip the handle of the slider and yank it open for His Royal Highness. He brushes past my shoulder in a cloud of sea spray and coconut sunblock and freshly caught seafood.

He smells like vacation.

My
vacation.

The one I fantasized about the entire three-hour ride here. The one I meticulously packed for all of last night. The first one I’ve had in over two years.

A long weekend of eating good food, shopping for quirky antiques, and touring weather-beaten, shingled windmills and lighthouses between working on my tan was all I wanted.

Not sharing a gorgeous beach house with Xavier Fox, arrogant asshole extraordinaire.

I stay planted on the weathered wood deck, breathing in the smog-free air that mixes with remnants of grill smoke. My stomach growls, audible only to me thanks to the nearby crashing waves.

“How long are you staying?” I step inside.

He’s already seated at the reclaimed oak dining table, chewing a tender piece of grilled whitefish.

He swallows. “Until Monday.”

Me too.

My shoulders slump. This isn’t vacation. I didn’t rearrange my appointments and obligations and solicit Skylar to cover my showings just to spend a weekend buried in uncomfortable tension next to the one man who makes my blood boil and my core heat at the same time.

I slink past him, hoisting my bag up and over my shoulder.

“Where are you going?” He rests his fork.

“To find a ride back to the city.”

Easier said than done. I don’t know where the Jitney is or if it’s already left Montauk, but I’ll figure it out.

“You just got here.” He shakes his head. “You hate me that much, do you?”

“I don’t hate anyone, Xavier. Don’t flatter yourself.” I’ve learned to forgive him over the years, but I’ve never forgotten. “I’ve better things to do with my time than sit around hating you.”

Yeah, like knocking you out of the top 1% of listing agents in the city.

He stole that title from me, along with ten of my highest profile clients over the past couple of years.

“Stay here.” He leans back in his chair, dabbing his full lips with a cloth napkin. A hint of a five o’clock shadow shades his hollowed cheekbones. “This house is big enough for the two of us. You stay out of my way. I’ll stay out of yours.”

This house is
not
big enough for the both of us. The entire borough of Manhattan isn’t big enough for the both of us.

“It isn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing vacation.” I scan the distance, aching to walk along the shore and feel the cool water lap against my bare feet. You can’t walk anywhere barefoot in Manhattan unless it’s the confines of a ridiculously overpriced apartment.

“The last thing I’d want to do is keep you from enjoying your vacation.” A wicked glint resides in his deep blue gaze.

I slide my phone from my pocket and begin Googling Montauk bed and breakfasts.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Salvaging this trip.”

He lifts a single eyebrow before watchfully rising and taking his plate to the sink. He rinses it methodically, hot water first, then cold, and deposits it into the bottom rack of a stainless steel dishwasher. Good to know he’s still not a heathen. Might be the only thing he’s got going for him.

That and his insanely off-the-charts looks.

Nothing else though.

Just those two things.

“Good luck finding another place to stay. It’s the week after the Fourth of July. Every inn in the Hamptons is still at full occupancy.”

“I’m sure I can find something.” I choose to ignore him and make a call to the American Hotel in Sag Harbor instead.

The line is busy.

I try a quaint-looking bed and breakfast in East Hampton.

No answer.

It’s like a New York pizza place on a Friday night—too busy to bother answering the phones.

Sigh
.

“How many more calls are you going to make?” Xavier rests his elbows on the island.

“Why don’t you find something to do?” I wave him off as someone answers.

Yes. Thank you. There is a God.

“Um, yes, hello,” I say, tucking a loose tendril of dark hair behind my ears and walking out of Xavier’s view. “I was wondering if you had any vacancies for this weekend?”

The man on the other end releases a whistling snort. “No, ma’am. We’re booked until Labor Day.”

His accent is more Brooklyn than I expected. I came to Montauk to get away from the city, but it feels like the city tagged right along.

“Do you know of anyone else I could try?”

“Sorry,” he says. “Not a travel agent.”

He hangs up, and I sink into a nearby Chesterfield chair covered in pale linen. This place is the epitome of casual elegance. I wanted to pretend for a weekend that I owned this multimillion-dollar home and that I was the kind of girl who could afford to relax in the Hamptons.

And I needed to be alone with my thoughts.

Alone with myself.

One with the peace and quiet and fresh, salty air.

“Seriously, Magnolia,” Xavier says. “We can be adults about this.”

“It’s not about being adults.” I jam my phone back into my pocket and turn to face him.

It’s about
so
much more than that.

Xavier struts up to me, his tanned face cocked to one side and a half-smirk on his lips. “What are we doing, Mags?”

He calls me
Mags
like it could somehow soften the fossilized resentment lingering between us.

I inhale him with a quiet breath, secretly savoring the fact that he wears the same cologne he used to wear back when he meant something to me; back when he was so much more than a smug asshole I wanted to smack across the face every time he swiped a sale out from under me.

“
We’re
not doing anything.” I point to him and then to myself, drawing an invisible arrow.

“You miss me,” he says with an overabundance of confidence, his eyes darting between mine. “You wouldn’t act this way if you didn’t.”

The old Xavier and Magnolia belong in a museum somewhere. They’re relics. Irrelevant. Nostalgic pieces of history buried in a time vault along with a myriad of vivid memories too intensely painful to linger on for too long.

“Good to see even time hasn’t tarnished that oversized ego of yours.” I turn on my heel and swoop down to grab my bag.

“One of us had to stay true to ourselves.” He leans against the island.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You used to be fun.”

“I’m still fun.” Not that he’d know.

His gaze drops down the length of my outfit, beginning with my tight bun, lingering on my navy jacket, and stopping on my pointed heels. I get it. I’m overdressed.

You can take the girl out of the city . . .

“I didn’t have a chance to change before I caught the Jitney,” I lie, tugging on the slim lapel of my blazer.

“Your face.” He squints. “It’s all puckered now. Not so much as a smile line. Botox, or you just don’t smile anymore?”

I could smack him.

My fists ball. I rack my brain trying to come up with some clever insult to sling at him, but everything about him is just as perfect as it’s always been. Not a single bag under his eyes. Flawless bronze skin. Muscles pressing from beneath taut skin. Deep blue eyes framed with long, God-given lashes too pretty to belong to a guy.

Ivana Trump once said looking good is the best revenge. I’d always disagreed. Success is the best revenge.

At least I thought so.

Xavier beat me there too. His star soared the second he unhitched himself from me, and I’ve been killing myself to catch up ever since.

“I take it you’re staying?” Xavier’s brows lift, his chin slightly tucked.

My options are limited. I can spend the rest of the afternoon trying to find a new place to enjoy my little weekend, I can catch the last Jitney back to the city and dive headfirst back into work, or I can spend the weekend enjoying myself and proving to Xavier how
very
wrong he is about me.

Besides, I have a date with a former client. I bumped into him on the way here, and he asked me to meet him for drinks at Nick and Toni’s tonight around eight.

I can be fun Magnolia. I can kick off my heels and let my hair down. And I can make damn sure Xavier regrets the day he cracked me open, poured me out, and threw me away.

I hoist my bag over my shoulder.

Thick skin. Broad shoulders.

“Where you going now?” he asks.

“To find my room. Addison said there’s a second master suite on the upper level.”