Homecoming: The Billionaire Brothers
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Authors: Lily Everett
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary
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Dear Reader,
Many of you have written and told me how much you wish Sanctuary Island were a real place and that you could live there! I feel exactly the same way, which is why I couldn’t resist the chance to spend more time on the windy beaches with the wild horses and the warm, welcoming people who’ve made this magical island their home.
That’s why I wrote
Homecoming: The Billionaire Brothers
! It’s the story of three wealthy, sexy, charming brothers who each wind up following his heart to Sanctuary Island … and discovering there’s more to life than money and power.
Originally published as three individual e-book novellas,
The Firefly Café
,
The Summer Cottage
, and
Island Road
, this trio of short, interconnected romances really can be read as one long story. Each picks up where the last one left off, and each revolves around the timeless themes of healing, family, forgiveness, and love.
I’m thrilled that these stories are now available to those of you who prefer to read print books, and I hope you enjoy returning to Sanctuary Island with me. And if this is your first visit, welcome!
Homecoming: The Billionaire Brothers
can be read entirely on its own. It’s set in the same world as my full-length novels,
Sanctuary Island
and
Shoreline Drive
, but you don’t have to read them first to enjoy
Homecoming
.
And for those of us who wish we lived someplace as friendly, peaceful, and beautiful as Sanctuary Island, just remember that daydream is never further away than the turn of a page …
xoxox,
Lily Everett
Contents
For Rose
Thank you for always encouraging me, supporting me, believing in me, and pushing me to stretch myself as a writer. You’re the best editor in the world!
Acknowledgments
These novellas would never have existed without the encouragement of my fabulous agent, Deidre Knight, and the incredible support (both pre- and post-publication) of the folks at St. Martin’s Press. Big thanks to Eileen Rothschild and Anne Marie Tallberg for the marketing help, and to Elsie Lyons for creating such consistently gorgeous covers, and to everyone else behind the scenes. And most of all, thank you to Rose Hilliard, who made me rewrite Penny and Dylan’s story basically word for word … and in the process, taught me everything I know about how to craft a fun, fast-paced, romantic novella.
The Firefly Café
is hers as much as mine.
As always, I wouldn’t have made it to The End without my network of fabulous writing friends, especially Kristen Painter, Roxanne St. Claire, Sarah MacLean, Kate Pearce, Bria Quinlan, Tracie Stewart, Ana Farrish, the Writechat gals, Romance Divas, and the
ARWA
Critique Group. Thanks for all the advice, hand-holding, and cheerleading!
Thank you to my parents for unflagging support, especially the kind that takes the form of bringing over leftovers and walking my dogs when I’m locked in my writing cave under deadline. Mama, I know you love these novellas more than anything else I’ve ever written, so this book is for you!
I must also acknowledge that my husband would be a saint for putting up with my deadline craziness—if he weren’t almost as invested in my career as he is in his own. Even so, Nick, you deserve a big, wet, smacking French kiss of thanks for putting up with frozen pizza, building me a website, celebrating my every success, and just generally being the inspiration behind my enduring belief in true love and happily ever after.
The Firefly Café
Chapter One
June 2013
Dylan Harrington popped the kickstand down and swung his leg over the seat of his hand-restored fifteen-year-old BMW sport bike. Tugging off his helmet, he stared up at the fairy tale of Victorian gingerbreading and white clapboard at the end of the boxwood-lined walkway.
This may have been a mistake.
Or maybe that was just the hangover talking, and all of this stately colonial business would look better after a strong pot of coffee and a pile of greasy cheese fries at the one restaurant he’d passed on his way in. Even a tiny, picturesque seaside joint called the Firefly Café would serve cheese fries, right? Right?
Dylan pinched his eyes shut around the throbbing headache. Walking his bike onto that tin can masquerading as a ferry boat hadn’t helped the sickness roiling in his gut, and the way he’d turned heads with the growl of his bike as he rode through the town square sure hadn’t done much for his state of mind. But he was here now, and what the hell? His grandparents’ vacation home was as good a place as any to lay low until Miles got over his temper tantrum.
Dylan wasn’t a moron. He was well aware that he was wasting his life partying, getting into bar fights, and taking a different woman back to his penthouse every night. He didn’t need his perfect, responsible, judgmental eldest brother to lay it all out for him.
Miles looked at me like I was a complete stranger.
Shoving down the angry shame that choked him at the memory of his brother’s disappointed frown, Dylan set his jaw. Miles made his choice a long time ago, and it hadn’t been to stick with the family and be there for his brothers.
This was just another in a long line of lectures about his lifestyle, Dylan reminded himself. Yet another argument with Miles about missed opportunities and what their parents would think if they were still alive. No reason to get bent out of shape. It certainly wasn’t why Dylan had impulsively jumped on his bike and started riding south.
Dylan was bored with the city, that was all. Same scene every night, same gallery openings, same women in tight dresses looking at him with that same edge of calculation from under their fake eyelashes. He needed a break from being the “Bad Boy Billionaire,” as the scandal rags had tagged him.
Sanctuary Island, though? Might turn out to be more of a change than he could handle.
Realizing he’d been standing on the sidewalk in front of the house for a good five minutes, Dylan shook his head to clear it. The way his pickled brain sloshed against his skull made him regret it instantly, but at least it got him moving.
He slung his leather duffel over his shoulder before starting up the walkway to the wraparound porch. Morning light glittered off of the house’s navy-blue-shuttered windows, and Dylan shivered a little and zipped his leather jacket a little tighter to his chin, even though it was warmer here than he was used to.
Back in New York it was still in the sixties almost every morning, but tucked away off the coast of Virginia, Sanctuary Island already felt like high summer. Pink and white dogwood blossoms nodded at him from the small trees lining the path, and deep magenta azalea bushes crowded the flowerbeds below the porch.
He glanced over his shoulder to remind himself that, yep, the house really honestly faced out on an old-fashioned town square, complete with gazebo and bandstand set in the lush green sprawl of the grassy park.
It was beautifully serene, almost idyllic. Dylan felt as if he’d blundered into a Thomas Kinkade painting. Rubbing a hand over his suddenly dry mouth, he grimaced at the rasp of stubble against his palm.
Just like that old song from when we were kids … one of these things is not like the others.
Despite feeling viciously out of place, even a jaded cynic like Dylan could appreciate the appeal of this place. No wonder his grandparents, Bette and Fred Harrington, had loved this island. They’d spent summers on Sanctuary until their deaths, one following the other as closely as they always had in life, five years ago.
The edges of grief had smoothed over time, like stones tumbled on the riverbed, and Dylan breathed through it as he contemplated how to get into the locked vacation house.
He probably should’ve planned ahead, gotten the key from whoever his family employed to oversee their various properties around the world. Now he’d have to bust in a window or something, which sounded like a lot of trouble in his hungover state, after ten straight hours on his motorcycle.
Dylan was tired, his bones almost aching with it. Of course, that was why he’d come to Sanctuary Island in the first place.
If he was honest, Dylan was tired of the life he’d chosen, the reputation he’d deliberately cultivated.
The pretense of it all, paddling around the shallow waters of the New York art scene, made him sick. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked a beautiful woman in the eye without catching the edge of calculation as she wondered what she could get out of him.
Grimacing, he dropped his duffel on the porch and prepared to jam his leather-jacketed elbow through the diamond pane of decorative etched glass flanking the front. Before he could do more than crack his knuckles, the heavy wooden door swung open.
A woman appeared in the doorway, pushing a strand of dark chestnut hair out of her eyes. She was small and delicate looking, with softly rounded cheeks that were flushed a healthy pink that had nothing to do with cosmetics.
She couldn’t look more different from the magazine-ready models he usually dated, so the sudden shot of desire caught him off guard. Already off balance from nearly getting caught in the act of breaking into this woman’s house by accident, Dylan stood there silently while the woman closed those wide hazel eyes and clasped her hands in front of her.
“I thought I heard someone out here,” she breathed. “And thank the sweet lord, because my shift starts in half an hour and I can’t afford to be late. Come on in, the toilet’s this way.”
“Toilet?”
Wrong house. Man, I even manage to screw up my vacation.
Somewhere, his brother Miles was laughing his ass off.
Obviously clocking his confusion, the angel flushed and brushed a self-conscious hand down her front. “Right. The uniform. I know, it doesn’t look right, and I swear I don’t usually wear it around the house.”
For the first time, Dylan noted her getup, which looked like a costume for a diner waitress in a fifties movie, complete with a sea-green skirt that bared long, slender legs and a tiny white apron emphasizing the curves of her waist.
T
HE
F
IREFLY
C
AFÉ
was embroidered in pink over her left breast.
“You look just fine to me,” he told her honestly. Dylan was no stranger to beautiful women, but this woman, with her messy, tumbled-out-of-bed hair and slightly tired eyes unaccentuated by makeup sparked something in him. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
She managed to look so
nice,
even while rolling her eyes; maybe it was the good-natured twist to her pretty pink mouth. “You’re sweet. A liar, but sweet. And I’ve got a plumbing issue that needs to be fixed or the Richie Rich one percenters who own this place will throw a hissy.”
Dylan frowned—was she talking about his family? Maybe this was Harrington House, after all. But what was this woman doing here? Stalling for time to figure out what the hell was going on, he said, “I’d like to help you out, but I’m not sure I’m the guy you want.”
The smile that lit her face heated Dylan’s blood faster than the most seductive pout. “Oh, you’re definitely the guy I want.”