Bidding on Brooks: The Winslow Brothers #1 (14 page)

It was hell letting her go, but the day was wasting and the sooner they started, the faster they’d make Hatteras. He ran his hands under her shirt, up the warm, soft skin of her back, flattening his palms just under her bra and dropping his forehead to her shoulder.

“I could kiss you all day, Skye.”

She laughed softly beside his ear then sighed. “Think of me as a carrot.”

He leaned back, grinning at her. “And I suppose that makes me a horse?”

She nodded, her eyes twinkling and happy. “Yes, Brooks. You’re the horse. I’m the carrot. Now, let’s sail.”

***

After nine hours without speaking—other than for whatever words were necessary to help the Cutter achieve maximum speed—they were making good time, and evening on the North Carolina coast with waning sun and blue skies was a beautiful thing to behold. Turning into the Pamlico Sound, they left the rough waters of the Atlantic behind. They’d be sailing the rest of the way to Hatteras in the picturesque and protected body of water, and though they still had several hours of sailing ahead, the toughest part of today’s journey was over.

“What’re you thinking, skip?” asked Brooks, looking at the sky which was still fairly light, and at his watch which she suspected read about eight o’clock. “Another four hours?”

She sighed, nodding. Her whole body ached from standing behind the wheel, and she longed to call it a day, but Brooks had reserved them an overnight slip at Hatteras Landing, which meant he’d planned to make it there by the end of today. And if he could do it, she could do it. Not to mention, if they docked there tonight, they’d have the whole day “off” tomorrow, meeting Guy for their photo session early on Wednesday morning before setting sail for the three day trip to Myrtle Beach. And right now? A day off sounded perfect.

“This is a long day,” said Brooks, looking at her with concern. “Ridiculously long. I should have… We could stop, you know. I’m sure we could find a marina with a slip open for the night. Or we could drop anchor. Lots of quiet coves in the Pamlico.”

“If we make it to Hatteras,” she said wearily but with conviction, “we have a slip waiting.”

“True.”

“And a day off tomorrow,” she added.

“Right again.”

“Which means sleeping in.”

He raised his eyebrows, giving her a look. After this morning’s knee-weakening kiss, they hadn’t revisited sleeping arrangements, but by the time they reached Hatteras, Skye knew they’d both be too exhausted for anything but falling into bed. Fully dressed. And falling asleep before their heads hit the pillow. By that time, they’d have been sailing for 18 hours, with the only break this morning with Guy.
Tomorrow, however…

Brooks gave her a side glance, the hopeful look in his eyes telling her his mind was in the same gutter as hers. “And what
else
are you planning to do with your free day tomorrow?”

She forced herself not to grin and deadpanned, “Oh, I don’t know. Gas up. Change the oil. Check out the electrical board.”

“Skye,” he growled.

She shrugged, giving him a sassy look. “Maybe fool around a little.”

“Good answer.” He beamed at her. “And go out to dinner with me?”

“Mm-hm,” she agreed, laughing softly despite her fatigue. “That sounds nice.”

For two straight days they’d worked, slept, and eaten together. Today, they’d been up at the crack of dawn with fourteen hours behind them, and yet neither was itching for a break from the other. She was teasing him, and he was teasing her right back. And it felt miraculous in its own small way to
tolerate
someone in such close quarters. To want them all the more was…was what? What was it? What was the name for working together, for wanting each other, for teasing each other, for enjoying each other so much that there simply weren’t enough hours in the day?

She sighed, the question heavy in her mind and making her heart thunder in her chest because she felt like she was standing on the very tip of an iceberg, and underneath the water was something huge and strong and beautiful…but intimidating and dangerous, too. Did she want it? Did she—

“You don’t mind night sailing?”

She shook her head, surprised by his words, but grateful that they interrupted her thoughts. “I don’t mind. Plus…I’ve got you if I get in trouble.”

“You’ve got me,” he murmured, his eyes brightening as he smiled at her in that tender way that was becoming so addictive to her. “You trust me, huh?”

“You
did
almost win the Olympics,” she reminded him.

“Yes, I did. Almost.”

“Did you love it?”

He nodded. “Parts of it, yeah. It was a great experience and it gave me some amazing opportunities.”

“Why do I sense a ‘but?’”

“It took up a lot of my life, a lot of my time,” he said thoughtfully. “And time isn’t…infinite.”

“Do you feel like you missed out on something?”

He shrugged. “I trained hard for years. Then the Olympics. The endorsements, travel, coaching and consulting, judging and reporting. Sometimes I feel like I haven’t stood still in years.”

She grinned, her eyes trailing slowly from his top siders to his face. “You’re standing still now.”

“Keep looking at me like that, Skye, I’m not going to wait until Hatteras to eat the carrot.”

She chuckled, feeling light, feeling sexy, feeling happy. “You have your
whole life
to stand still! I think it’s exciting how much you’ve accomplished. I can’t wait to see what’s next.”

He stared at her hard for a moment before cutting his eyes away, looking up at the sails, which were full. “You mind if I have a beer, skip?”

Was it her imagination or had his voice dipped a little? And she looked closer at him; even though his face was partially turned away, his smile was gone.

“Sure,” she said.

“You want one?” he muttered, heading below, not looking back.

“No, thanks. Need to stay sharp.”

She expected him to tease her or snicker at her overly-cautious comment, but he didn’t. When he came back up the stairs a few minutes later, he wasn’t holding a beer and for a second, she thought he’d changed his mind.

He didn’t say anything as he caught her eyes, stepping behind her at the wheel without a word and letting his hands drop to her shoulders. His thumbs dug into her muscles—a mix of strength and tenderness, his fingers clenching and unclenching the soreness there, and she smelled it on his breath, the beer he must have quickly chugged downstairs.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment because her muscles were screaming for attention and the strong pressure of his hands felt like heaven. She whimpered softly for more.

“Am I hurting you?” he breathed into her ear.

“Nuh-uh. More.” She sighed.

He chuckled lightly, his breath warm by the back of her ear. “You’re tight.”

“I’m the skipper,” said Skye, trying not to moan. “And this boat cost a quarter million dollars.”

“So did I,” murmured Brooks, his lips landing on the back of her neck as she let her chin fall to her chest.

“You were worth it,” she said.

“Just so you know,” he said, his lips stroking her skin with every word, like he was hungry for her, like she filled some need inside of him, “I would have paid double to guarantee that you won.”

“Brooks,” she moaned as his hands smoothed down her arms, his fingers taking the wheel.

“Turn around,” he said in a gravelly demand.

She did. She turned her back to the open water and pivoted in the tight space between Brooks and the wheel, her breasts rubbing against his chest until they were flush against him, her eyes looking into his.

His green eyes were dark and extremely intense, and every shallow breath he took made his chest slam into hers. Her heart thundered in her ears as the evidence of his arousal pushed into the softness of her belly.

“Kiss me,” he said softly, and then added with desperation, “
Please
.”

She leaned up on tiptoes and he bent his head, his lips capturing hers fiercely. He sucked in a breath through his nose as she slid her hands up his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He couldn’t drop the wheel and touch her with his hands, but his lips, his tongue, his mouth—they claimed her, possessed her, caressed her, and owned her. It was filthy and glorious, hot and demanding. He explored the secret recesses of her mouth, growling his pleasure, then bent his elbows just enough to pull her closer, groaning when she leaned into him.  She was trapped willingly, surrendering to him in a way that felt wholly organic and ridiculously right. Her history was instantly rewritten, because she thought she’d been kissed before, but she was wrong. She’d
never
been kissed like this, like life was a fleeting thing that must be enjoyed today, and the fate of everything that mattered rested on his mouth and his kiss and his strong arms around her.

His tongue grew gentle over time, sliding tenderly, hypnotically against hers. He sucked gently before drawing back and letting her lips go.

Skye’s forehead dropped to his chest and she panted, the rest of her body rebelling, unhappy to be deprived of him. She was breathless and boneless as she opened her eyes slowly and tilted her head back to look up at him hungrily. Her eyes focused on his face, on the beauty of Brooks Winslow staring down at her.

And then she saw it:

Agony.

Remorse.

Sorrow.

It crossed his face like a curse, and she reached up her hand to cup his cheek, to offer him some sort of reassurance though she didn’t know his tormentor.

He released the wheel and stepped back from her, dropping her eyes. “Wind’s changed. Back to work.”

For the remaining four hours on the Pamlico, Brooks trimmed sails that didn’t need to be trimmed, cleated off lines that were already secured, and checked the radio and radar for notices that were nonexistent on such a calm night. In short, he kept as busy as possible.

When she’d said,
You have your whole life to stand still!
he’d almost choked from the sudden grief—the intense and terrible doubt that had ripped through him.

My whole life? Of what? Five more years?

He’d gone below, opened a beer, opened his throat, and let the suds slide down in ten seconds flat, the tormenting questions as loud as ever in his head:
What if I have whatever my father had? What if I let myself fall in love with Skye…only to leave her alone and bereft a few years from now?

Fall in love with Skye.

Oh, God.

Fall in love.

Was he falling in love with her?

He wasn’t sure because he’d never been in love before, but the feelings he had for Skye were multiplying like crazy, their friendship a cherished foundation of affection that was suddenly changing into something deeper, something dearer, something that was going to be hard to give up.

He’d launched himself back up onto the deck, desperate to touch her, to lose some of his fear and sorrow in her warmth. He’d kissed her blindly, his need for her profound, and a feeling had rushed through him as she fisted his shirt and kissed him back—a feeling so sure and so strong, it had terrified him almost as much as his fear of mortality. He’d liked and respected Skye for most of his life…but now? Now “like” and “respect” were morphing, changing, and growing…not from, but
into
. He wasn’t losing them, he was deepening them, and if he wasn’t careful, they
would
turn into love.

She was smart and kind, capable and fun. He was attracted to her like crazy, and grateful for her, and amazed by her. He loved the way she sailed, the way she handled his boat, the way the wind and the water were in her blood just as surely as they were in his. She was gentle, and quietly ambitious, playful and fair. And yes, their lifestyles were different, but not their hearts, not in essentials, not in what mattered. And if he could have a guarantee that his life wouldn’t suddenly be cut short? Oh God, he’d pursue her relentlessly. He’d wait for her. He’d change for her. He’d give up anything for her. Just to be with her. Just to sail with her. Just to hold her and kiss her and sleep beside her. Just for the honor of loving her.

Zephyrland.

He wound the line in his hands tighter, then cleated it again with a grimace.

Zephyrland.

What had once sounded so sweet now tasted sour.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, looking up at the darkening sky. He was falling in love with her. Like a fool, he wanted forever, when all he could have was today.

***

They had
literally
fallen into bed last night. Their own beds. Separately, not together.

Brooks had radioed ahead to the marina for their slip number, they’d motored into the harbor at the Hatteras Breeze Marina in the dark, parked at the wrong deck, belatedly realized it, started up the motor again and put-putted to the correct dock on fumes. Brooks had tied the bowline to the dock cleat and locked the deck hatch. By the time he entered their bedroom, Skye was already asleep.

She was lying on top of her comforter, as though she’d fallen there and the effort to actually maneuver herself under the covers was way too much work to contemplate. Her salt-flecked shoes still on her feet, and he checked her silver anklet, reaching out a finger to touch it gingerly.

As gently as possible, taking pains not to wake her, he untied and pulled off her shoes, first one, then the other, setting them down softly beside her bed. He turned down the comforter as best he could, then scooped her body into his arms, bending to catch the corner of the duvet with two fingers and flick it farther down her bed. She moaned softly against his neck, her breath sweet and warm as he placed her on the white sheets, then drew the comforter up to her chin and turned off the light over her head.

She inhaled deeply.

“Brooks,” she said softly on a sigh, her voice sleepy and deep as she burrowed her head into her pillow. “Sleep.”

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, gazing at her, wondering if her words were an invitation for him to join her. But he took a step back. As much as he’d like to wake up holding Skye in his arms, they were both exhausted and they needed sleep. And Brooks was fairly certain that if he had trouble sleeping in the same room last night, sleeping beside her would be next to impossible.

He shucked off his shoes and pulled down his jeans, trying to remember the last time he’d slept beside a woman he cared for. In college? No. At the Olympics. He’d had a girlfriend on Team USA, and though he’d felt strongly for Margo, they hadn’t quite progressed to a point of love before breaking up a few months later. They were young and having fun during an extremely exciting time. But once they returned to America, Brooks with a bronze medal and Margo with none, their romance had quickly fizzled.

He pulled his shirt off, tossing it into the pile on the floor and slipped into bed, turning off the light over his head and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. No, what he’d had with Margo had been fun, but it hadn’t been love. He knew that now.

Turning to his side, he rested his head on his pillow, and his eyes landed on Skye as he drifted off to sleep.

***

Pain. Achy, terrible, muscle cramping pain.

Ugh.

She’d definitely overdone it yesterday.

Skye took a deep breath and sat up carefully, every muscle rebelling as her eyes opened to the half-light of dawn filtering in through one partially-open porthole. Hmm. Her hair was still in braids and she was completely dressed, but she didn’t remember going to bed, and she certainly didn’t remember getting under the covers. It must have been Brooks who tucked her in and the thought made her warm inside, made her happy.

Darting a quick glance at him, her lips spread into a grin. He was sleeping on his chest, his neck turned to face her and the sheet had shimmied down just enough to show her the upper half of his smooth, tan back. The bulge of his bicep caught her eyes for a second and she took a deep breath, all aches slipping away momentarily as she stared at him.

What had happened yesterday, she wondered. After they kissed? Why had she seen such pain, such torment, in his eyes? And what could she do to help him? It hurt her deeply to think that Brooks was waging some formidable internal struggle, but it wasn’t the first time in her friendship with him that she’d wondered about his seeming lack of intimacy with anyone other than his family. And she certainly noted—for most of their lifelong friendship—that Brooks wore a mantle of heaviness, especially when he thought no one was looking.

She thought about his history and one blaring fact kept circling in her mind: his father had died when Brooks was very young, and following his death, Brooks had essentially engineered his whole life around proving he was the best sailor in the world; almost as a memorial to his dad, as a way to feel connected to him after he was gone.

If a measure of loss can be made by how the left-behind live the rest of their lives, then Brooks’ grief must have been stark and profound. His father loved sailing, so Brooks became the best in the world. He also became—as far as Skye could tell—a surrogate parent to his four younger siblings. Her mind circled back to their conversation on Sunday, and it occurred to her that he’d cut off their conversation when she asked how Mr. Winslow had passed away. She did the math in her mind. Brooks was seventeen when he died, and Skye remembered Mr. Winslow looking young and energetic—young by anyone’s standards. Had he been sick? Skye searched her memories. She didn’t remember Mr. Winslow looking sick.

So how had he died?

And was his father the key to Brooks’ sorrow?

And what about his revolving door of girlfriends?

Was she the next girl—indeed, the
current
girl—taking a spin in the revolving door?

It hurt Skye much more than she would have guessed, having engineered
Zephyrland
herself, to imagine that she and Brooks would shake hands and go back to a conventional friendship on Sunday. And for the first time since embarking on this whole auction-cruise journey with him several weeks ago, she had her first pinch of regret.

What she knew (and Brooks didn’t) was that
Zephyrland
was a myth, an impossibility, a palatable lie that enabled what she wanted from him: intimacy.

What she knew (and Brooks didn’t) was that what happened in
Zephyrland
would stay in her heart, and their friendship, she mused sadly, would likely pay the price.

What she knew (and Brooks didn’t) was that she had been a little bit in love with him all her life, so the journey from friendship to love had been short for Skye. In fact, she was fairly certain she was already there.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, her weary body forcing her brain to shut down as she fell fitfully back to sleep.

***

“Wake up, sleepy head.” A gentle hand smoothing wisps of hair off her forehead. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up.”

“Not ready,” she complained, flipping over to her stomach, but laying her cheek on her pillow so she could peek up at him.

Freshly shaved and showered Brooks sat down on the edge of Skye’s bed, moving a cup of steaming hot coffee closer to her. Her eyebrows shot up and her frown disappeared.

“Mmmm. Coffee. What time ’s’it?

“Eleven, lazybones.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Why do I get the feeling you’re a pro at this waking-up-sleeping-people-who-don’t-want-to-be-woken-up thing?”

“Try getting four siblings up and ready for school before seven-thirty every morning,” he said, chuckling softly. “Pres hated it when I called him ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ I have to admit, you wear it better than he did.”

She snickered softly, then moaned as she sat up, wincing from the effort, her muscles spent and angry.

“I hurt,” she said, accepting the coffee from him and taking a sip.

“And here I thought you were a morning person,” he said holding out two Advil in his palm.

She took the pills and swallowed them. “I am…generally.”

“You sailed for eighteen hours yesterday, Skye,” he reminded her. “You’re bound to hurt.”

“How come you look so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”

He shrugged, “Hot shower did wonders. Spending today with you was quite a carrot.”

She gave him a look over the rim of her cup.

“I don’t know. I guess I sail more so I don’t hurt as much. I’ve done so many eighteen hour sails in my life I couldn’t count them on both hands and both feet. Once, we went two whole days awake while circumnavigating Australia.”

Skye’s lips parted, her eyes transfixed on Brooks’. “I had no idea you did that!”

“Sure. The year before the Olympics we were granted fifteen-month visas to train down under. It was…phenomenal.”

“I bet.” She sipped her coffee, the caffeine doing its job. “I think I’m a little jealous of your experiences.”

He furrowed his brows. “Why? I mean, you’re an amazing crew
and
a cracker jack skip. You don’t have to be jealous. Why aren’t you racing more?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I don’t have a boat. I have a job. My Pop needs me.”

“Seems to me Jack wouldn’t stand in your way if you had a dream to follow.”

“I guess he wouldn’t. But my grandparents are gone and my mo—” She paused, looking down. “He’d be all alone.”

“So you’re just going to stay at the marina replacing lightbulbs and cutting seaweed out of outboard motors forever?”

Skye didn’t take offense easily, but Brooks’ comment ruffled her feathers. “Maybe.”

“Well, I think that’s a shame. You have your whole life ahead of you,” he said softly. “If I…”

His voice suddenly cut off and he sighed heavily, looking away from her and standing up.

“If you what?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “I just think you should do what you want. And I mean, if you want to race? I’ll race with you. I won’t buy you a boat…I already have three. You choose one to race. Just give me the date and time of the regatta and I’ll be there. I mean…if I can.”

There it was again—that sadness, that hopelessness—behind his eyes.

“Why do you get so sad sometimes?” she blurted out. “What happened?”

He stared at her, gradually forcing his features to shift from sad to neutral and finally offering her a small smile. “I’m not sad. Not right now.”

Skye sighed, taking another sip of coffee. He wasn’t ready to confide in her yet. Okay. She could wait.

“Hey,” he said, cocking his head to the side and grinning at her. “There are some great little shops and restaurants at this marina. It’s three times as big as the one in Gloucester. How about you take a really hot shower and we’ll go get some food?”