Once and Again (3 page)

Then she remembered his place. And hers.

“
Nothing
is going on.”

“What are you doing here, Carolyn?” His voice was quiet and hard.

“Working,” she informed him.

There she was, laying it on the line. And damned if he didn’t know it.

Jake didn’t speak. Just let the silence draw out until she thought she was going to scream. He was toying with her, and she hated that the boy she once loved had so much power and she so little.
You deserve this, Carolyn. Every humiliating moment.
She should apologize or subjugate herself. Beg.

In her own twisted way, she already had.

At long last, he scrubbed a big hand over his face. “I should fire you, but I’m not going to.”

The breath she’d been holding escaped her lips. “Why not?”

“Because I need you and as far as I can tell, you need me. Otherwise, why would you, of all people, be working in this washed-up club?”

“You
need
me?”

“Yes, I need you,” he snapped, his face a mask. “I have to modernize this place without alienating any of the existing members. They can’t stand me, but they relate to you. To that.” He gestured at her.

She frowned and crossed her arms under her breasts. “So what, exactly, do you want me to do?”

“Work them any way you can. Get them excited about the renovations I’m going to do.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Talk about improvements—a new spa, a new golfing range, a new boathouse, whatever. They’ll listen to you. You’ve been director of events for only half a year, but your work is responsible for increasing overall club revenue by seven percent. You’ve made this club a destination for members looking for a venue to host parties. You know what a big deal that is? We’re still in a recession and membership has been falling for the past five years. You’ve clearly got a head for this kind of work.” He paused. “Plus, you’ve got that whole lady-who-lunches thing going for you.”

Carolyn lifted her chin. “This suit was my mother’s,” she said, then blanched. She hadn’t meant for that to slip out. It was none of Jake’s business that she was wearing her mom’s clothes. Or that she’d sold off her couture months ago to pay the utility bills.

He ignored that. “I also want you to plan an event for me,” he said.

Carolyn took a deep breath. So he wasn’t going to fire her, and he wanted a party. She could do a party. What kind of event would he want? “A welcome party?” she guessed.

“Exactly,” he said. “My introduction to our current members and our neighbors, to showcase what kinds of services Briarwood has to offer. It needs to happen fast. No later than May.”

Okay, he really
did
need her. No one else at Briarwood could do the job, and for him to find someone else on such short notice would pretty much be impossible without paying through the nose. With relief, she kicked her brain into party-planning mode. “It would also be a way to get those neighbors involved in the club before the refurbishment happens, and to emphasize the perks of early membership,” she observed.

“Yes. I want to talk about the new architectural plans for the clubhouse, the boathouse, and the golf course. I got Walter Williams, the famous course designer, to sign on to work with us. If that doesn’t make people want to be a part of this place, I don’t know what will.” He actually smiled a little, light laugh lines forming brackets around his mouth. When he didn’t have his angry face on, he really was beautiful.

“It will. I have this, Jake. I’ll make sure it’s exactly what you want. Thank you.”

“Jesus, Carolyn,” he said, his scowl back full force. “Don’t fucking thank me.”

She blinked and drew back. “I—I won’t, then.”

His brows creased, and then, surprisingly, his expression softened. “Why are you
really
here?”

She was so tempted to blurt it all out. To tell him everything—mostly that she desperately needed the money since Charles Worring, her dad’s financial advisor, had made off with the entire Rivington portfolio—along with the investment portfolios of her father’s friends who he’d referred to Worring. But she couldn’t bear the shame. So she told him a version of the truth. “I guess because it felt like home.”
The closest thing to it, anyway.
Because it was the one place that would still have her, even though this world—the old world and everything Briarwood represented—was fading fast.

Jake had such a lack of expression on his face, she honestly couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Did he believe her? Did it matter? The Jake she remembered wore his heart on his sleeve. New Jake kept every emotion except anger in lockdown.

Jake stared at her for another long minute. His jaw clenched and unclenched. A little muscle rippled high on his cheek. “Thursday. Eight thirty. Be ready to present your plans for this event.”

“I will.” She held out her hand.

He reached out, too, and when skin touched skin, an electric current sizzled up her arm. He gripped harder. The sizzle intensified and was joined by a tingling sensation near the base of her spine that worked its way up her body and settled right in her core.
I still want him.

Quickly, she glanced up at Jake. He was watching her intently, giving her the same hungry look he’d given her countless times during that summer so very long ago. For the briefest of moments, she caught a glimpse of that proud, beautiful boy he’d been reflected in his face, and then a split second later, it was gone.

She didn’t shrink under his scrutiny, but nor could she speak. She couldn’t tell him how badly she needed this job. She couldn’t tell him how desperate she was to catch a break—any break—in her family’s case against Worring. And she certainly couldn’t tell him how, if they hadn’t been interrupted, she’d willingly have given him everything—body and soul—that night, fifteen years ago on the pebbly sand underneath the Briarwood docks. So Carolyn did the only thing she could.

She tore her hand from his grasp, gave him a short nod, and with her head held high, marched down the corridor and out to the staff parking lot.

The spring air cooled her burning cheeks and hardened her nipples into tiny peaks. Traitorous body.
Don’t think of him that way. He hates you, remember?

She was going to have to tamp down her emotions, for her sake and for her family’s. And that was that.

Carolyn slid into her beaten-up Mazda sedan and buckled her seat belt. A spongy bulge pressed into her hip.

Crap.
Her dinner, in the pocket of her best day suit.

Quickly, she got out of her car and turned out her pocket, but she was too late.

The roll had turned to dust, little crumbs scattering on the wind.

Jake Gaffney surveyed his surroundings with a practiced eye. Although he knew the tee-off from hole one on the Briarwood Golf Course like the back of his hand, he took note anyway. In a few months, everything he remembered about this course would be gone, thanks to a full renovation. It was only the first of many things he would do with his club.

His
club.

And wouldn’t it just figure that Carolyn Rivington had tried to kick him out?

Once he’d gotten over the shock of seeing her again, her attitude was exactly what he’d expected—cool dismissal under the guise of politeness. Classic. That was the way they all acted. Crushing you underfoot, all the while smiling those frigid, brittle smiles.

Why had he ever thought she was different? She’d turned out to be just like everyone else, with prejudices too strong to overcome, no matter what they’d shared together.

She hadn’t even recognized him until he’d said his name. Just judged him based on his appearance.
Fucking awesome.

No, what was
really fucking
awesome was that look of permanent shock on her face once she realized who he was.

So he was back to square one. He’d claimed Briarwood as his own, along with all the old-money snobbery that went with it. He had money, all right—money that was being used to buck up this moldering resort so it wouldn’t go under. But apparently, his money wasn’t good enough, because he was getting a hell of a lot of pushback from the Board of Trustees.

Good thing none of their pushback mattered when it came to hiring decisions. Jake had just snared the best man for the job, Lincoln Rollins, as Briarwood’s newest head golf pro.

And
that
was what money could do.

“Back up, kid,” Jake told the teenage caddy standing a bit too close to the tee-off area. “Give Mr. Rollins some room.” The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed and he scurried back to his place by the bags, keeping a wary eye on Jake.
Christ,
even the caddies were afraid of him. He’d be wise to keep his tats covered up here, same as he always did during important business meetings.

But he should cut the caddy some slack. It wasn’t every day a PGA tour champion graced the greens at Briarwood.

When Link folded his lanky frame over the club and prepared to take his shot, Jake stepped back to get his own long look. He never missed a chance to see the master at work.

There was a satisfying
thwack
as Link hit the ball. It soared up and over the rough 275 yards straight out and fell directly onto the green, landing five feet away from the hole. Granted, hole one was an easy play—a straight shot to the flag—but that shot was as perfect as anything he’d seen on tour.

“Holy shit, Link! You sure you want to be here and not out earning the big bucks?”

Link merely smiled and pulled his cap a little lower on his face. “You’re up, townie.”

Jake eyed the flag in the distance, aligned himself with the target, and gripped his golf club. He took a neutral stance, relaxing his hips and edging his feet shoulder-width apart. Breathing in once, he performed his waggle, making sure his weight was evenly distributed on the balls of his feet. He breathed out, focusing only on how perfectly his custom-made club fit his hand. Then he pulled the club back and up, rotating his torso, and in one smooth movement, brought it forward. His downswing was beautifully aligned, his club head at exactly the right angle when it met the ball. His rotation was fast, and he finished strong with a raised-arm follow-through.

The white orb arced through the sky before dropping at the edge of the green. Like it always did after a decent shot, some of the tightness in his chest unwound.
This
is what he lived for—the beauty and power all heading toward the ultimate goal, a tiny white ball nestled into a tiny tin cup.

From behind him, Link let out a low whistle. “You still got it, Jake. Still got it.”

Jake turned and gave Link a tight smile. “Learned from the best.” His caddy was staring at him. He stared back as if to say,
Don’t judge a book by its cover, kid.

“Aw, shucks. Flattery’ll get you everywhere,” Link said, letting loose his soft Virginia drawl. “You could get back into fighting shape in half a year, if you’d let me train you.”

“No way,” Jake said, handing his driver to his open-mouthed caddy. “I’m in real estate, not a pro golfer. Though why
you’re
not on tour is the biggest mystery of all.”

“Because you just hired me.”

“After you told me you weren’t putting your hat in the ring this season, yeah. Of course I jumped at the chance to get a world-class pro at Briarwood. Only question is how I got so lucky. You look as good as ever.”

“You want the truth?” Link asked, voice dropping so the others wouldn’t hear. “It’s my damn back.”

“Really?” Jake
had
noticed that Link had changed up his swing a little since the last time he’d seen him play. His friend was a little stiffer, standing a bit straighter thanks to a longer driver, but his form still looked as fluid as ever.

“You can’t see I’m struggling?”

Regardless of how much he was hurting, Link still played like a champion. “ ‘Struggling’ is a relative term. You still hit better than almost anyone else out there.”

“Not better than Thom Dunleavey or Nitin Sharma.” The two pros who continually bested Link on tour. “And who knows how long I’ll be out of commission? Oh, I can still teach, though,” Link said quickly. “So don’t go and change your mind about giving me this job.”

This job was a drop in the bucket compared to what Link had given him over the years. “You always have a home base here, if you want it. Wish it were in better shape for you.”

“Nah, I don’t care, as long as I can stay in one place. The stability’s good for me. You remember what the tour was like.”

“I didn’t mind it so much.” An understatement—he’d loved it, inexperienced as he was. Link had scouted him playing golf on scholarship for UConn. Despite their very different backgrounds, they’d hit it off, and Link had offered him the chance to caddy for a pro.

Link snorted. “You were too young to realize how rough it really was.”

“It was an opportunity of a lifetime.” The best thing that had ever happened to him. After he’d caddied for Link—two college summers and the full tour season after he graduated—he’d parlayed that into a job at a real estate development firm where the owner was a huge golf fan. His work at the firm inspired him to go to business school and do his own real estate investing. In his mind, the lessons he’d learned on tour—not to mention the money he’d earned—had been worth every second of time he’d spent.

“More like an opportunity to introduce you to my crazy.”

“I’d already seen plenty of that at Briarwood.”

“There’s no crazy like tour crazy.” Link shook his head. “Crazier even than the shit I left behind at home. I don’t know what I was thinking, asking you to join me back then. I was only a couple of years older than you.”

“You were thinking you’d show a poor kid with some promise the world. And you did, Link. You lifted me up, made me who I am. I can’t repay that.”

“You just did by giving me this job,” Link said, looking out across the green. “I know luxury apartments in Miami are more your thing, and Briarwood has definitely seen better days, but I can see why you’d want to come back here.” Jake followed his gaze. The winter snow had melted only a few short weeks ago, and there was still a chill in the air, but the grounds were beginning to come alive. Aromas of damp earth and wet leaves permeated the air, and Jake breathed it in. It smelled like home.

Jake had grown up in Eastbridge, population 9,300, give or take a couple dozen, depending on which multi-millionaires were in residence in one of their country homes. In high school, he’d never have gone to Briarwood. Not his scene, not his people. But he needed cash, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to get it from his asshole of a father, who gambled away everything he ever earned. So he’d put on his one pair of church pants, borrowed a collared shirt from a friend, and braved the drive across town.

The first time he passed through Briarwood’s gates, he thought he’d reached paradise.

In his mind, golf was boring. The tournaments he saw on TV dragged on and on. But up close, the game was exciting, elegant, and above all, intimate—the polar opposite of the way he’d grown up with a steady diet of beer, football, and fighting. If the perfectly manicured greens hadn’t done it for him, the beautiful women at the club would have. But he knew his place. Boys like him couldn’t screw up, because there weren’t going to be any second chances. So he could look, but he didn’t touch. For five years, he never touched.

Until the summer he turned twenty-one, when
she
appeared.

Long, straight, sun-lightened hair, pearls at her ears and throat, and a turned-up collar on her polo shirt would have told Jake everything about Carolyn Rivington if he hadn’t already known—she was rich, gorgeous, and so far out of his league they weren’t even playing the same sport. She’d watched him back then. And every time he caught her staring, she’d looked away fast, as if she knew she was doing something naughty.

Of course, he’d watched her, too. Lounging by the pool in her barely there bikini. Driving in her father’s sleek convertible, golden hair flowing in the breeze. Waltzing in the ballroom as the midsummer dance unfolded, her in a gorgeous silken dress, looking every inch the debutante she was. She’d practically lived at Briarwood that summer, and he’d lived there with her, worshipping her from afar. Until the one night she’d finally smiled at him.

He’d had the balls to ask her out behind the pool house, knowing what he was doing could get him into a whole lot of trouble. But he did it anyway.

After that, they hadn’t wasted a second. They’d started out slow. Slow touches. Slow kissing.
Hell
, even holding her hand gave him a thrill. But soon, they’d both wanted more.

They had it all planned out for the night of her eighteenth birthday—a blanket on the beach, the moon above their heads, and the most expensive bottle of wine he could afford. He’d loved her, and told her so. She’d said the same—that she wanted to be with him, always.

And then it had all gone very, very wrong.

It came back to him in flashes, sometimes. The police cars, the cold metal of the handcuffs around his wrists, and the deep humiliation when his big brother, Joe, had to come bail him out of the one-celled Eastbridge jail because his own dad was off at some illegal poker game, blowing what was left of Jake’s college fund. Above all was the way they’d been separated. As Carolyn’s dad led her away, she wouldn’t even look at him. Not once.

The next day, he’d been summarily fired from his job at Briarwood—fraternization between staff and guests was swiftly punished—but it didn’t matter. Carolyn was gone, too, taken away by her parents to spend the rest of her summer out of his dirty hands. He’d texted her, called, emailed, everything—even hitched a ride to Manhattan in an ill-advised attempt to see her.

No response.

His court-appointed lawyer got the charges dropped—they couldn’t prove he served alcohol to Carolyn because she hadn’t actually drunk it—but the anger and shame remained. He’d gone back to college that fall, more determined than ever to prove—to his friends, to his teachers, to himself—that he was worth just as much as Carolyn. More, even.

When Jake heard the rumor that Briarwood was up for sale—from a friend-of-a-friend who was a successful New York City real estate broker—he hadn’t seen the club in fifteen years. Once he’d confirmed the rumor was true, he didn’t even do any due diligence on the place, just arranged to buy it and then came for a look. What he found hadn’t surprised him. The place hadn’t changed a bit, except for the fact that it and the members were older. But there were the same slim women in their tennis whites and preppy men in their polo shirts.

Eastbridge hadn’t changed, either. Same rich bankers heading off to their cushy New York City jobs, same perfectly groomed children heading off to school—“one of Connecticut’s top-rated districts,” his real estate agent gleefully told him when he bought a place in town—and same class divide. And although he had plenty of money now, the way people looked at him was proof that no matter how much time had passed, he
still
didn’t belong.

But Carolyn did.

As much as it killed him to admit it, she was everything he would go for in a woman…if that woman weren’t her. She didn’t have a wedding or engagement ring on her finger—he’d noticed that right away—but time had treated her well. That suit hugged her body in all the right places, and those heels made her long legs look even longer. A few light laugh lines now only added to her attractiveness. So did the world-weary look in her eye. She was more real and less like the untouchable princess she used to be.

But she still had those big, deep violet eyes.

And she still wore those fucking pearls.

Link handed off his driver to his caddy and walked back to him. “Sorry I missed the staff meeting earlier this week.”

“No worries. I knew you wouldn’t be able to get here until today.”

“So,” Link said, clearing his throat, “a little birdie told me the members of the Board of Trustees flipped their wigs when they found out you were behind the bid.”

How Link managed to get information so fast was a mystery. “Who?” Jake demanded. Link just smiled. “Oh, so we’re doing the staff thing already? I see where your loyalties lie. You work damn fast, Link.”

“So do you.” Link shook his head. “Don’t know how you managed to pull this off.”

“I had help.” Preston North, a friend from business school, had done the honors, representing the anonymous buyer—him. Press had an impeccable reputation, and no doubt the Board thought they were getting one of his kind, a Manhattan mogul looking to branch out his real estate holdings, not a grubby townie who couldn’t appreciate the beauty and value of a century-old club. But Jake and Press had an agreement that as soon as the papers were signed, all rights to ownership would revert to Jake.