Confession

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?”

Devon didn’t get the chance to utter the fuck, yes sitting on his tongue. She leaned over the table to set Morgan’s cocktail on his napkin. Giving them an up close and personal view of her firm breasts and tight ass. That had all been on purpose, Devon didn’t doubt it for a minute.

“Thank you, Fallon,” Morgan said as he discreetly admired her assets—he could be sly that way, play it cool, but Devon knew better. Morgan was an expert at concealing lust, though Devon always sensed when it flashed through him.

And how could it not when faced with a riveting redhead with a flirty smile?

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Presley.” There was a hint of teasing in her tone, so Morgan had been right about her toying with him.

“It’s Morgan,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “Just Morgan.”

She smiled brighter. That dimple of hers drove Devon wild. How had he never noticed before how damn sexy it was?

Fallon sassily told Morgan, “It’s your rule that the staff use our members’ last names.”

“I’m not a member,” Morgan contended. “I’m a co-owner. Therefore, I have the right to supersede the rules when I damn well please.”

She laughed softly. Devon’s cock throbbed in wicked beats.

Her emerald gaze fell on him. “And you could pay better attention to your environment.”

“Duly noted.” He blew out a long breath. “Jesus, Fallon.”

This was a very unexpected twist to Devon’s return. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, towering over her despite the heels she wore.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” he asked. “I didn’t even know you were in town, let alone at the club. Someone failed to mention it.” He threw a smirk Morgan’s way.

“I’ve been back a few months and your chief financial officer signs my paycheck,” she said. “So I didn’t expect you to even know I was working here again.”

“How was Florida?” he asked.

“The record-breaking temps and humidity were sucking the life out of me—or rather, sweating the life out of me. I will say, however, that the Miami and South Beach nightclub scenes were outrageously fun. Hardest decisions I ever had to make were plotting out where to be between eleven o’clock and one a.m. and between two and four. I think it’s even livelier than Vegas.”

“Doesn’t let you off the hook for not thumping me on the back of the head so I’d know it was you serving me,” he lightly scolded.

“You were seriously engrossed. I didn’t want to disturb you. It looked important.”

“Trust me,” he all but ground out as the testosterone flowed like magma through his veins. “I wouldn’t have minded the interruption. Not from you.”

His gaze slid over her once more and his brain still reeled from the vision before him.

Fallon was an old friend. From way back in elementary school. Though, she’d never looked a thing like this smoking-hot woman standing before him. In fact, Devon wouldn’t have even realized it was her if Morgan hadn’t put two and two together for him.

She was downright breathtaking. Devon reached for her and pulled her into his arms. She let out a delicate squeal of delight. He gave her a firm hug, reveling in the feel of her sinful body pressed to him. All her feminine curves . . . and that soul-stirring aroma wafting under his nose. Everything about her nearly overwhelmed his senses.

He held her a bit too long. Though it didn’t seem to faze Fallon. Devon, however, had to fight the hard-on threatening to make its presence known.

When he eventually released her, he held her at arm’s length and continued taking in every sensational inch of her. “What’d you do, grow up overnight?”

She bit into her glossy lower lip, then caught herself. “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m completely blown away.”

“Thanks,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “I colored my hair.”

That wasn’t the only thing different about her. Everything was different about her.

Devon said, “Miami agreed with you, regardless of the weather conditions.”

“It was an enlightening three years. I’d love to catch up with both of you. It’s so good to finally see you again.” She tore her gaze from Devon and glanced around the busy restaurant. “But my section is filling up, so I can’t talk now.” The earlier teasing fringed her voice as she added, “If you’ll excuse me, I have customers to serve, Mr.—”

“If you call me Mr. McMillan—or sir,” he warned, “I’m going to put you over my knee.”

And smack that luscious ass.

Heat flared in her eyes, igniting the twinkle to something quite explosive. Despite Devon not having said those last words out loud . . . they were devilishly implied.

She suggestively told him, “I’ll remember that.”

Then she strolled off to greet a foursome the hostess had just seated. Devon watched her go, admiring the sway of her hips and everything else that enticed him about her tempting backside.

He returned to his chair and Morgan shook his head at him.

“You can’t flirt with the help.”

Devon snickered. “It’s Fallon.”

“Precisely. Not a girl we ever flirted with.”

“She’s no girl. Don’t even begin to tell me you haven’t noticed.” He needed a sip of the iced sparkling water to cool his raging insides. “Christ, I don’t know what the hell happened to her in Florida that turned her into . . . all that. It was our loss at the club when she decided to visit her mom for a few years. But now she’s come back to us and . . . whoa.”

“She’s an employee, Devon.”

“She’s a friend, Morgan,” he countered. “One who asked for a job here when we opened our doors. She’s good at what she does and everyone likes her—whether she’s cute or drop-dead gorgeous. Though I suspect our male members are frequenting this place much more often with her return. And clearly requesting her.”

Morgan gave a half-snort. “I should have our Accounting department do a quarterly comparison to see if sales have surged since she’s been back.”

“The sales aren’t the only thing surging,” Devon muttered.

Morgan studied him closely, his gaze narrowing. “Don’t go getting any ideas about her.”

“Too late?”

“Devon,” Morgan chastised with sudden agitation and bunched shoulders beneath his dark-brown polo shirt, bearing the Bayfront Yacht Club logo. “First of all, she works for us. Let’s not open ourselves up to a sexual harassment suit. Second . . . as you stated, it’s Fallon. Childhood friend. Everyone’s favorite little sister. Sweet, smart, and sassy. But innocently so. She’s not the sort you fuck the way you like to fuck.”

Devon slid a glance toward the bar where she was collecting drinks again. “You’re talking about Fallon Carteris, the kid. I’m looking at Fallon Carteris, the woman. Apples and oranges, my friend. Apples and oranges.”

“Devon.”

His attention shifted. “Morgan.”

“No.” Another quick shake of his head.

Devon groaned. “Yeah, you’re probably right. It would be kind of bizarre to see her naked. Hotter than hell, but still . . . it’s Fallon.” Devon contemplated this a minute more, then roguishly shrugged a shoulder. “No, I don’t think it’d be bizarre at all. I mean, there isn’t even a hint of the former Fallon. Even her voice is different.”

“I’ll admit, this is a jolt to the system. The Fallon we used to know was never into appearances.”

“Well, she’s made up for that in spades.”

“I’m telling you straight out,” Morgan insisted, “she’s completely off-limits to us both.”

Devon shrewdly eyed his partner. “Sure you’re making that declaration so HR doesn’t rain hellfire down on us, or . . . ?” His brow crooked.

“Drop it, Dev.” Morgan’s tone was tight with finality. “You wanted to discuss business, so I flew in from Seattle. Stay focused. What’s the extreme urgency about?”

Devon’s jaw clenched. No doubt it was for the best that they didn’t broach the subject of why they’d both been on opposite sides of the continent the past year. Certainly not prudent to bring up that night with the blonde in the scarlet dress. True, it’d been a scorcher—one of the sexiest nights he and Morgan had ever had sharing a lover. But they’d nearly taken the threesome too far . . . and that just wasn’t right in either of their books.

So Devon pushed aside thoughts of what had almost happened and also tried with all his might not to let any forbidden notions of Fallon linger.

He jumped in, saying, “We have an offer on the club.”

Morgan’s head whipped back. He clearly hadn’t seen that coming. “This one?”

“Yep.”

“I didn’t realize we were considering selling.” Was that a tinge of betrayal Devon now heard?

“I haven’t been secretly soliciting offers,” he hastily said. “If that’s what you’re thinking. An investment group came to me. And it’s perfect timing, really. I’d like you to entertain the idea of building again. In the Hamptons.”

“This is the Hamptons—West Coast style,” Morgan pointed out.

“We should expand our horizons. The clubs back East are doing incredibly well. I’m not saying this one isn’t still profitable; it’s proven a worthy asset. But this club and marina are the smallest of our holdings. We could double or triple our size in the Hamptons. And I’ve already scouted potential locations. That’s what makes all of this a prime opportunity to explore other options.”

He slid the contract Morgan’s way, with the top sheet reflecting the most important terms of the sale.

Devon sipped his Pellegrino as Morgan perused the documents. Then he reached for his gin and tonic. He drew in a long drink. Devon expected some hesitation on Morgan’s side, some valid reasons for why he didn’t want to consent to a sale. Yet it also made sense at this juncture. If they weren’t amenable to being in Bayfront when the other was here—unless absolutely necessary, like today—what was the purpose of keeping this club?

Morgan could live here, stay in Seattle or move to Santa Barbara, if he so chose. Devon would oversee the construction and operational startup of the new venture. They could remain business partners, they just didn’t need to be in the same town at the same time.

Not that Devon didn’t miss his best friend. But under current circumstances . . . This seemed like an appropriate—intelligent—solution.

Morgan continued to hedge. Whether he needed more time to deliberate the pros and cons or not, he didn’t say. Just drummed his fingers atop the stack of papers and hemmed and hawed mentally.

Devon didn’t push him. The prospective transaction had come about unexpectedly. Sure, they’d had interest before and not just from Devon’s brother, Max. This, however, was a fortuitous offer from an international enterprise that had put a very appealing cash deal on the table. An offer they really shouldn’t refuse.

Eventually, Morgan’s gaze lifted and he speared Devon with a sharp look to match his tone as he said, “If you want to sell, then we’ll sell. You want to leave Bayfront for good? I’m not going to hold you to this place.” He shoved back his chair, stood, and stalked off.

Devon stewed. Because he could read between the lines.

Morgan didn’t want out.

Yet he was giving Devon an out.

In the grand scheme of things . . . What the hell did that mean for their friendship?