It makes me an incredible businessman. If I set my mind to accomplish something, I won’t rest until it’s done. My company thrived in its start-up days from sheer grit, determination, and willpower. It continues to climb in net worth because I spent countless hours perfecting my methods, trial and error, and surrounding myself with business colleagues who had a similar vision. It’s become extremely profitable, far more than I ever imagined it would be. I could buy ten mansions and a yacht and never work again if I wanted to.
That’s not who I am.Workaholicis a nice word compared to what I am. And I’ve been chasing that billionaire status. My goal is to hit it by thirty-five, and I’m on track for it.
“You’re going to have more than just enough for a second house on Lake Como. I’d be shopping for a new diamond ring, Mrs. Carlson. You deserve an upgrade.”
My clients are beaming at me. One of the investments I pushed them to put thirty percent of their money into just panned out—big time. Thankfully, I invested in the same stocks.
“I don’t even know how to tell you this, Dayton, but you’re my new favorite person. If you ever want to see Lake Como,you just give us a call, and we’ll make sure the house is empty.” Mr. Carlson’s warm hand engulfs mine with a firm shake.
I stand to accept it before walking them to the front door of the offices. “Have a great weekend.”
“Oh, we will!”
I turn back to walk toward my office. I should feel lighter. This is a good day—a great day—at work. Making my wealthy clients a lot of money is setting me up for life.
It used to be enough for me. I’ve spent the last ten years avoiding emotional attachments to anything other than my career. After my father died, that obsession completely took over my life. He used to keep me grounded, him and Clara. Clara was never a mother to me, but she was a kind person who always encouraged me to pursue things other than work, to see the beauty in life. She would send me links to art galleries and classical music concerts near me. Anytime they visited me or on the rare occasions that I flew to Coconut Beach, they’d take me to dinner, to the farmers markets, or out on their sailboat. Sometimes, it was my first conversation with other adults that wasn’t focused on work in months.
Now, my original obsession has resurfaced. My mind is one hundred percent focused on Summer Lark Sullivan. She consumes my every thought and memory. Every waking moment of my day, my head is replaying the last time I was with her, her taste, the sounds she made. My dreams are haunted by her smile, the sound of her laugh, and the idiotic way I’ve handled our relationship up until now.
I thought ignoring her would be the easiest way to move past it, and for ten years, I thought my plan was working.
Until she came crashing back into my life and I realized that I’ve never wanted anyone or anything in life as badly as I’ve craved her. Noelle was a placeholder, a substitute for Summer simply because they had similar hair. My avoidance of allemotional connections with women was a failed attempt at not getting attached and waking up in ten years, pissed off at myself for settling for someone I didn’t want as badly.
And here I am, stewing in my obsession with nowhere to direct it. I’m knocking my knuckles against the shiny surface of my desk, thousands of miles away from her and only eighteen inches from the live feed of the security cameras at the bungalow.
She’s doing yoga—again. Her leggings and matching sports bra are a pale pink color that almost makes her look naked. I thought she’d walked out of the house completely nude for a split second. My entire body locked up at the sight. I hate how I’m so fucking far away from her. The flight is four hours from New York, and then I have to take a seaplane from Miami to Coconut Beach. With the time it takes to get on a flight here, I’m looking at a minimum of five hours from when I decide to leave and actually getting to her.
She’s fine. She doesn’t need you. She doesn’t miss you.
“Yeah, I miss you too. I have something to tell you …”
I lean closer to the screen. I finally figured out how to get audio on the feed after having the microphone installed and connected to the camera. Summer has her phone pressed up to her ear.
“Yeah, well, we kind of hooked up.”
My entire body is tense. I exhale deeply while waiting for her to say something else. I can only hear half the conversation, but I hope she’s talking about me.
Fuck me. What if it’s not about me?
I can’t convince myself to turn off the feed and give her some privacy. I have to know if it’s about me and what she’s feeling about it.
“I know he’s not actually related to me, but still. My mother would turn over in her grave.”
Thank God.
It’s been two weeks since I saw her, but I can’t track her every move.
“I just … I wish he and I could be friends. He only went down on me. We didn’t have full-on sex. He didn’t even kiss me. That’s salvageable, right? We could be friends?”
My stomach plummets. She wants to be friends.
Yeah, fuck no.
That I cannot fathom. Being friends with Summer would mean I’d have to hear about the guys she’s dating and I would never get to kiss her.
But you’d get to be near her, to actually talk to her.
I’m clenching my fists and grinding my teeth while I wait for her to respond to whatever the person on the other end of the phone is saying. She’s sitting on her yoga mat, her head dipped between her knees. She says something that I can’t make out. I try turning up the volume, but it’s already on high. Finally, she lifts her head.
