Page 69 of Body Shot

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“What?” His shocked tone makes me smile. “Well, we’ll have to rectify that.”

“I can’t believe your parents didn’t want you to play guitar.”

“Mother didn’t think that was ‘cultured.’ ”

“What!”

“You have to understand my parents.” He pauses. “My family owns Whitcomb Industries.”

“Okay . . . ” I’ve never heard of them.

“It’s a multinational corporation with subsidiaries in manufacturing, trading, and investments. Founded by my grandfather as a small sugar refining company. He grew it into a big food manufacturing company and branched out into a bunch of different areas. They own a lot of companies now, some big dairy farms. A European bank.”

“Oh.” I think that over. “So your family is rich.”

“Filthy. And very concerned about appearances and keeping up with the Boston Brahmin. My poor mother never got that the old money folks in Boston live the most inconspicuous lives. She was determined to be part of ‘society,’ all wrapped up in her designer clothes and mansion and charity events. I hated it.”

“Wow. I had no idea. How did you go from that to the Navy?”

His lips flatten and his arms tense around me. “Well. That wasn’t the plan. My brother and I went to expensive private schools, took expensive music lessons. Tennis lessons. Golf lessons. The plan was that we would go to Harvard and get business degrees and work for Whitcomb Industries. Then after Aidan died . . . ” He pauses, muscles tensing even more. I pet his shoulder. “All their hopes and dreams and expectations rested on me. Except I was never as good as Aidan.”

“Oh, no.” I can’t believe what he’s saying. “That can’t be true.”

“I never lived up to what they wanted me to do. I wanted to play guitar, not piano. I wanted to play in a rock band. I wanted to play water polo, not go to golf camp at the country club. I didn’t want to hang out with their friends’ kids because they were pretentious, privileged assholes I had nothing in common with.

“After Aidan died, our family went through some shit. My dad worked even more, and my mother . . . well, our relationship wasn’t great.”

“So you’re not close with them?”

“Not even a little.” I keep smoothing my hand over his shoulder. “I hate their life. I couldn’t wait to get away. When I joined the Navy they were appalled.”

My heart aches. “But you didn’t just join the Navy. You became a SEAL. An elite special operations group. They should be proud of you.”

“Yeah, not so much. My accomplishments never impressed them. But that’s okay. I didn’t become a SEAL to impress them. I just wanted to know I could be the best at something.”

“You did it,” I whisper.

“Yeah. But they still bug me to go home and work for Whitcomb.” He pauses and I sense he has a hard time saying the next words. “Sometimes I feel guilty about that.”

“You need to live your life the way you want to. That’s what any parent should want for their child . . . for him to be happy and satisfied.”

“Yeah, like I said, you haven’t met my parents. But enough of that depressing crap.

They’re on the other side of the country . . .” He rolls me to my back and moves over me with clear intent. Heat blooms in my core. “And you’re right here.”

I agree to go the spa with Carrie the next afternoon mostly because I desperately need to talk to her.

We sit side by side in the pedicure chairs as technicians work on our feet, alternately soaking, buffing, and polishing the toes of each foot.

“Okay, so what happened with Will?” Carrie asks. “How did your date with him go?”

“Will?” I blink at Carrie. “Oh, right! Will.”

Carrie lifts an eyebrow. “That good, huh?”

I make a guilty face. “Beck happened. Will took me to Conquistadors, and Beck wasn’t too pleased to see me there with another guy.”

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