Page 72 of Shifting Sands

He chuckles. “Yes, although it feels like it’s the other way around most of the time. I own the place, Brandee.”

“You own Whiskey Joe’s?”

I take that back. His owning the place is shocking. I open my mouth to ask a question, but he’s still talking.

“And the garage where you brought me lunch? I don’t work there. Willis is an old friend of my grandfather’s. And the vintage race car you saw us working on? It’s mine. I collect and restore classic race cars.”

“But you said …” I begin.

He interrupts me, “I never said I worked there.”

Didn’t he?Maybe not.

“But you said you work with cars,” I mutter as my mind tries to make sense of what he’s saying.

“I do. I work for Carolina Automotive LLC and Cartwright Motorsports.”

I stare at him, the scattered pieces slowly clicking into place.

“I’m sorry, what?” I say carefully. “You’re not a mechanic, then. You work for a NASCAR company?”

He shrugs. “Cartwright Motorsports owns a dozen or so speedways across the country, and Carolina Automotive supplies a lot of the equipment used on the stock cars. They don’t own a team—yet. That is actually an acquisition I’m working on at the moment.”

“An acquisition you are working on,” I repeat.

“There’s more,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “The Cartwrights are …”

“I know who the Cartwrights are, Brew,” I say, and it dawns on me. Brew—as in Brewster. My eyes snap to him. “You’re a Cartwright? As in Brewster Cartwright?”

His shoulders sink. “So, yeah. That’s my grandfather. My full name is Brewster Cartwright III. Heir to a motorsports empire. COO of both companies. And a guy who let you believe he was broke because, for once, it was nice to be with someone who wanted to spend time with just Brew, the bartender. Without the weight of my name.”

The truth sits between us, stretching wider than the shoreline.

He finally looks at me. “I didn’t mean to lie. I just didn’t want to ruin what we had before it even started. You made me feel like I wasn’t some brand. Like I was just … me.”

I study him—this boy with salt in his hair and guilt in his eyes.

And then I laugh.

It surprises both of us.

He frowns. “Wait, what’s funny?”

“You,” I say. “You’re sitting here, acting like I’m gonna storm off because you’re not destitute. Meanwhile, I’ve spent weeks wondering if you could afford new shoes.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that …”

“Don’t apologize,” I cut in, soft now. “You being rich doesn’t bother me, Brew. I told you, money doesn’t matter to me, and it doesn’t make me see you any differently.”

“It doesn’t piss you off?”

“You lying kind of does. But I get it. I think.”

His eyes search mine. “You do?”

I nod. “You thought I’d want you because of your money. I bet you’ve dealt with a lot of gold diggers. Garrett sure has.”

I reach over and take his hand.

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