Page 68 of Better When Shared
Nisha's eyes softened with sympathy. "Caleb, I'm so—"
"Don't," I cut her off gently. "It's fine. I expected it. This isn’t about you, not really. It’s how they always are."
Truth was, I'd almost hoped for it. Better their absence than their quiet disapproval. Better the clean wound of rejection than the slow poison of conditional acceptance.
Julian opened his mouth to reply, but his expression shifted, eyes focusing on something over my shoulder. "Incoming," he warned under his breath.
I turned to see my brother cutting through the crowd with ruthless efficiency, his tailored suit a blade that parted tourists and bellhops alike. Tristan hadn't changed—same sharp angles that mirrored my own but harder, crueler somehow, as if life had chiseled away anything soft from him years ago. His eyes, green like mine, scanned us with clinical detachment.
"You're late," he said by way of greeting, not bothering with pleasantries. "Your clients showed up at three." His gaze flicked dismissively over Julian and Nisha. "I see you brought your... companions."
I straightened, feeling my spine lock into the familiar battle posture we'd assumed since childhood. "These are my partners, Tristan. Julian and Nisha Brooks-Sharma. This is my brother,Tristan Bancroft, CEO of the Bancroft Group and professional killjoy."
Tristan's mouth tightened, but before he could respond, the hotel's massive doors swung open again, this time admitting my guests. Marco Torres strode in, lean and confident, his muscular thighs barely contained by what appeared to be—Jesus Christ—yellow crochet shorts, tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination. Beside him, Juniper floated in a matching crochet halter top, her wild curls adorned with what looked suspiciously like tiny seashells.
“Why in the bloody fuck,” Tristan muttered under his breath, “did you think to bring those hippies to my hotel?”
I stifled a laugh. "Those hippies may not look it, but they are my largest clients—Juniper and Marco Torres. They own the Bindery Hotel chain. The one that’s blown up over the past year."
Tristan's eyes widened fractionally. "The boutique brand that outperformed the Ritz in customer satisfaction last quarter? Those are the owners?"
"The very same," I confirmed, watching as Marco spotted us and waved enthusiastically, dragging Juniper toward our little group. "And they've booked ten rooms for their staff retreat, while they explore location options in Bath. And this isn’t just your hotel, it’s mine. I’m still a shareholder and silent partner. So be nice."
"Caleb!" Marco called, enveloping me in a crushing hug that smelled of expensive cologne and patchouli. "This place isfucking magnificent! All that Georgian symmetry, those bath stone facades—my God, the preservation work is immaculate!"
Juniper kissed both my cheeks, then did the same to a startled Julian and delighted Nisha. "We got an early flight. Couldn't wait to see the property you've been raving about." She twirled, the crochet top revealing glimpses of sun-kissed skin. "What do you think of our new festival wear?"
"It's... memorable," I managed, acutely aware of Tristan's frozen smile beside me. "You've met my brother?"
Marco extended his hand, his eyes sparkling with some sort of secret. "Not officially. I think he might be avoiding us. I’m Marco."
Tristan, ever the businessman, shifted seamlessly into professional mode, but he wasn’t quite as polished as usual. His eyes were on Marco’s shorts. "Mr. Torres. As I said earlier, we're delighted to host your retreat."
"When can we see the property?" Juniper asked, practically bouncing with excitement. "The one in the Cotswolds you told us about, Caleb? We're thinking a rural location would be the perfect setting for a romantic Bindery retreat. Or perhaps we could find something along the sea? With crumbling cliffs and moody skies. Very gothic."
Tristan's eyebrows shot up. "You're buying property here?" Before I could answer, his eyes dropped to Juniper’s top, as if he’d only just noticed it. “Where did you get that?”
Juniper ran her fingers along the intricate pattern of her halter top. "The craftsmanship on these pieces is exquisite, don't youthink? We found them in this tiny boutique back there behind the pop-up shop—"
"Pop-up shop?" Tristan interrupted, his voice oddly strangled.
“The one with the handmade bath salts? Like a craft fair. Gemma was running it,” Marco said. “Brilliant idea for a wellness-focused hotel like yours.”
Tristan’s jaw was clenched and there was a vein popping in his forehead. “What?”
I cleared my throat. “Maybe cousin Gemma has a reason for—”
“Those were not for sale,” Tristan said, his voice dangerously low.
Juniper frowned. “But there were such beautiful pieces, all laid out perfectly! Honestly, I was going to ask you who the artist was who made them so we could open a shop in our new Palm Springs location. The Coachella crowd will go nuts for them.”
My brother made a strange choked sound.
"Mr. Bancroft, were you trying to tell us something?" Juniper asked, slapping my brother on the back. “Are you choking?”
My brother's face had gone the peculiar shade of red it only achieved under extreme duress. "The clothing you’re wearing belongs to me.”
“Oh really?” Juniper said. “I’m not sure this top would fit you.”
