Summary:
Shore Thing #1
Cole Sullivan
Life's been pretty amazing. Moving back to my hometown of Coral Pointe Inlet and opening Shore Thing Management with my four best friends is the best decision I've ever made. Falling back into old habits with an ex? Not so much. When Aiden, the sexy, straight owner of SandBar comes to my rescue pretends to be my boyfriend—handing me the flashlight I need to make my way out of the darkness—lines begin to blur. Suddenly, I'm falling again, but is it stupid of me to want Aiden to land by my side?
Aiden Rafferty
I've made a name for myself in this town. Granted, sometimes it's passed around in a morsel of gossip over morning coffee. I've poured my heart and soul into SandBar, and despite some townspeople thinking I turned my back on the family business, it's become a tourist hotspot. I see and hear a lot as a bartender, but I never get involved—until Cole. There's something about him, something that makes me want to protect him. Problem is, he's been hurt before. This fake relationship was my idea, so how do I go about convincing Cole there's nothing fake about it?
Chapter 1
COLE
“Cole, can you come to the front desk? We’ve got some lovely guests here who would like to speak to a manager,” Miss Margie practically purred in her sweet-as-pie voice—the one she reserved for lovely guests—and abruptly hung up the phone. I sat there looking at the receiver in my hand and cursing under my breath. “Shit.” What the hell happened now?
“You know better than to say you’re leaving out loud. That’s when the shit hits the fan.” Levi tossed his pen on his desk, which faced mine in the small office we shared, and sat back in his chair. Selfishly, we’d made sure our office had an ocean view. One of the perks of living and working in paradise. “Did she say lovely?”
“Sure did. How’d I end up as Hotel Manager for the Coral Pointe Inn again? It’s all a blur. Was I drinking? Can I take it back? I want a refund on my poor decisions.” I slumped down in my chair and looked at the ceiling, shaking my fists above my head. “Whyyyy?”
Levi’s shoulders shook, a rumble of a laugh rolling out of my so-called friend. “I’m pretty sure it’s your sunny disposition. Or maybe it’s your ability to spin shit into gold. Or because you’re just so darn cute.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk and quirked an eyebrow. “Or maybe…just maybe…it’s because you take people’s shit with a smile.” Levi huffed. “We just came full-circle, didn’t we? Poor decisions.”
“I do not take people’s shit.” Except I did. I totally did. One person’s in particular.
“Making sweet Miss Margie wait too long is a really bad decision. Almost as bad as the excuse you made up about what you’re doing tonight. You know she can usually handle things on her own, so if she’s calling you about lovely guests…” By lovely, of course she meant batshit crazy, pompous, impossible-to-please guests. Unfortunately, it wasn’t good for business to call them all that to their faces. Shame.
I jumped up out of my chair, knowing all too well the truth in Levi’s words—at least about making Miss Margie wait—slamming my knee into the desk in the process. “Sons a bitches!” Levi lamely offered to take care of it so I could leave, but I shot him the finger as I hobbled out of the office, hearing the jackass bark out a laugh behind me.
It had been a year since my best friends and I had the brilliant idea to open a hotel in Coral Pointe Inlet. A year since Levi found the listing in my childhood hometown for the inn foreclosure when he’d been working in commercial real estate. A year since we’d quit our respective jobs, pooled our savings to start Shore Thing Management, and moved to Coral Pointe in the hopes of ‘living the dream.’
Don’t get me wrong…we’d worked our asses off to get Coral Pointe Inn up and running over the last six months—still were—and there was no one I trusted more to do this with than my four best friends. But, for the love of Chris Hemsworth, if one more thing went wrong, I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions. Because, surely, the crazy shit we dealt with—like calling animal control for a baby alligator a genius guest put in a bathtub or the cleaning crew opening the dresser drawers to find them full of oranges—didn’t fall under the definition of living the dream.
Still, pride filled my chest as I walked down the hall to the ocean-breeze-filled lobby. Antique pine flooring stretched from the French entry doors to the reservation desk and down each modest wing of the twenty-nine room—because no way were we messing around with a room number thirteen—hotel. A cross-breeze from the front entrance to the beach and pool access exit cooled the lobby considerably in the Florida heat. Bamboo furnishings and comfy lounge-style seating in shades of coral, teal, and beige gave the space the laidback, Caribbean feel we were going for. Potted palms and tropical plants brought the calming outdoors in, blending the wraparound porch and the lobby into one cohesive design. It was our pride and joy. I kept telling myself that as I geared up for whatever the hell awaited me at the front desk.
“Sir, if you’ll just wait a few more minutes, I’m sure he’ll be—”
“Right here,” I interjected, reaching my hand across the reservation desk in greeting. When it remained there, awkwardly hanging in the air without reception, I plastered a smile on my face and dropped my hand to the desk. So, you’re one of those guests, hmm? “What can I do for you, Mr…?”
“Stafford. Mr. and Mrs. Stafford.” Miss Margie wrung her hands together, worry creasing the dark skin around her eyes…and that just wouldn’t do.
The disgruntled older man twisted his face into a scowl, his nervous wife standing at his side. “I was just telling your desk person—”
“Hospitality Clerk,” I corrected, keeping that shit-eating grin on my face so as not to deck the condescending man.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Margie is our Hospitality Clerk. We’d be lost without her.” I could hear Miss Margie let out a breath beside me, her posture easing.
The man waved his hand in the air. “Whatever. I was telling her we were highly disappointed in our dinner last night. The shrimp was bland and the bread was like biting into Styrofoam.”
Burke’s gonna blow a gasket when he hears someone shit on his cooking. Can’t. Fucking. Wait.
“I apologize that you had such a poor experience in our restaurant. I assure you, Oceanside Bar and Grill strives to serve our guests the finest cuisine on the Florida coast.”
“Not here. My wife and I didn’t travel all this way to eat subpar food in the hotel restaurant.” Oh no he didn’t… “She”—he rudely pointed at Miss Margie—“gave us a list of restaurants in the area, and I’m telling you the food at Bluefin was horrible.”
Breathe, Cole. Breathe. “So, let me see if I’m understanding you. My Hospitality Clerk gave you a list of local restaurants, as she does as a courtesy for every guest who checks in, you chose a place from that list, and were unhappy with their food?”
The man gave a curt nod. “I’d like to know how we’re going to be compensated for our troubles.”
“Well, sir, if you’d like, I can contact the owner of Bluefin and make them aware of—” What a supreme asshole you are.
Mr. Stafford’s gnarly pointer finger punctuated every other word on the desk as he made his disgust known. “I would like to know how you are going to reimburse me for her error!”
Now, listen, I’d always been a sensible guy, at least where business was concerned. There was a reason that, out of the five of us, I took on the task of Hotel Manager. By now, Burke would’ve shown this guy to his car by way of the front window, Levi would’ve yawned, completely unimpressed with the guy’s tantrum, Ford would’ve nervously joked the whole thing off, and Noah would’ve escaped the situation altogether. I was the one least likely to lose my cool, even if I had the urge to grab the asshat by the collar of his Ralph Lauren polo and drag him out of the Coral Pointe for upsetting Miss Margie. No one—I repeat no one—was allowed to speak about sweet Miss Margie the way this jerk was.
“Mr. Stafford, I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice so as not to disturb our other guests.” I gave a polite nod and a gleaming smile to a couple leaving the hotel, whose curious looks said they’d heard at least part of this guy’s rant. The disgruntled man scoffed, most likely about to spout off more insults, but I raised my voice. “Now, I’m sorry your dinner at Bluefin wasn’t to your liking”—Maybe the entitlement reeking from your pores fucked up your senses?—“however, they are not affiliated with this inn directly. As a convenience, the town of Coral Pointe got together and made up a brochure for tourists, highlighting activities and local fare. Aside from our own inn, restaurant, and Shore Thing Tours, I’m afraid I have no control over your experience”—or your pretentious, I-want-it-now tantrums—“at another establishment. If you’d like, I can offer you a complimentary lunch in our—”
Veins bulging out of Mr. Stafford’s neck, he slapped his hand down on the desk and spat, “This is outrageous! I demand to speak to a manager!”
Breathe in through the nose and out through the nose. “I am the manager, sir.” Patience? Yeah, that left the chat five minutes ago.
“Then I want to speak to the owner.” Beside the man, his wife shifted uncomfortably, looking back over her shoulder at the front doors as if planning her escape from her husband’s embarrassing outburst.
I channeled my inner Kardashian and forced my biggest smile, reaching a hand out over the reservation desk. “Cole Sullivan, co-owner of the Coral Pointe Inn and Shore Thing Tours.”
Oh, the look… You know the one—eyes bulging, mouth gaping like a guppy seeking air, floundering for a snarky comeback but failing miserably. Finally, he grumbled, “Well, as the owner, the least you can do is refund us for last night.”
I’d officially had enough. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. Like I said, we’d be happy to give you both a complimentary lunch in our—”
Nostrils flaring, Mr. Stafford slammed his fist down hard on the counter this time, making both me and Miss Margie flinch. “Listen, you little—”
“Is there a problem here?” Not gonna lie, the deep timbre of Burke’s voice to my left released tension in my shoulders I hadn’t even been aware of. Yeah, I had a level head, but I also avoided physical confrontation like Superman avoided kryptonite.
Burke, however…
He crossed his arms over the wide expanse of his chest, his dark eyes narrowed beneath an equally dark furrowed brow, and his ever-present five o’clock shadow gave off that menacing look he’d been perfecting since college. “Seems to me we’ve offered more patience than you deserve, given how you just Hulk-smashed the counter I meticulously stained with my own two hands.” Burke looked down, flexing those massive hands out in front of him before lifting hard eyes to Mr. Stafford. Thankfully, Burke was smart enough to move those hands to his hips because, let’s face it…his glare was enough to make grown men whimper—and not in the way he got off on.
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” Mr. Stafford shouted, yanking his poor wife toward the front doors.
“Looking forward to it!” Burke retorted, getting another dirty look from Mr. Stafford. “We spent a pretty penny on our lobby cameras…complete with sound. I’d love to show them off.”
“Let’s go, Becky.” Mr. Stafford pulled his wife along, mumbling curses along the way.
“Good riddance,” Miss Margie breathed out. “Thank you, boys. You know I can hold my own, but I know when to throw in the towel and call in the big guns.”
“Aw, then why’d you call Cole, Miss Margie?” Burke asked, kissing her on the cheek and making her laugh. She’d been my sixth grade teacher and had lived in Coral Pointe all her life, only a block from the inn. It just so happened she was looking for something to do because retirement was, as she said, more boring than watching grass grow. It had been a no-brainer hiring her with her sweet, welcoming smile.
“Hey.” I shoved Burke aside, then flexed my biceps. “I’ve got big guns.” Okay, so Burke’s biceps looked like they ate mine for breakfast, but my lean muscle was hard earned, dammit.
Burke patted my cheek, his bottom lip pushed out into a pout. “Don’t feel bad, Cole. Weapon dysfunction happens to the best of us. I mean, I’ve never experienced it, but I hear it’s a thing.”
I narrowed my eyes at another one of my so-called friends. Between him and Levi giving me shit today, I had two openings in the best friend category. Ford and Noah were already skating on thin ice and they didn’t even know it yet. “You know, you and Levi can go jump—”
“Now, now, boys. I didn’t ask you to calm one storm just so you could rile up another. Back to work.” Miss Margie clapped her hands together twice, using that don’t-even-think-of-disobeying-me voice she’d perfected over the years teaching smart-ass kids.
We were no fools. Burke and I both hung our heads and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Burke rubbed the top of his buzz-cut hair and sighed, lumbering off toward the kitchen. “I have soufflés to prepare.” Only Burke could threaten a man with just a look and then go and bake something as delicate as a soufflé.
“Miss Margie, I’m done for the day. Levi’s in the office if you need anything.”
“Sure, honey. Everything’s under control now.” She gave me a soft smile then went about tidying the already-organized reservation desk.
Instead of leaving through the front doors, which led to the porte-cochère and valet, I meandered down the same hallway I had come from and out the back French doors onto the wraparound porch. The second my skin hit the warm, Florida air, I took in a deep, cleansing breath. I kicked my loafers off at the bottom of the wooden stairs and picked them up, following the path that ran alongside the pool and to the white sands of the beach that had always been home.
The decision to pack up and move back to Coral Pointe Inlet hadn’t been a hard one. All I’d wanted after I graduated high school was to be out from under my mom’s overprotective worrying. Paying off a student loan on the east coast had been cheaper than moving across the country to go to a school in California. Georgia had seemed like the best of both worlds—far enough away from my parents to live a little, but close enough to go home for holidays.
Ford and I met when we’d moved into the same dorm room freshman year. Burke and Levi had been next door, and Noah across the hall. After wrestling with and figuring out that we all waved the rainbow flag in one respect or another, our friendship solidified. For the next four years we’d been inseparable, even renting our own off-campus house together.
After living in Georgia for thirteen years, a stone’s throw away from each other, the dream to open our own place on the beach started swirling around our brains. The guys had already been to my beachy hometown a few times, and we’d unanimously decided to set up shop there—which had pleased my mother to no end. It had taken a year to find the perfect place and another year to make it a reality. That perfect place happened to be on one end of the horseshoe that made up Coral Pointe, where the inlet met the ocean. But, as I gazed out at the blue water—heard the persistent call of the laughing gulls, breathed in the briny smell of the ocean, and felt the grainy sand between my toes and the gentle touch of the water as it glided over my feet before retreating—I knew I’d made the right decision to come home. See, I can make good decisions, dammit. Question was…who was I trying to convince?
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I reached for it, pushing away the pang of disappointment as I looked at the screen and answered. “Why, hello there, Sage. What can I do for you on this beautiful day?”
“Don’t you, ‘hello there, Sage’ me. What the hell is wrong with my bread?” Sage Rafferty demanded, his high-pitched tone piercing into the calm I’d built around myself. And, just like that, my mood lifted again.
“Apparently, it tastes like Styrofoam. You should really look into that. And, just a heads up, I know they’re called packing peanuts, but I don’t advise you use those in your peanut butter pie, either. You’re welcome.” I rolled my lips in, pressing my fist against my mouth.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Where is that asshole? I’ll tell him where he can shove his sanctimonious sentiments about my—”
“Styrofoam?”
“Yes. NO!” Sage’s anger slipped as he chuckled into the phone. “Jackass.” His feisty mood seemed to deflate as he exhaled. “I make delicious shrimp, too, dammit.”
“You make amazing shrimp. You know it, I know it, the whole town knows it. That guy wanted a comped room, end of story.” It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last, either.
“Yeah, well…sorry you had to deal with that. I don’t know who it was, but we didn’t get a single complaint about a meal last night. To compensate you for getting your ass chewed out, you should send Levi over, and I’ll make him the best shrimp he’s ever had in his life.”
“Wait…you’re going to compensate me getting yelled at by feeding Levi a delicious dinner?” Leave it up to Sage to somehow turn this convo into a way to hit on Levi. Sage had all but camped out on Levi’s front yard, naked, with a sign that read, Fucking take me already! The only one who seemed oblivious was my dear, sweet, clueless best friend.
But, let’s face it, Levi could do worse than Sage. A hell of a lot worse. My habit of getting caught up in the web of the absolute wrong guy was something I was trying desperately to break. Did you ever read that quote by Warren Buffett? Chains of habit are too light to be felt until they are too heavy to be broken. When I’d read that a few weeks ago on some random social media post, I felt it in my soul. Nothing was heavier than the weight of a bad habit. Remember when I said I was level-headed? Yeah, well no one was perfect. I may have been smart enough to avoid physical confrontation, but Drake was a kryptonite I couldn’t stay away from. Instead, I sought it out—him out—knowing what the ultimate outcome would be.
“Listen, sweets, I love you and all, but it’s never gonna happen between us. There’s too much cheer in your beer. I need a broody, dark stout. I need layers of creamy, rich flavor. I need—”
“Are we still talking about Levi? Because it sounds to me like you’re trying to take a LandShark and disguise it as a Guinness.” I pulled my feet out of the sand they had sunken into, leaving wells in their place that immediately filled with salt water.
“You laugh, but I know there’s something brewing in that man. Lucky for him, I’m patient enough to wait for those flavors to meld together.”
“Thanks, Sage. Now my pride is wounded and I’m thirsty.” I turned and headed south down the beach toward my place, leaving the tension from the earlier confrontation to blow away in the breeze.
Sage laughed into the phone. “No, seriously, I’m sorry you guys had to take the brunt of that. Come on by Bluefin tonight. There will be a decadent chocolate cake with your names on it. Hell, I’ll even cut you the same size piece I give Levi.”
“You’re a giver, Sage.”
“I know. It’s a weakness.”
“I’ve got plans tonight, though. Raincheck?”
It was never a good sign when Sage was silent. “Plans, huh?” When I responded with a sigh into the phone, he asked, “Where are you meeting him?”
I snorted. “What makes you think I’d tell you that?”
“It’s a small town, Cole. I’ll find out anyway.”
I absolutely hated that he was right. We’d all exchanged privacy for paradise when we moved to Coral Pointe. “SandBar.” I glanced across the inlet to the opposite end of the Coral Pointe horseshoe, hearing the faint music dance across the air from SandBar Brewing Co.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” Sage’s voice softened, a tell that his concern was sincere.
“I’m not doing anything to myself, Sage. Drake and I have history”—fuck that damn line about history repeating itself—“but we’re not exclusive.” We weren’t. He’d made me no promises. I could walk away anytime I wanted to. Jesus, you make him sound like a drug.
“But you would be in a heartbeat if he stopped dicking you around. I know you have history, but after the shit he pulled in college, and continues to pull, why do you let him treat you that way?”
The truth stung like a bitch, but I was in too deep now. Just like I had been back in high school. My parents weren’t the only people I’d needed a break from when I’d graduated. Drake had graduated a year before me, and about six months into his freshman year, he’d dumped me to expand his sexual horizons. Seriously, who said shit like that? Neither one of us had been out back then, but I’d thought what we’d had was real.
I was stronger now, though.
I was.
Really.
“I gotta go, Sage.” Because denial was easier than admitting I was getting in too deep—again. Reluctantly, Sage said goodbye. Of course, there was no Have a good night tacked on to that. Whatever. I didn’t need anyone’s blessing or permission, and I sure as hell didn’t want anyone’s unasked for advice or guilt.
I knew all too well about weaknesses. Except, instead of mine being a personality trait like Sage, it was a tall blond with commitment issues.
Jaclyn Quinn
I have been an artist from a very young age. From drawing cartoon characters and evolving into portraits, making jewelry, photography, and now writing. I have an amazing support system in my family and friends and couldn’t be more grateful.
I live in central New Jersey, love summers at the Jersey Shore, rock music, wine, sexy men, and laughing a lot with my amazing friends and family. Sunday dinners at my parents’ house are crazy, hysterical and you can count on a movie quote…or ten…being thrown out. Insults between siblings is how we show our love for each other!
When I’m not creating, you can find me reading books from my favorite authors. I’m a hopeless romantic, starving for passionate characters and always craving that happy ending, whether in reading or in writing my own books.
NEWSLETTER / AUDIBLE / TIKTOK
CHIRP / AUDIOBOOKS / TANTOR
Series
AUDIBLE / AUDIOBOOKS / TANTOR
