Quinn pulled an all-nighter, working straight through until noon the next day. He rearranged his schedule to accommodate more time in the city over the upcoming month. He’d avoided the office and shut off his phone for all but critical notifications, not ready to address the questions about his relationship with Sofia until they’d worked out a game plan.
Sofia.
Shoving away from the overly bright screen on his laptop, Quinn leaned back into the deep leather cushioning of his office chair. His grandfather’s old chair, even after decades of use, seemed to retain class and grace, a steady touchstone in a career that constantly demanded invention and innovation to stay competitive. Eyes wandering to the corner of his walnut desk, he absently skimmed over the open newspaper. Even with news apps on his phone, Quinn still read the paper every morning, feeling a sense of connection to the ink and paper. And he couldn’t ignore what was printed in today’s society section—a photograph of the lithe ballerina.
She hadn’t been far from his thoughts all morning and now was no different as he shut down his computer and headed out of the office building to his chauffeur-driven Escalade. And damn if Sofia didn’t continue to dance through his mind as he rode toward the site of McNeill Resorts’ latest renovation project in Brooklyn. Quinn powered down his laptop and stored it in the compartment beside the oversize captain’s chair. He tried to prep himself for the inevitable confrontation with Cameron, who was slated to be on site in their grandfather’s absence.
Even though his brother had walked away from his would-be ballerina bride yesterday, Quinn guessed that Cameron would still have something to say about the turn of events after he’d left. And though Quinn hoped he’d quelled some of Sofia’s father’s anger, he knew the engagement would make waves with his brother. If anything, Quinn hoped that this would make Cameron come to his senses about tying the knot with a woman he’d never met.
Running his hand through thick hair, Quinn let out a low sigh. He needed Cameron to be rational today.
He pressed the switch for the intercom as the Escalade rolled to a stop.
“I shouldn’t be long, Jeff,” Quinn told his driver before he stepped out of the vehicle in front of the converted bank on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. Coffee in hand, he headed onto the site, his well-worn leather shoes crunching against the gravel and construction dust.
Glancing at the scaffolding on the building, he nodded at the progress as the smell of fresh-cut wood and the sounds of hammering filled the air.
“Morning, Giacomo.” Quinn nodded to the site foreman before picking up a hard hat to enter the building.
Giacomo—a sought-after project manager who specialized in historic conversions—gave a silent wave, his ear pressed to his cell phone while he juggled a coffee and a tablet full of project notes. The guy pointed to the roof of the building, answering Quinn’s unasked question about his brother’s whereabouts. Out of respect, the only time the McNeills showed up at each other’s job sites was to talk family business.
Or, in this case, family brides.
Mood darkening as he anticipated an argument, Quinn climbed the temporary stairs installed during the renovation stage to connect the floors that had been stripped down to the studs. A swirl of cement dust kicked up from some kind of demo work on the second floor, and he quickened his steps. He passed some workers perched on scaffolding outside the fourth floor, debating the merits of salvaging some of the crumbling granite façade. Quinn had practically grown up on job sites like this, frequently travelling around the country with his grandfather to learn the business.
At least, that had been the family’s party line. The larger reason was that, during the six months of the year his father had custody of his sons, Liam McNeill was usually too busy thrill-seeking around the globe to bother with parental duties.
Cliff-jumping in Santorini, Greece, or white-water rafting down a perilous South Korean river always seemed like more fun to Quinn’s father than child-rearing. So Malcolm McNeill had stepped in more times than not, teaching his grandsons about property development and the resort industry from the ground up.
Reaching the rooftop, Quinn spied his brother looking out at the skyline from the structure’s best feature—a sunny oasis on the roof that would one day be a space for outdoor dining, drinks and special events. Even at noon the view was breathtaking. But at dusk, when the sun slipped behind the Manhattan skyline, there was no finer perspective on the city than right here.
Cameron sat in a beat-up plastic patio chair that looked like a Dumpster salvage, the legs speckled with various-colored paints. He had dragged the seat close to the edge of the roof, his laptop balanced on his knees and his hard hat sitting on a section of exposed trusses at his feet. His dark jeans sported sawdust, his leg bouncing to some unheard rhythm.
Quinn must have made a noise or cast a shadow because Cameron looked toward him.
“I’m not sure I want to see you right now.” Cameron didn’t smile, his attention returning to his computer screen. “The headlines I’ve seen so far don’t exactly fill me with confidence about what went on last night after I left.”
“The key point there being—you left.” Quinn had never connected as well with Cam as he did with Ian, and that made it tougher to see Cameron’s side now when his younger brother seemed so clearly in the wrong.
“So you felt compelled to stick around and play white knight?” Cameron flipped the screen of his laptop to face Quinn, showing a headline that read Two McNeill Magnates Propose to Former Sugarplum Fairy.
The accompanying photo showed Sofia pirouetting across a stage in a tutu. Damn. So he hadn’t really imagined how hot she was. The levelheaded, practical side of Quinn reeled at the absurd headline and the media circus that would continue to send in the clowns until the official “engagement” story aired.
But his rational side didn’t seem to be in full control. Sofia’s petite body, her lean and limber pose, made him recall their kiss and the heat of that impromptu moment.
Cameron set his jaw, daggers dancing from his eyes. Accusatory and angry, sure. It was all Quinn needed to be drawn back to the problem at hand.
Quinn crossed his arms, undaunted. Cam had to realize what was at stake.
“You piss off her father, one of the wealthiest men in the world, who also happens to have enough Eastern European connections to run our deal for the new resorts into the ground, and call it none of my business?” Quinn shook his head and dragged a crate over to where Cameron was sitting. He planted a foot on it.
Cameron’s mouth thinned, his voice a near growl. “You crossed a line into my personal affairs and you know it. You don’t just propose to your brother’s girl five minutes after they’re through.” Cameron tipped back in the plastic chair like it was a rocker. It teetered on two legs.
The move put Quinn’s teeth on edge but not nearly as much as his words. Cam would think no more of walking across exposed truss beams at two stories than he would at twelve.
“Sofia was never yours,” Quinn reminded him, more irritated than he ought to be at the idea, as a protective fire suddenly blazed in the pit of his chest. “And you lost any chance you had of salvaging something with her when you walked out of the airport yesterday.”
For once, however, Quinn couldn’t be disappointed with in Cam’s impulsive ways. The thought of her sharing that kiss with anyone but Quinn was intolerable.
“Think what you want of my motives, but I saw how you were looking at her.” Cameron drummed his fingers along the back of the laptop case.
That stopped him. He couldn’t deny that he’d felt something as soon as he’d seen her in person.
Cam shook his head. “And I still wouldn’t have walked out, except I saw her looking at you that same exact way. It’s one thing for me to turn my back on a bar fight or a heated investors