I pull into the south block of Flanders Bay. My bay. Because I own it all. Except for one ratty old lot. When Eric and I first came up with the concept of Four Fathers, I knew exactly what I was going to do with my cut. For Eric, the money wasn’t even a perk. He was raised with a silver spoon shoved so far up his ass, he probably just wanted the money to say he had it. I’m sure he was spending his earnings lining his toilet paper with gold so he could brag about wiping his ass with money.

When I made my first million, I bought a gigantic house—a place I never had growing up. After a while, it didn’t feel right, so I bought another one. Then another one. Nothing I spent my money on offered me that feeling of home. I was trying to compensate for all the years I lived as a young child on the streets of Florida City, a low-income area near Miami, spending my nights around a bonfire off the beach. When I finally found myself in a place where I had a roof over my head, I expected to feel relief, but all I felt was trapped.

I park my car in the three-car driveway of the luxurious three-story beachfront home I just spent the last month renovating. The house itself is beautiful, but the previous owners were shit for decorators. Walking up to the door, I use my key to enter and look around at the work Darlene’s done. Even though I want to strangle her half the time, she has a good eye for design. I drop the keys on the foyer bar and head to the back kitchen. Each and every house on this block opens up to the beach. At no time while you're in any part of these houses are you unable to get a glimpse of the water—exactly how I designed them. If the house didn’t provide that, I had them reconstructed. Cost wasn’t an issue—the perks of running a multi-billion-dollar freight company.

I pass through the white marble kitchen, appreciating the new stainless-steel appliances Darlene put in. I requested the island be big enough to fit a solid twenty people around it, which she managed to make happen, and it looks fantastic.

To my right sits the exquisite twenty-person-table set ready to dine a royal army. Through the side windows, I notice the shutters to the eye sore next door have been pried open. The girl already seems to be settling in. I need to put a stop to this before she gets any more comfortable. I shoot a text over to Clara telling her I’m going to handle the girl instead.

I walk outside to the gigantic deck overseeing the sand and ocean. The ocean breeze across my face calms me, momentarily stopping the numbers running through my head. It’s why I bought the houses where I did. To feel free at all, I need the ocean. I need the calmness of the waves. The smell of the salt water. The feel of the sand during the day when it's so hot it burns, or the coolness between my toes at night. I could have anything. Any house I want. And I want the openness of the ocean.

Obnoxious music blasts from the balcony next door, cutting through the quietness of the waves. “Jesus, what the hell is she listening to?” Kids these days and their terrible taste in music. I try to keep up with Kaden’s changing tastes, but lord help me with the shit they come out with nowadays.

I pull at the collar of my dress shirt feeling the tightness around my neck. There’s not a chance I’m waiting ‘til the end of the summer to close on this deal. I don’t care that the closing date states the first of August. This girl needs to sign this contract today. I can have a crew here within seventy-two hours. Every day she stalls, it’s a setback. I look at the date on my watch. It’s the first of June. Sixty-one days lost if she doesn’t sign. Forty-three excluding weekends. Four hundred and eighty minutes, twenty-thousand and six hundred and forty—

I pull harder, breaking the top button off my shirt.

“Fuck.”

She’s fucking signing, whether she likes it or not. I’ll hold her down for all I care. Too much time will be wasted. Seconds of wasted time. Tick. Tick. Tick. One million, five hundred and forty-eight hundred thousand minutes.

I turn around and storm back through the house and out the front door. Twenty-two feet across the front lawn and I make it onto her ratty front porch. The counting starts every time my closed fist meets her worn door. One, two, three, four… At seven banging seconds, she answers.

“Hi, can I help—”

“Sign the contract,” I blurt out, trying to focus on the girl in front of me, who doesn’t seem to be a girl at all. Fuck. Her ash blond hair blows across her oval shaped face with the evening breeze. Her eyes, the color of emeralds gaze politely back at me, as her full lips curve into a soft smile. My heart beats out of my chest. I should have popped a Xanax on my way over.

“Excuse me?” she asks, her voice light and sexy as fuck.

Focus, man.

“I said sign. The seven hundred-fifty thousand will be wired to your bank within an hour after we close. I can make that happen as early as tomorrow morning. Now, stop wasting my time.” Ten, nine, eight, seven… God she has perky breasts. Her tight tank top hides nothing of her full C-cup. Perfect nipples. She’s just under five-six, approximately six inches shorter than me. Six, five…

“I’m not signing anything. Like I told your realtor, I’m staying until the end of summer just like the original contract states. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

My hand goes out, stopping her from slamming the door in my face. Four, three, two… I should have taken the call from Dr. Winters this morning. The counting is getting worse.

“Excuse me! Remove your hand, sir, or I’ll call the police!”

I snap out of my episode. Sir? Did she just call me sir? “What did you just call me?”

“I called you sir, and you’re currently trespassing. Get off my property.”

Jesus Christ, how old does she think I am? I look down at my chest peeking through where my button used to hold my shirt in place. Muscle. I see fucking muscle. I might be nearing forty-five, but I feel great. I look great. Not a single gray to be seen. I’m tan, smooth skin. My goddamn ex waxes my eyebrows for Christ’s sake, and my dick works better than it did when I was a teenager. How the hell do I look like a sir?

“Hello? Are you deaf now?”

“Are you insinuating I’m old and can’t hear?” She gives me a peculiar look while I look at her as if she’s blind. Clearly, I’m not old. Or deaf.

“What? Maybe, but you’re still on my porch.”

“I’m not old enough to be called sir. Take it back.” Apparently, I’ve resorted to child’s play as well.

Her brows go up. “Seriously? You're offended I called you old?” Damn straight. I’m half tempted to show her just how not old I am by fucking her so hard over this ratty porch, the hinges break beneath us. “Hello? You sure you aren’t deaf? You seem to also have a staring problem.”

I can’t deny that. I can’t stop staring at her perfect lips tempting me to do so many things to them. Jesus. When was the last time I got laid? The numbers start at it again, counting down the months, hours, minutes from the last time I was with a woman. Dammit. “Stop,” I burst out loud to my brain.

“No, you stop, you’re the one staring.”

“What? No, not you.” This is turning out to be a big fucking disaster. I shove my hands over my face and through my thick dark hair while she observes my every move. A dumb part of me hopes she notices how thick my hair is. Someone who’s old wouldn’t have such a great head of hair.

Maybe I did this all wrong. Threatening her to sign the new contract may have not been the right angle. Maybe being a gentleman would have worked better. I try to start over.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Can I come in?”

Her eyes bug out at the question. Apparently, that wasn’t the right move either. “No. And no! You come banging on my door, threatening me, and—not gonna lie—creep me out with all your staring and number mumbling, then think you can come in? No, you most certainly cannot.”

Dammit. I can’t remember the last time I scared a chick. Because I never have. This girl must be blind. I start equating the amount of time I’ve been in her presence and how short the timespan of her ability to perform an adequate perception of me—

“You’re doing it again!”

“Doing what?”

“Counting!”

What in God’s name has come over me? I pull at my shirt again, needing more air down my chest. Speaking of chests, I seem to have a liking for hers, since I keep finding my eyes there. She catches on and crosses her arms over her tits, making them even perkier. Fuck. Go home, Trev. Let Clara handle her.

My dick wants me to do all the handling, but I'm pretty sure the freaked out look on her face tells me I’m not impressing her enough to offer her to suck my cock as an apology.

I take a step back.

Then another one.

“Sign the contract. Take the money. Don’t make me come back here.” I threaten having to come back here, but my dirty mind fantasizes me doing just that. Sneaking into her bedroom, eating her raw, then fucking her bareback. I shake my head. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I turn, treading back across the lawn. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen…

“Hey, Numbers?” her sexy little voice calls, and my head whips around. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t want your extra money. I’m not going to close any earlier than the original contract states.”

“We’ll see about that.” I offer her my handsome, panty-dropping smile, then continue my path, counting the remainder of steps back to my house.