Page 4 of The Romance Adventure

The other possibility isn’t something I want to think about today or ever. I left the island and became one, a man unto myself—self-made, self-sustaining. Well, with Angela’s help. Not going to deny that.

When I return to the hotel, I tap my phone to dial my assistant. “Angela,” I say, giving her permission to deliver whatever request or news required me to call.

“Check the bedside table.”

“Don’t be cryptic.”

“I didn’t open it myself, but I think you’ll understand once you see who it’s from.”

I limit the information available to my associates, but Angela is perceptive and knows that there is only one person in the world who has the ability to throw me off my game. No, it’s not a woman, because I don’t let them get that close.

Angela knows not to send the old man’s calls through and not to pre-screen any correspondence. She gives any mail directly to me. The old man didn’t advance to the technological age with email and texting, so I never have to worry about that.

On the lacquer table beside the king-size bed in my hotel suite sits a thick white envelope, embossed with my name in black. The return address on the back panel instantly makes my stomach of steel swim with dread.

I hang up the phone and repeatedly turn the envelope over in my hand, debating whether to open it.

One of these days, I’m going to get the call that the old man passed away. Apparently, today isn’t that day because this is the size and shape of a birthday invitation—roughly the same as the ones he’s sent for the last few years.

Do I bother sending my regrets? No, I’m well past that. Chip, my grandfather, gets silence just like the kind he gave. I washed my hands of the salty water surrounding that island and built something more solid under my feet than sand.

My phone beeps again, only this time it’s a message from my buddy Winston in the group chat whom I met with earlier, along with some other guys from college before I dropped out.

They thought I was crazy, but I wanted to make money rather than spend money and rack up debt. The prevailing wisdom is you have to spend money to make money, but I’m doing just fine.

More than fine. I’m a shave under a billion and I’m barely over thirty. Chip can keep his sage wisdom and whatever pennies he has left. I toss the envelope in the bin.

My phone beeps again, this time with a few photos from earlier.

The guys and I chartered a plane, skydived, and landed on a private island off South Carolina. One of my clients owns it and said I could hunt, fish, or chill anytime I wanted. I’ll own an island before long and it won’t be that one or Coco Key. I’m thinking near Fiji—in other words, far from here. In the meantime, we played an aggressive game of flag football and I have the bruises to prove it.

Every year since we met during freshman orientation, Winston, Holt, Billy, and I take turns organizing a get-together. There are four of us and four seasons. It was my turn in the New Year, and they know that I get extreme. It was Billy’s turn last time, and we merely grabbed pizzas and watched a movie. When I’m up at bat, they know that I don’t bring the noise. I deliver the goods.

Someone knocks on the door to my hotel room at the same time the guys message. A hotel employee brings in my clothing. I drop him a tip and then look at the pictures of the four of us—muddy and mean.

We text back and forth, and Billy insists he and Holt would’ve won had Ryan been on their team. My twin is a professional football player, but I’m no slouch either.

Yep, today was just a regular Monday in my life. Tomorrow, it’s back to work, but it’s not a grind. Nope, I’m building an empire, and not only will I someday own an island, but I’ll also commission a skyscraper to be built with my name across the top in gold, gleaming in the sun and glowing under the moonlight.

Running the hedge fund and multiple real estate investments has taken me far from the spit of land I could never quite call home.

From time to time, I wish things were still like they used to be. That if I chartered a plane, we’d all get together and be a family again.

But everything splintered when CJ repeatedly insisted that Mom and Dad were still alive. Who can trust him? My youngest brother hunts pearls, associates with pirates, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew the menace that ruined my favorite blue T-shirt.

Yeah, he’s that kind of guy.

To be fair, I have five more matching shirts at home, but still.

The problem is that Chip, my grandfather, never told CJ to cool it. He let the kid get away with claiming our parents didn’t die. Our grandfather should’ve told him to sit down and shut up. To stop because there is no sense in letting any of us have that kind of hope.

Magnus, Ryan, CJ, and I bickered. Lines were drawn. Phone calls have gone unanswered. Space continues to grow between us. It could be said that we each got caught up in our own lives and forgot about island life, and regrettably, our grandfather.

But I don’t have any regrets, because here I am, at the top of my game, and nothing is going to slow me down.

Not an old man and his birthday party invitation, not a smoothie, and not a girl with a sweet smile.

I start to pack up to head to the airport when my phone rings this time. Magnus’s name, my oldest brother, scrolls across the screen. I bristle because if this is about the party, it’s not happening. Maybe it’s a big one. Is Chip turning eighty? No, that can’t be right. Seems like the old man has been eighty for a decade.