Page 108 of Last Resort

“C’mon, Sutton,” Ledger says when he notices his brother looking my way. “I’m certain we’re getting to some really embarrassing pictures of Callahan when we were little.”

“Bowl haircuts and all,” Ford says.

“Dude, if I had one then you had one,” Callahan says.

“Blackmail material?” I ask as I move toward the table. “Yes, please.” I yelp when I go to sit down and Callahan grabs me by the waist, pulling me to sit on his lap.

He kisses my cheek as he wraps his arms around me.

Effortless.

That’s what this is between us and it still astounds me every time we’re together. How easy this love we have is. We’ve spent a month working in Manhattan, three months at an old property in Napa that needed some work, and then back in Manhattan again . . . and while that time included long, hard hours of work, the time between was incredible. Laughter and love making and comfortable silence interspersed with more laughter.

For a man who didn’t think he knew how to love, he’s shown me daily how cherished I am, how important and vital I am to him. He’s shown me how it is to be loved by someone’s whole heart.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Callahan murmurs in my ear, giving a perfect example to illustrate my thoughts.

“I am too.”

“See? Bowl cuts,” Ford says, sliding a picture in front of me that has me laughing so hard it brings tears to my eyes.

They show me pictures, one after another. They share pieces of their life with me, stories, and images of their father I never met, but who still remains present. We laugh. Eyes water. Glances of brotherly love are exchanged.

“See? I told you that you picked the right brother,” Callahan says after he holds up a picture of them as teenagers. Callahan has his shirt off and is flexing.

“Let me see that.” I take the picture and hold it closer to my face. “You sure that’s you? I’m pretty sure that’s Ford,” I tease.

Ford laughs and high-fives me.

But it’s only when I look back toward Callahan does the laughter fade from my lips. “What is it?” I ask suddenly at the bittersweet look on his face.

I follow his gaze to the photograph that was apparently stuck to the back of the muscle pose one, and my heart leaps into my throat.

The image is faded and worn at the edges. The color is washed out in several spots. But as Callahan lifts it off the table, there is absolutely no mistaking what the image is of or where it was taken.

A young Maxton Sharpe is standing on a sandy bluff, the sun is overhead, and a peculiar yet unmistakable stack of rocks is to his right. His hair is blowing in the breeze, his smile mesmerized, as he looks over to the woman beside him. She’s in a conservative sundress with a stylish hat on her head and the same adoring look on her face.

“Do you know where this is?” Callahan whispers, his eyes swimming with tears when he looks up from the image of his mom and dad.

I nod, my words escaping me and my own eyes filling with tears. “I do,” I finally whisper.

It is the bluff in the Virgin Islands. The same one Callahan took me to on our last night together where we swayed in the hammock, sipped wine, and said a silent goodbye to each other.

“He was there. He remembered.” And when Callahan closes his eyes and exhales a shaky sigh, I can only fathom how much this picture means to him.

His dad had remembered the beach. The promise to his mom. It was all real. Not something the dementia stole and warped. It was one last truth his father shared with his son that Callahan could hold on to when he was gone.

The deal for the resort, the reasons he let his father sign the deal, and the reason we met, all were valid.

“He was right,” Callahan whispers as he slides the picture across the table to his brothers. “He remembered.”

Callahan

“I don’t know where your head is, but if it’s anywhere near where I think it is, you might want this.”

“Want what?” I look over to where he’s holding a black velvet box.

“Ford and I agreed that you should have this.”