Two Days Later . . .
Evan wasn’t sure why he even bothered to check his bogus email address. It wasn’t like he had nothing better to do. He was in his downtown offices, and he had an important meeting in less than fifteen minutes. Checking his notes and making sure he had all of the documents he needed should be his priority at the moment. Nevertheless, he was drumming his fingers on the oak desk in front of him, waiting for the free email page to appear. It came up after a wait he considered way too long, even for a free service, and he logged in impatiently.
This is a waste of time. I have work to do. Why do I even care if some presumptuous person in Amesport answered my email?
He knew for a fact that Grady had more than rescued the Center and the town of Amesport. Evan didn’t need an answer. Still, he wondered if there was an answer to his question, and if the sender of the email had felt appropriately sorry they had sent a letter to a worthwhile charity for help with such a small issue.
Frowning as the annoyingly slow mailbox appeared, he noticed that he did indeed have mail. Clicking the mouse efficiently, he deleted the junk that was a prerequisite to signing up for the free service. He hesitated uncharacteristically as he saw that there actually was a response from the same generic email that he’d written to a few days earlier. A haughty, dark brow rose as he saw the subject line:
Proof that Amesport is On the Map!!
Intrigued, he clicked on the response.
Dear Unsympathetic:
Had I known that all of the Sinclair Fund employees were as heartless and arrogant as you appear to be, I would have definitely written to Santa Claus instead. In the future, I’ll direct all urgent email to the North Pole.
You’re also uninformed. Amesport certainly is on the map and is a popular tourist destination in the summer. The town appears quite clearly. Please see the attached.
P.S. Grady Sinclair is a wonderful man with a heart, and the issues with the Center are completely resolved. Luckily, there is someone affiliated with the Sinclairs who actually has a heart.
Sincerely,
No Longer Concerned in Amesport
Evan read the email again, strangely amused by the less-than-pleasant response. It wasn’t often that anyone addressed him with anything less than complete reverence. It was oddly . . . refreshing.
He clicked on the attachment, staring at it for a moment before he truly understood exactly what it was. It was a map of the Maine coastline, with the town of Amesport circled in red and blown up so that it was prominently displayed with a handwritten caption.
The town of Amesport certainly is on the map. It appears quite clearly.
Evan looked from her comment to the oversized area of Amesport circled in red. Then, Evan Sinclair did something he almost never did . . . he laughed.
CHAPTER 1
The Present
“We should be landing soon,” Micah Sinclair mentioned casually as he glanced out the window of Evan’s private jet. “It’s been a while. I’m sure you’re eager to see Hope and your new nephew.”
Evan lifted his eyes from his laptop and looked at Micah, realizing the two of them had barely spoken during the flight. When his cousin had asked to hitch a ride with him to Amesport from New York City because he’d lent his own jet to his brother Julian, Evan had thought he’d welcome the company. Micah had a residence in New York; Evan didn’t, but was there quite frequently on business, so they met whenever possible.
As the eldest of the Sinclairs, Evan had the most in common with Micah. They were both just entering their midthirties, and, unlike his cousin’s younger brothers, Micah was obsessed with business. Granted, his business was extreme sports, but he took his bottom line and his responsibilities to his siblings seriously. As the oldest in their immediate families, Evan and Micah understood each other when it came to what everyone else called “meddling” in the business of younger relatives. He and Micah preferred to call it “guidance,” and neither one of them had ever felt guilty about checking on family. Maybe some people would actually refer to how they handled things as spying, but Evan preferred to think of it as checking on the well-being of his relatives.
Evan shrugged. “It’s been over six months since I’ve seen them, and I want to meet my nephew. I saw pictures. He looks bald. That can’t be normal. No Sinclair has ever been hairless. Our grandfather died with a full head of hair.” Their grandfather had lived to a ripe old age, and his hair had been gray as long as Evan could remember, but he hadn’t had a single bald spot on his head.
Micah chuckled as he fastened his seat belt in preparation for landing. “He’s not bald. His hair is blond, and it’s thin. He’s a cute little guy. Hope sent me a picture to my cell phone.”
Evan checked his seat belt and leaned back in the leather seat of his private aircraft, frowning at Micah, who was seated across from him. “He looked bald to me. And he’s not cute. He’s handsome. He’s a Sinclair.”
Micah’s laughter boomed in the cabin of the aircraft. “God, you’re an arrogant prick! But I like that about you. I always have.”
Evan smoothed down the lapel of his custom suit and straightened his tie before replying. “I’m sure the traits are easy to recognize since you happen to have the same attributes.”
If Evan was totally honest—which he wasn’t going to be—Micah probably wasn’t quite as uptight as he was, but he wasn’t going to admit that to his eldest cousin.
“Why do you always dress like you’re going to a business meeting or a funeral? Sometimes I wonder if you even own a pair of jeans,” Micah queried, sounding more curious than teasing.