Hard to Love
Page 1
“K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”
—USA Today
“K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Audrey Carlan
“A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances, and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”
—New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout
“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
UnRaveled
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry
The Player
The Catch
Cuffed
Combust
Cockpit
Control
Faking It
Resist
Reveal
Then You Happened
Flirting with 40
Hard to Handle
Hard to Hold
Hard to Score
Hard to Lose
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2021 by K. Bromberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by JKB Publishing, LLC
ISBN: 978-1-942832-35-5
Cover design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Cover Image by Wander Aguiar
Cover Model: Brady Ervin
Editing by Marion Making Manuscripts
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Printed in the United States of America
TITLE PAGE
PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG
ALSO BY K. BROMBERG
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C—
Happy belated birthday . . . I won’t forget next time.
FINN
16 Years Ago
“WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME? I’m supposed to pick Molly up in fifteen minutes.”
I glance over to my dad and watch the headlights from passing cars reflect off his glasses and face casting it in a mixture of lights and shadows. But he has that expression. The one that tells me he’s upset or angry and I dread finding out what I’ve done wrong this time to irritate him.
Every little thing sets him off these days.
Every. Little. Thing.
“You’re not putting enough time in at practice. The only way you’re ever going to amount to anything good is by putting the time in. I’m beginning to think you just don’t have it in you, son. Year after year, I’ve told you exactly what you need to do and how you need to do it and—” He tsks followed by a sigh that has me glancing back his way again.
Where are we going?
“But you just don’t seem to listen. To hear me. And so, I think it’s time I show you exactly what I mean. Precisely the number one lesson you need to learn so that you start thinking straight.”
“Dad.” I clear my throat. “Sir?”
Why are we in the school parking lot? Why is Molly’s car here when I’m supposed to be picking her up in ten minutes?
“You need to learn that women are nothing more than a distraction. They will play you, win your heart, and then screw you over, leaving you with nothing left just like your mother did to you and me.” He grits out the words I’ve heard more times than I care to count. Ones I discount because even though I’m mad at her for leaving us, she’s still my mom. She still loved me somehow. She still . . . “Females are fleeting temptations who distract you from your goals so that by the time they are done with you, you’ve given up everything.”
“What are we doing here?” I all but shout at him, frustrated with this bullshit and desperate to see Molly and hopefully get to second (or third) base tonight.
“We are proving a point.” My father points at the front of the school gymnasium where Molly is standing beneath the lights. She has one hand toying with the locket on her necklace while she shifts back and forth on her feet, laughing with someone I can’t quite see.
Every one of my seventeen years falls a little bit harder for her. The long brown hair, the even longer legs, her tits beneath that tank top, her smile . . . yes, I’ve got it bad.
Then confusion takes over as Eddie Hamlin, the object of Molly’s attention, and the one she’s giving that same smile I thought she reserved for me, steps out of the shadows. I don’t know why I hold my breath, but I do.
And then I feel like my heart explodes in my chest when she grabs the hem of his shirt—just like she does mine—and pulls him into her until their lips meet. Until they kiss. Until his hands slide up her sides and then rest on her ass so that he can pull her against him.
Just. Like. I. Do.
Molly?
They take a step backward so her back is pressed against the wall.
And Eddie?
Her hands slide around his neck and play with the hair at the nape of his neck just like she does to me.
My girl and my teammate?
I don’t think.
What
the ever-loving-fuck?
I react.
I’m out of the car in a second, barely registering my father’s chuckle.
“Molly?” I shout as I jog over to where the two of them stand.
“It’s not what you think.” Molly jumps back, her expression a picture of guilt and shock.
“What I think?” I sputter. “Eddie? What the hell, man?”
Fury and confusion laced with hurt own me as I shove against his chest. He stumbles backward from the force. Other students come out of the gym, the lure of a fight irresistible to them.
But I refuse to be their amusement. Refuse to let my embarrassment be the talk of the school.
My hands are fisted and I curse the tears that burn in my eyes. I blink them away and take a few steps back, unsure what to do, uncertain how this happened.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper as the crowd grows and tears fill Molly’s eyes. She shakes her head.
I want to believe the regret I see on her face is genuine, but this is the same girl who told me she loved me last month. The same girl I loved.
And I believed that to be true so why should I trust myself?
I need to get out of here. I need to breathe. I need to—
Without a word, I turn and jog back to the car where my dad is still sitting behind the wheel.
“Finn,” he says way too calmly as I slam the door.
“Drive. Get me out of here,” I say, my voice hoarse, those tears back in my eyes.
But he doesn’t start the car. Instead, he sits with his hands on the wheel staring at Molly who’s now looking our way.
“Now you understand what I’ve been telling you all these years. Women are nothing but traitors. They use you, then spit you out. You need to learn to use them and spit them out before they dig their hooks in. Once that happens, you’ll feel like you do right now. Hurt. Raw. Angry. Just like your mom made me feel. And you, Finn. Because of what she did to us.”
“Not now, Dad.” But his words hit my ears differently this time. They start to hold some truth. They start to feel valid.
“Women always leave. Remember that.”
He finally turns the key in the ignition and slowly pulls out of the spot and away from my bullseye view of Molly and Eddie. Thank God. I hate them. I hate them both. But how did my dad know to bring me here?
How did he know they’d be standing right there and what we’d find?
And why did he laugh as my heart was ripped from my chest and stomped on?
FINN
I HOP ON ONE FOOT in the dark as I try to put my shoe on without tripping over the piles of shit on the floor throughout the room.
Too late.
I lose my balance and smack my thigh against the corner of her dresser.
Motherfucker. I grab my leg, my shoe still half on, and grit my teeth in response to the pain as I stare through the darkness toward the bed.
“Finn?” Roxy’s sleep-drugged voice calls.
I freeze with my hand on the zipper of my slacks. Shit. So much for making a clean getaway.
“Where are you going?” she asks as she shifts in bed so that she’s sitting there, a shadow against the night.
I hesitate for the briefest of seconds, thoughts of her warm body and her more than wild ways filling my head. But right after those thoughts are her words from earlier tonight.
“We’re good together, you and me. Maybe I shouldn’t renew my lease and we could . . . you know, move in together.” And if that wasn’t enough to make my dick wither and fall off, there was the soft sigh of “I love you, Finn,” that she whispered when she thought I had fallen asleep. The four words nearly stopped my heart.
Jesus. It took everything I had to not leave right then and there.
Live together? Surrounded by all this clutter? By not having the freedom to come and go as I please?
Love? Let’s face it. She doesn’t know the first thing about love and neither do I. No, it’s time to stop while I’m ahead.
And while I’m in control of the situation.
Time to go.
“Finn?”
“Clients. I have clients,” I mutter as I step and trip over one of her numerous piles of clothes on the floor.
Note to self: stay away from the boho-chic chicks. They have too much shit everywhere.
Oh, but then there are the Kama Sutra positions they love . . .
“Clients? It’s two in the morning. What do you mean clients?”
Fuck. It is two.
“I just got a text. He got himself into trouble. I need to deal with him.”
For the love of God, just get me out of here.
“Come back to bed,” she says, and I can hear her pat the mattress as if that will convince me.
“No. I got a text.” I slip on my other shoe and successfully avoid any other run-ins with the corner of a piece of furniture. “A client got in an altercation and needs my help.”
“I thought you were an agent. Not a lawyer.”
“I’m their . . . everything.” But I’m not yours. I push the button on my phone so the screen lights up in the dark and it looks like I’m getting a text. “See? That’s him again.”
She huffs loudly before flopping back on the bed—a sound that feels victorious for me so long as I don’t trip on another pile of her crap before I get out the front door. “So, see you tonight?” she asks, hope tingeing the edges of her tone.
“Um, I can’t. I have to catch a flight to Michigan,” I make up on the fly.
“Michigan?”
Michigan? Where the hell did that come from?
“Yeah. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” I stop at the door and look back at her for effect. I know she’s looking—chicks always do—and the last thing I want to do is be a dick when I’m dumping her. I mean, she doesn’t know it, but I am.
“Okay, then. Call me when you get back?”
“Of course.”
And with that, I bolt for the front door as I slip my hand into the arm of my dress shirt, desperate to be out of this patchouli-smelling, crystal-filled apartment on the Lower West Side.
I wait until I’m out of the building and away from her to breathe a sigh of relief.
Glad to have that distraction over with.
Or at least until I have to dodge her phone calls and texts that no doubt will be coming in a few days.
STEVIE
THE MUSIC IS LOUD ON the pool deck before me. One hundred or so people in bathing suits dance on the small stage with their hands up and alcohol sloshing over the sides of their glasses onto those around them.
But nobody cares.
They’re here in Las Vegas to party.
To let loose.
Doing exactly what I should be doing right now.
I hold my hand to my forehead and glare at Carson from behind my darkened sunglasses where I lie on a chaise lounge. What number lecture of the day is this? Eighth? Ninth? And it’s just after one o’clock in the afternoon.
“You’re killing my buzz, Carson,” I mutter as I try to look around where he stands to see what the crowd is cheering over now. But he shifts so I’m forced to look at him and his formal dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves and slacks with pleats in the front that have no business here at the poolside party club at The Venetian. My killjoy of a manager.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be buzzed at this hour. In fact, maybe you should be figuring out how best to explain the images splashed all over social media from last night.”
“God forbid precious Stevie Lancaster lets loose a little,” I say, sarcasm lacing every syllable as I rest my head back on the lounger and close my eyes.
“Better yet, maybe you should be out on the court with Kellen, getting your reps in. Your backhand needs work before the next Open.”
“Go away, Carson.” I pick up my cell and start thumbing through it, not really paying any attention to what I’m seeing, but more just trying to prove the point that I’m not paying attention to him.
“He told me you didn’t show up to yesterday’s training, and by the look of the empty glasses on the table beside you, it doesn’t seem that you’ll be showing up today either.”
I shrug dramatically to reinforce how bored I am with him. With his babysitting. Anything to make the fun police go away.
“I’m taking a break, Carson. Is that not allowed?” I ask, knowing damn well that under the reign of Liam Lancaster, breaks—hell, fun—were never allowed. All work. No play. All hustle. Every moment of every day. “I’ve been reading up on sports training theories,” I lie. “The article I read this morning, and that I’ve decided will be my motto for today said it was good for the elite athlete’s mind, soul, and body to have a few days off to cut loose every now and again. It reinvigorates the athlete and readjusts their mindset.” The smile I give him is sugary sweet and dripping with insincerity.
“So that’s what you call dancing on bar tops, taking over the stripper pole at Sapphire’s—”
“It was a dare, and I had my clothes on.” I sigh, trying to remember through the haze of last night’s alcohol. “You should really try the Cards O’ Fun. It’s clear you need some added spontaneity in your life.”
“Cards O’ Fun?” he asks.
“Yep. Vivi and Jordan made them up,” I say referring to my two oldest friends from the tennis circuit we played in as kids. While they long ago gave up the competitive end of the game, our friendship has endured. And perhaps they have been the source of more than one lecture between Carson and me, so I’m bringing them up just to piss him off. “Every night I have to pick two cards from the deck they’ve created and complete the tasks.”
“Tasks such as pole-dancing and what else?”
“You’ve seen the social media posts. You can guess.”
“Couldn’t you guys have opted for a game of Monopoly or Yahtzee?” He chuckles.
“Now that wouldn’t be very adventurous, would it?”
He stares at me and I can’t figure out what he is thinking. “So you pull two cards and have to complete the tasks or else what?”