Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1)

by Skylar Hunter

  “This city has become so damn congested,” Braxton complains, braking hard as cars dart in and out of lanes. “I honestly don’t know how much longer I can stomach this traffic. It’s ridiculous.”

  I slant him a knowing grin. “Don’t tell me you’d actually consider leaving the only home you’ve ever known?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” he admits. “When I graduated from Harvard, I seriously considered settling down in some quiet New England town and starting my own law practice.”

  “Really?” I say in surprise. “So what happened?”

  “My grandfather promised to fast track my promotion to partner if I returned home and joined the family law firm. He gave me the whole lecture about family responsibility and the importance of generational legacies. You see, my father had positioned himself to run for higher office by becoming a prosecutor and rising through the ranks to be appointed U.S. attorney. Ascending to the governor’s mansion is the next step, but by no means the last.” Braxton glances at me. “Grandfather told me I had to do my part to advance our family legacy, and the firm was where I belonged.”

  “I see.” I feel inexplicably chilled by his words. I mean, I’m not naive. I’ve heard about the power moves employed by the elite, the ruthless political machinations that go on behind the scenes. I know how much they value their wealth, status and prestige. I just wonder what lengths Braxton’s family will go to in order to seize the reins of power on a broader scale.

  “Does your grandfather still run the firm?” I ask.

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He still has the controlling vote on the board. But in recent years he’s become more of a figurehead than the ironfisted ruler he once was.” Braxton smiles, leaving downtown. “He’s reaching that point in his life where he’d rather sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labor. These days he and Grandmother spend most of their time at the country club gossiping with old friends and planning the futures of their offspring.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” I say wryly.

  “Oh, it’s harmless enough. Until they start matchmaking.”

  I grin at him. “I don’t think they’ll approve of me as your date, Braxton. I wasn’t born with an aristocratic pedigree. I’m not a wealthy socialite, I’ve never been a debutante and I think Scarlett O’Hara was a total whack job.”

  Braxton laughs. “Which is precisely why I find you so fascinating.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Fascinating? As in ‘girl from the wrong side of the tracks’ fascinating?”

  “No, as in, I’m captivated by your beauty, brains and independent spirit—the combination of which I’ve never encountered in any other woman.”

  “Ah, there’s that flattery again.” I smile. “I think it’s actually starting to grow on me.”

  “Thank goodness. I was beginning to wonder if all those years of charm school were a complete waste of time.”

  I laugh, and so does he.

  After a few moments, he throws me a sidelong glance. “So you and Reyes are old friends, huh? What was that like?”

  My mood instantly clouds over. “What was what like?”

  “Befriending someone as difficult as Reyes.”

  I frown at the word he’d used. “Difficult?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Reyes is my cousin, so I owe him a certain degree of tolerance. But he’s a troubled individual, always has been.” Braxton turns down a quiet country road. “I suppose losing his mother as a teenager did its own damage.”

  “You suppose?”

  “I’m not trivializing his loss,” he quickly reassures me. “We all felt his pain and rallied around his family to offer our support. But Reyes seemed to reject our sympathy. It was almost as if he blamed our grandparents—even my father—for his mother’s death.”

  I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising. I don’t like where this conversation is going. At all.

  Braxton sighs, shaking his head. “I suppose there’s a lot about my cousin I don’t understand. He’s a complicated man.”

  “He can be,” I murmur, staring straight ahead. “But I think it’s wrong to judge a person’s behavior until you’ve walked in their shoes.”

  “I agree. But I can’t help questioning some of Reyes’s life choices. Take, for instance, his decision to play football over attending medical school. He graduated with top honors from Stanford, only to turn around and use his natural-born intelligence to pursue an impractical career in professional football. Can you imagine? He had an opportunity to study medicine at Harvard, for God’s sake. Instead he chose to play sports.” Braxton shakes his head in angry frustration. “From the moment he broke family tradition by choosing Stanford over Harvard, I knew he was just trying to get back at the family for some perceived past injustice.”

  I’m seething in my seat, fingers clenched tight around my silk clutch. “First of all, Braxton, while it’s an admirable tradition, there’s no law stating that every member of your family has to attend Harvard. Stanford ain’t exactly chopped liver. Secondly, there’s nothing impractical about playing football. Have you ever seen your cousin play? He’s extremely talented.”

  Braxton smirks at me. “Of course you’d say that.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re a sportswriter. Athletes like Reyes are what make your job exciting and purposeful. No offense.”

  “None taken.” My words are belied by my gritted teeth. “Yes, it’s true that phenomenal athletes like Reyes are a pleasure to watch and write about. But even if I weren’t a sportswriter, I still wouldn’t have a problem with his career choice. Of course he could have been a doctor, no doubt a brilliant one. But if you ask me, he’s impacting just as many lives with the path he selected. His association raises millions every year for cancer research, he serves on various medical boards, and his celebrity status gives him a platform to raise awareness about cancer screening and prevention. On top of all that, he’s doing something he genuinely loves and is gifted at. Something that made his mother proud every time she attended his games, which she did almost until the day she died.”

  Braxton’s face is bright red by the time I finish speaking.

  “Forgive me,” he says stiffly. “I didn’t realize my cousin had such an ardent supporter. I shouldn’t have brought him up. My apologies.”

  “Forget it,” I say tightly. “We obviously have different opinions on this topic, so let’s just agree to disagree.”

  He nods tersely.

  I totally regret what I told Reyes about burying the hatchet and getting along with Braxton. Even if he tried, Braxton’s judgmental attitude would make friendship impossible.

  A heavy silence hangs between us until his family’s estate looms into view. Guarded by imposing wrought iron gates, the white antebellum mansion sprawls at the center of a row of oaks.

  As we approach the entrance, a guard emerges from the turreted gatehouse and nods deferentially to Braxton before opening the gates.

  We drive through, following the direction of a uniformed valet. Expensive cars line both sides of the immaculately manicured lawn, and I can hear classical music wafting out the open terrace doors of the mansion.

  Braxton parks near the front, and we walk up to the front door in silence. A tuxedoed butler welcomes us inside a marble-floored entryway with sparkling chandeliers and priceless paintings on the walls.

  Braxton barely acknowledges the butler.

  Reyes would have, I can’t help thinking. As a boy he’d laughed and joked around with his father’s ranch hands, Spanish tumbling colorfully from his lips. He’d ridden horses and roped cattle alongside the men, his skin browning in the sun. He’d brought them cold beers at the end of a long day, sneaking sips from their bottles when his father wasn’t looking.

  He’d treated those men like family rather than hired help. And they’d loved him as their very own, forming rowdy cheering sections at his football games.

  I
smile at the butler before Braxton ushers me toward the grand ballroom.

  I have never felt more out of place as I take in the sight of white-jacketed waiters circulating among the glitzy crowd, serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres while a string quartet plays at the far end of the ballroom.

  I’ve been to fancy functions before, but not one attended by so many rich and powerful people. The ballroom is teeming with Brigham Malone’s political backers and all the blue-blooded denizens who form his elite social circle.

  Braxton smiles down at me, his blue eyes making a silent appeal. “I hope our little disagreement hasn’t ruined our evening.”

  I hesitate, then shake my head. “Of course not. I’m a journalist, Braxton. I’m used to heated debates.”

  His smile spreads with relief. “I’m glad to hear that. I don’t want any animosity between us.”

  Don’t be a dick and there won’t be.

  He scans the ballroom. “Oh, look, there’s Grandfather. Let me introduce you.”

  Might as well start with the big kahuna, I muse as Braxton steers me toward a cluster of gentlemen conversing around a grand piano.

  “Ah, Braxton, you’re here.” Boone Malone greets his grandson with a vigorous handshake and a clap on the shoulder. He’s tall and stately in a custom black tuxedo with his thick crown of silver hair combed back from his handsome, creased face.

  “Hello, Grandfather. I’d like you to meet someone.” Braxton turns toward me. “Grandfather, this is Miss Emerson Sartori. She was gracious enough to honor me with her company this evening. Emerson, this is my distinguished grandfather Boone Malone.”

  I paste on a smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Malone.”

  The family patriarch takes a puff on his cigar, contemplating me with sharp blue eyes. “You look familiar, young lady.”

  “Emerson writes for the Piedmont Bay Gazette,” Braxton says. “You’ve probably seen her picture before.”

  “No, that’s not it. I only read The News & Observer. It’s been around a mite longer than that other one.”

  “Then perhaps you’ve seen her sports show—”

  “You know I rarely watch TV. Nothing but trash that rots the brain.” Boone’s eyes narrow on me. “You’re not related to the Sartoris of Asheboro, are you? Textile magnate family?”

  “Not that I know of.” I smile. “Actually, sir, we’ve met before.”

  “We have?”

  “It was a long time ago, when you and your wife visited Reyes’s family in New Mexico.”

  “Ah, I see. You were one of my grandson’s little friends.” He gives me a quick appraisal, much as he’d done that day before inquiring why Reyes didn’t have more male friends. “Grown up quite a bit, haven’t you?”

  “She certainly has,” another voice pipes up.

  I smile as Cal Tucker steps forward and gallantly kisses my hand. “She’s quite the beauty, this one,” he declares with a sly wink at Braxton. “Better hang on to her, or that devilish cousin of yours is gonna steal her right from under your nose.”

  My cheeks warm.

  Braxton looks none too pleased. “Where’s Grandmother?” he asks, searching the crowd. “I want to reintroduce her to Emerson.”

  “Yes, you’d better find her before she finds you,” Boone advises, puffing smoke. “She’s been asking about you, wondering why you don’t visit her as often as you used to. I hope this young lady isn’t keeping you from your family.”

  Braxton laughs. “Of course not, Grandfather. You know where I spend all my time. Gotta keep the firm running like a well-oiled machine, don’t I?”

  “That’s my boy. Look, there’s your grandmother right now giving us the evil eye.” He nods in the direction of his wife, who’s holding court in a corner of the ballroom.

  “Better hustle on over there before she sends your father after you.” Boone nods to me. “Miss Sartori. Enjoy our hospitality.” He turns his back on us, resuming his conversation with the group of men standing with him.

  Cal Tucker winks at me to soften his friend’s brusque dismissal.

  “Sorry about Grandfather,” Braxton murmurs as we make our way across the ballroom. “He can be a bit of a grouch sometimes.”

  I merely smile. I can already tell it’s going to be a long night.

  As we approach Victoria Malone, the crowd around her disperses, leaving her with a beautiful young brunette in a clinging black sequined dress. Her gray eyes rake me up and down, taking my measure.

  “Braxton,” Victoria says reproachfully. “You finally decided to make an appearance. We were wondering when you would arrive. It’s so unlike you to be late to one of your father’s functions.”

  “Hello, Grandmother.” Braxton plants an obligatory kiss on her rouged cheek. “How are you?”

  Victoria sniffs. “I’ve been a little under the weather, which you would know if you visited more often.” The old woman is resplendent in a floor-length black satin gown. A diamond choker glitters around her neck like wet ice, and her gray hair is pulled back in an elegant chignon.

  Her arctic blue eyes settle on me. “Do introduce me to your guest, Braxton.”

  As he dutifully complies, I can tell that she already recognized me.

  “Emerson Sartori,” she muses. “Aren’t you the young lady from New Mexico? The one Reyes used to amuse himself with?”

  I force myself to smile. “That would be me.”

  Her haughty gaze inspects me from head to toe, lingering on my bared cleavage as her lips tighten in disapproval.

  She then turns to the woman beside her and says in a tone of mocking indulgence, “You should have seen the way my grandson locked himself away for hours writing these long, earnest letters to his best friend back home.” She sighs, her amused gaze returning to me. “Those childhood ties never quite last, do they, Emerson?”

  I swallow a pang of hurt. “Apparently not.”

  She smiles, a nasty gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

  The brunette pouts at Braxton. “How rude of you not to introduce me to your date,” she chides in a sultry voice.

  Braxton looks sheepish. “Of course. Where are my manners? Emerson, this is Mallory Ashford. She works for our law firm.”

  I nod to her. “Hello.”

  “Charmed.” She sizes me up some more. “I’m surprised to hear that you and Reyes are old friends. He’s never mentioned you before.”

  “Never?” I give her a pointed look. “How long have you known him?”

  She blinks a few times. “Not long—”

  “Well, there you go. Mystery solved.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  Braxton clears his throat. “Mallory’s one of our best litigators.”

  I smile at her. “Congratulations.”

  Victoria draws herself up, nose in the air. “And what are you doing with yourself these days, Emerson?”

  “Emerson writes for the Piedmont Bay Gazette,” Braxton answers for me.

  Victoria’s sculpted eyebrows go up. “And what do you write about?”

  “Sports,” I reply.

  The old woman frowns.

  Mallory smirks.

  “Emerson is a Princeton graduate and an award-winning journalist,” Braxton hastens to burnish my accomplishments. “She’s also the co-host of a popular television show.”

  “How nice.” Victoria’s tone implies otherwise. “I don’t believe women have any place in sports reporting. It’s rather unseemly, I think.”

  Before I can respond, Braxton interjects, “But you also thought the same thing about female attorneys. And look how valuable Mallory has proved to be.”

  “That’s true,” Victoria concedes, tucking her arm through Mallory’s. “But I’m afraid I’m a bit biased. Mallory’s practically my granddaughter, or so she will be soon enough.”

  I dart a confused look at Braxton.

  He flushes uncomfortably. “She’s not talking about me.”

  Victoria lets out a tinkling laugh. “No, dear boy. You an
d Mallory are colleagues. It’s never wise to mix business with pleasure. And she and Reyes are a much better match. Why, she was just telling me that they went out for drinks on Wednesday and hit it right off.” Victoria looks at me with vicious triumph. “Just as I knew they would.”

  My stomach nosedives at the revelation that Reyes went on a date the same day as our headline-making interview.

  Victoria pats Mallory’s hand. “Just goes to show, darling. Despite what tabloids would have you believe, nothing is ever as it seems.”

  The two women share a conspiratorial smile.

  Braxton takes my arm. “Let’s go find my sister so I can introduce you.” He nods to his grandmother and Mallory. “Pardon us, ladies.”

  I allow him to steer me away, seething with anger. No wonder Reyes despised his childhood summers in Piedmont Bay. His relatives are a bunch of rude, elitist assholes.

  Did he really have drinks with that woman? Bastard.

  At this point, I’m not looking forward to meeting another member of his family. So far it’s been like tiptoeing through a minefield of barbed insults and personal attacks.

  I have my guard all the way up by the time we locate Susanna Malone out on the veranda.

  She’s sitting alone on a wrought iron bench sipping a glass of champagne with a look of undisguised boredom. Stunningly beautiful with caramel-colored hair that tumbles down her back in luxurious waves, she’s wearing a shimmery white cocktail dress that shows off her modelesque figure.

  She glances over as we approach, her silvery-blue eyes registering annoyance.

  “Don’t tell me Daddy sent you out here to get me,” she growls warningly. “I swear, if I have to meet one more of his cronies, I’m gonna holler.”

  I stifle a grin as Braxton’s face tightens with displeasure.

  “For your information, Susanna, I was coming over to introduce you to my guest. But just in case you’ve forgotten, Dad’s so-called cronies are vital to his campaign. So you might want to show some respect.”

  Susanna rolls her eyes. “Don’t lecture me about Daddy’s campaign, Braxton. I’m down there at campaign headquarters every afternoon taking calls, checking the polls and handing out flyers. Believe me, I’m well aware of what’s vital to his campaign. So spare me your sermonizing.” Her gaze slides past her brother to land on me. “Hey, I know who you are! You’re Emerson Sartori!”