by Cat Schield
“A small clothing store here in Jackson Falls. And not even new clothes. They’re consignments. I can’t run a corporation.”
The thought of being in charge of million-dollar decisions, having to report to a board of directors, fighting for respect from people who’d spent their entire careers in the corporate world made her stomach twist in a dozen glass-encrusted knots. No, she couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. They’d eat her alive in less than thirty seconds.
India rolled her eyes. “Girl, get out of your damn head. Before you start having a panic attack and telling yourself all the things you can’t do, how about you first find out what exactly you’ve inherited and what, if anything, you have to do about that?”
Ashiya took a deep breath. Her stomach still twisted. Her palms sweat, but India’s words took the edge off her anxiety. Until she knew for sure what was going on, there was no need to freak out. The freak-out could wait until she was sure Brianna was right.
Please, God, let Brianna be wrong. She sent up the quick prayer.
She met India’s you’ve-got-this gaze. “You’re right. I just never thought I’d be in this position. You know I never wanted to be a part of that world.”
Understanding crossed India’s features. India’s desire to stay out of the running for top billing in the Robidoux family was one of the reasons she and Ashiya had been so close. Ever since they were kids and India gave Ashiya her favorite teddy bear instead of laughing when she’d learned that at eleven, Ashiya was still afraid of the dark she’d mentally adopted India as her little sister.
“Not wanting to be a part of it and being able to survive it are two different things,” India said in a supportive voice. “Regardless of what happens, I believe you can handle it.”
Ashiya wished she had a tenth of her cousin’s optimism. “Time will tell. Look, I need to talk to Momma about all this. See what she thinks and then make plans to go to Hilton Head. I guess I just needed to talk to someone first and get my initial freak-out out of the way. You know Momma. She’ll tell me to calm down, act like a Robidoux, and take everything my grandmother left and more.”
At times Ashiya thought her momma forgot that Ashiya was half Waters. That even though her dad had generated his own wealth, he’d given up the wealth from his family when he’d married her. Elizabeth Robidoux Waters had not known her husband knew he wouldn’t inherit a thing if he married her. She also hadn’t forgiven him once she learned the truth. He’d only wanted to be happy, and despite her parents’ strained marriage, her dad had found his own way without the help of his mom or his wife’s rich family. He was why Ashiya had tried to avoid being as cutthroat as some of her Robidoux cousins.
India nodded and patted Ashiya on the shoulder. “I’ll tell Elaina that something came up. She’ll be fine.”
Ashiya reached into her purse and pulled out a card. “Give this to her, okay? I know she didn’t want gifts, but I still thought I’d get her something. Tell her to enjoy it.”
Ashiya had gotten Elaina a yearlong subscription to a tea-of-the-month club. Since her cousin was cutting back on alcohol, she’d focused on using tea to calm her nerves. Ashiya hoped the gift would be welcome from the prickly Elaina.
“I will. You go. Talk to your mom and call me before you head out of town. If you need me to go with you—”
“No, I’ll be fine. I may need drinks when I return.”
“I’ve got you.” This time when India opened her arms for a hug, Ashiya took it. She’d need all the emotional support she could muster if the inheritance was really hers.
They pulled apart, and Ashiya watched as India went back toward the dining area. With a determined sigh, she went to the door leading out of the clubhouse. She wasn’t looking forward to this conversation with her mom, but she couldn’t possibly go to the funeral and learn the contents of the will without saying something to her.
She pushed open the door at the same time someone pulled from the other side. She lost her balance and stumbled forward on her high heels. She barely stopped herself from falling. A warm hand reached out and steadied her by the elbow.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Sorry,” a familiar male voice said at the same time.
Ashiya froze. The blood rushed from her face, and her lungs decided breathing wasn’t necessary at that moment. Her eyes jerked up. Surprise, embarrassment, and regret sent her body into a confusing tailspin. The familiar face seemed just as surprised to see her. Her heart squeezed while the lingering touch of his hand on her elbow turned her limbs into jelly.
Russell. The guy she should have chosen. Fine as hell Russell. He would be the person she saw when she was already discombobulated.
Fine as hell was a weak string of words to describe Russell Gilchrist. Tall, broad of shoulders, thick of thighs, and sweet of heart, Russell was the perfect embodiment of good guy with just a hint of bad boy beneath to make a woman fantasize about seeing him lose control. The lights from outside the clubhouse added a silvery glow to his sandy-brown skin and brought out the gold in his hazel eyes. He’d offered her everything she said she’d wanted in a relationship, and in turn she’d broken his heart when her jerk of an ex came back and said all the right words with wrong intentions.
After recognition entered his gaze, he quickly snatched his hand back. “You good?” His voice didn’t seem as concerned now that he recognized her. Instead it was cold, clipped, as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
“I’m fine. I was in a rush and didn’t—”
“Then I’ll let you get going.” He stepped to the side so she could walk away.
Ashiya sucked in a breath. Three years had passed, yet she still couldn’t get used to seeing the cold look in his eye. Three years of seeing him occasionally around town or at parties and trying to accept the way he barely held her gaze or spoke to her in a tone warmer than an Antarctic. She’d seen his other side. She’d seen the adoration shining in his eyes. Heard the way he whispered her name when he was deep inside of her. Knew he could be the most caring person she’d ever met. Knowing that only made this side of him hard as hell to accept.
“Russell, I…”
“I’ll see you around.” He walked pass her and entered the clubhouse without another glance her way.
Heat spread through her cheeks. She looked to the sky and groaned. No matter what she said or did, she couldn’t break through the silent treatment. Not that she could blame him. She’d toyed with him. Used him to make her ex jealous, and by the time she realized she was falling for Russell, it was too late.
She wanted to rush back into the clubhouse and demand that he talk to her. That he let her explain. That he give her, them, another chance. Instead, she sighed and walked to her car. Getting Russell back was still on her bucket list, but she couldn’t focus on that particular goal at the moment. Right now, she had to figure out how to get rid of a million-dollar inheritance.
Don’t miss what happens next in…
Foolish Hearts
by Synithia Williams
Available September 2021 wherever
HQN books and ebooks are sold.
www.HQNBooks.com
Copyright © 2021 by Synithia R. Williams
Keep reading for an excerpt from Secrets of a One Night Stand by Naima Simone.
Secrets of a One Night Stand
by Naima Simone
One
Achilles Farrell had been called many things in his thirty years.
Dumb fuck.
Ex-con.
Bastard.
That last one behind his back since most people were leery of insulting a six-foot-four-inch-tall, 214-pound man to his face.
But never had he been called an heir.
Brother.
And in the space of one afternoon, he’d become both.
After a shock like that, he nee
ded alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
Achilles stared at the neon red signs advertising the various beers on tap as well as framed posters declaring this pub the best and worst Beacon Hill, Massachusetts, had to offer. Hopefully, that ambiguity didn’t translate to its liquor quality.
It’d been a couple of hours, but he could still feel the judgmental gazes of “polite” Boston society on his skin like a thousand ants. The sensation deepened his thirst for the coffee-and-caramel flavor of a perfectly drawn Guinness, sharpened his anticipation for the burn of whiskey down his throat. Had him damn near demanding the bartender bring him another round when he hadn’t even requested his first drink yet.
“What can I get you?” The bartender leaned on the scarred bar top. Despite the colorful tattoos running the length of both arms, the young woman barely looked old enough to drink the alcohol she was serving.
“A shot of Jameson and a Guinness.”
She nodded. “Coming up.”
Only when she turned around to start building his drink did he exhale, some of the tension in his shoulders leaking out of him like a slowly released valve. Maybe once that Irish whiskey hit the back of his throat, the cold in his bones from that mockery of a funeral would finally dissipate.
To think, just three days ago, he’d been in his small cabin, alone except for his computers, just the way he liked it. That’s when he’d received a certified letter about the death of a man his mother had always refused to talk about although she’d given Achilles his last name. Achilles hadn’t given a damn then, just like he didn’t now, about a will or an inheritance. But morbid curiosity about the man who’d impregnated his mother had compelled him to accept the paid-for plane ticket and travel thousands of miles across the country.
As soon as he’d stepped off the plane and met the glacial expression of the chauffeur, Achilles had regretted his rash decision. He’d thought landing in prison had cured him of his hot, impulsive behavior. Apparently not. And now he was paying for his spur-of-the-moment decision to attend the funeral and the reading of the will for his so-called father.
A year.
He had to give up an entire year of his life, remain in Boston, with half brothers he didn’t know, and run a company he had no clue how to operate. A company he wanted no part of.
That was the price his father demanded Achilles remit.
Even from the grave, Barron Farrell was a selfish, narcissistic asshole.
When he was growing up, Achilles had begged his mother to tell him who his father was, to introduce Achilles to him. She’d always refused both requests. He’d resented her then. If she were alive, he’d thank her.
He propped his elbows on the bar top and ground his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. What he wouldn’t give to be back in Tacoma, Washington, in his cabin less than a mile from the Cascade Range. So far away from affluent Beacon Hill, Massachusetts. And not just in location.
Yeah, Tacoma had its wealthy, but as the son of a waitress, he didn’t have any use for them. In his experience, the rich either fucked you or fucked you over.
But as he’d stood in that mansion’s ridiculously huge library with its hardwood floor, leather furniture, fireplaces large enough for even him to stand in, spiral staircase and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, it hadn’t been just his black thermal shirt, faded jeans and battered brown boots that had differentiated him from the other men in the room.
Cain Farrell—his older brother, the heir, the son Barron Farrell had kept and acknowledged. Kenan Rhodes—the youngest son, biracial and the other bastard besides Achilles. But both men hailed from the same world. Boston’s elite. It was in the razor-sharp yet elegant cut of their suits. The cultured speech. The arrogant demeanor.
Achilles had encountered people like them. And had ended up despising every one of them.
Now he had to call them brother.
Life should really offer him a cigarette when it decided to fuck him.
Again.
“You starting a tab or paying for these now?” The bartender set a mug filled with dark, cold brew topped with a creamy head that spilled a little over the rim. Next to it sat a short, smooth glass of amber whiskey.
Perfect.
“A tab.” Because yeah, he was just getting started. The whole purpose of this trip entailed not thinking. And several rounds should accomplish his mission.
“I’ll be back, then.”
She cocked her head, running a dark blue gaze down his frame. He’d hit six foot his sophomore year of high school and had kept growing. He’d become used to that glint in a woman’s eyes. And he didn’t shy from it. The only thing better than losing himself in alcohol was hot, dirty, nameless sex.
His height, his build and his eyes—those were the only things his worthless sperm donor had passed down to him, and women seemed to eat that shit up. He picked up the shot of Jameson and knocked it back, never breaking visual contact with the pretty brunette. The corner of her lips lifted, desire flickering in her gaze as it dipped to his mouth.
“Let me know if you need to order food. Y’know, to balance all that alcohol. Can’t have you too wasted just in case you have later…plans.” She smirked before sauntering off to the other end of the bar.
“Hmm. That was subtle.”
Achilles stiffened.
That voice.
Like a fire beating back the coldest winter winds.
Like fingernails on a chalkboard.
As silken and sexy as skin sliding over bare, heated skin.
As jarring as crashing cymbals directly in the ear.
He longed to curl up against it, roll around in it.
He wanted to snarl at it, hurl himself away from it.
His heart smashed against his rib cage like a caged beast. His pulse, in sharp contrast, a sonorous warning at the base of his throat. Something primitive inside him warned that he should go find that bartender with the invitation in her eyes, pay for his drinks and get the hell out.
But the impulsive, destructive streak that had brought him to Massachusetts must have still been alive and kicking because he didn’t heed that warning. Instead, he slowly turned around on his barstool.
Jesus Christ.
That sense of self-preservation had been right.
This woman was everything he usually avoided.
Gorgeous. Pampered. Rich. He didn’t need to see the price tag on the purple pantsuit that conformed to her abundant, wicked curves to know it cost more than everything he’d packed in his suitcase back at the hotel. Including the luggage.
A Trojan horse.
That’s what she was.
Designed to appear like one thing—something innocuous—while inside was a virus waiting to strike, to infect…to destroy.
He dealt with those deadly viral strands during his job as a software developer. He’d suffered the poison of one after tangling with a woman like her.
Her dark gaze slid over him, and—in spite of knowing who she was, what she was—his breath snagged on the ragged resentment in his chest. Blood heated in his veins…pounded in his lengthening dick.
Apparently, his cock could give two damns what tax bracket she fell in.
She lifted a slim hand, hailing the bartender over to her. And in the magical way her kind had, the bartender abandoned the person she was talking to and headed their way.
Flicking a glance over Achilles, the brunette hiked her chin at the woman next to him. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have…” She narrowed her eyes, tapping a pale pink–painted finger against her tad-too-full bottom lip. “I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger with a side of onion rings. Make that an extra-large order. And a Budweiser.”
Well…damn.
As if she’d heard the astonished words in his head, she arched a dark eyebrow.
“They have wonderful hamburgers here an
d the best onion rings in Boston.” She dipped her head in the direction of the bartender, who disappeared through a swinging door on the other side of the bar. “She was right, you know. You might want some food. I recommend one of the burgers or the fish ’n’ chips. Make sure you’re sober enough for—” the barest hint of a smirk whispered over a corner of her mouth “—later.”
Was she flirting? If so, teasing him about fueling up to fuck another woman had to be one of the weirdest come-ons…or the hottest. Possibly both.
His dick twitched as she flicked a tight, honey-brown curl away from her cheek.
Definitely both.
Disgust for himself trickled through him, and he picked up his Guinness, gulping the sweet and bitter ale until nearly half of it disappeared before he settled the glass mug back on the bar top. But the cold alcohol did nothing to douse the flickers of lust in his gut. Not when wisps of her scent—an earthy musk carrying hints of lavender, cedar and something more elusive—drifted to him, taunting him. Not when a glance down ensnared him in the dichotomy of a lush thigh and a delicate ankle. One invited his hungry teeth and the other his gentle fingers.
He had no business being tempted by either.
Women like her… They only wanted one thing from men like him. And while he didn’t mind a night of hot, no-strings sex, it was being looked at like trash afterward that didn’t work for him. Being someone’s dirty secret tainted the soul, and that kind of stain was hell washing out.
She sighed, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught her folding a napkin until it formed a tiny square.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so flippant or rude.” She broke off as the bartender reappeared and set her beer in front of her, removing the cap.
The woman smiled at her in thanks, and Achilles glanced away as another bolt of lust speared him in the chest. And lower. A dimple. Of fucking course. Because cheekbones as sharp as broken glass, eyes the color of melted dark chocolate, a mouth a shade too wide and a sinner’s prayer past too full weren’t enough. Because tight, springy curls the shade of sun-warmed honey wasn’t overkill. She needed dimples.