Cole walked over and slapped me on the back. “I couldn’t have done this without you. You know that?”
I cracked a smile. “I know. You would have been crazy to try it without me.”
It hadn’t been easy opening the doors to the boat barn again. Once I had though, I knew I couldn’t close the place up. Cole deserved to live out his dream, just like I was. So when he had asked if I wanted to re-invest in the family business, I couldn’t turn him down. He needed start-up cash and I promised I’d play the role of silent partner. In the summers I’d be here to work on the boats.
I hadn’t figured out how my dad fit into it. Once I found out he had kept Sierra’s pregnancy a secret from me and that he had been the reason she left, I hadn’t been able to think about him the same way. Part of me wanted to burn the barn down and all his work inside.
Handing it over to Cole helped. I let it go. I focused on what really mattered—Sierra and the baby. The renovations were underway at Lindy’s place. It was ours now. I don’t Sierra knew how happy it made me when she said she wanted to keep the house. I’d pay any expense she wanted to restore it to its original state.
And the nursery was going to be massive. The baby would wake up every day of the summer and see the water. Nothing made either of us happier. I might have a life in professional sports, but my children were going to grow up here in the offseason. They would learn how to respect the water. They’d learn how to respect nature. They’d learn how to respect family.
Sierra and Emily locked arms and huddled closer to the fire. “How long do you think the bromance stuff will go on?” Sierra asked. “I’m starving and freezing.”
Cole walked over to the fire. “All right, ladies, I think these bad boys are ready.” He grabbed a bucket and started shoveling the hot oysters into the empty barrel. “Who wants the first one?”
“I’ll take one.” Emily raced around the side of the roasting station to join Cole.
He slipped on a heavy work glove and began separating the shells. “Here you go. First one of the oyster roast. Hot off the fire.”
Emily smiled at him as he leaned closer, dangling the oyster out of her reach. “Cole, stop.”
I felt Sierra’s gaze as I watched her friend and my cousin. She joined me away from the fire.
“Nice toast.” She bumped my side with her hip.
“You’re the one who said I should try it.” I sipped on the drink. I was enjoying it more than any glass of wine I had ever tried. Too bad Sierra couldn’t have a taste.
“And it was perfect.” She smiled.
I laughed. “You know I almost didn’t think I was going to make it through it.”
Sierra turned toward me, sliding her free hand into mine. “I knew you could do it.” She bit down on her bottom lip. “So, what exactly is your favorite thing on this island?”
“You even have to ask?” I brushed my lips across her mouth. “I’ve never been so happy since you moved back here with me.” I felt the familiar sparks her kisses always stirred. “Part-time, or whatever you call our back and forth to Florida.”
“You weren’t too happy when you found out you had to lug my boxes down ten flights of stairs or when the moving truck got a flat tire in Alabama. Was it worth it?” She batted her eyes at me.
I ran a hand along her face, and held her chin between my thumb and finger. “Darlin’, nothing has ever been more worth it.” I closed the distance between us, and sometime during the kiss, we both lost our glasses.
“Eh-hem. Excuse us,” Emily called. “We have a boat to christen with champagne. Focus, you two.”
“You got it, girl.” I grabbed Sierra by the hand and tugged her toward the shoreline.
Emily held up the bottle of champagne she had chosen for this occasion. Cole snagged it and faced the boat.
“Just like in batting practice,” I called.
He laughed as he pulled the bottle back, focused on the target he selected on the bow, and swung forward with the full force of his arm. We cheered as the bottle shattered along the beach.
“How was that?” Cole turned to face the group.
“Let’s take her out, and then I’m headed inside. It’s damn cold.” I hopped onto the boat.
“I hear ya, man.” Cole placed Emily inside the boat before jogging to the other side to shove her off. Sierra reached for my hand as I helped her step over the side.
“You ok with this?” I asked her. “You can stay here until we get back.”
She shook her head. “No way. I’m in this with you. The boats. The island. Football. All of it.”
I leaned over to steal a kiss, feeling the softness of her lips.
“Good. I’ll get you home soon,” I promised.
It was playoff time. And we had decided to spend some holiday time at the island before heading back to Orlando. I tried not to let the post-season get under my skin. Sierra said it was meant to be this way. We could focus on each other and the baby.
There was always next season.
I stood at the captain’s chair until Sierra walked up to me. I sat her on my lap and steered over her shoulder. Maybe it was a small island, and maybe she didn’t always love it like I did, but I knew Sierra was happy here. We had found something in each other that couldn’t be abandoned or ignored. If that wasn’t love, I didn’t know what love was.
###
Naughty Notes
Y’all, this book means so much to me. I don’t know if I can tell you how much I love the water and how many epic summer romances I’ve had at the beach. Maybe you catch a hint of that in here. Blake has a softer side than a lot of my alphas, and I think that’s what I love about him. He struggles with being a leader. He struggles with his family’s past. He has a broken heart and is scared to death to fall in love again. Haven’t you met that guy before? The one who is hot as hell, but he’s damaged beyond belief? Yeah, well that’s Blake. And I love him for it! Because eventually we all know that guy—the one who says he can’t commit or can’t love again—he does. He always does.
I hope you loved reading Dirty Game. I loved writing it and bringing these characters to you.
RESIST
Chapter One
The only thing I could hear was the echo of my heels hitting the concrete. They made a sharp sound each time I took a step, a distinctive click-clack noise that could only be made by the point of a thin stiletto. Slipping them on this morning had made me feel confident. I called them my power heels. I was taller—stronger even with them on. But now I realized how loud my footsteps were. How they drew attention to my every move.
It was strange how things could be cocooned in a tunnel of noise while at the same time, amplifying everything around me—especially the echo of my stride.
I nervously flattened the thin belt around my waist and looked for signs for the exit. I stopped, scanning the arrows pointing right and left, and took a deep breath of the stale tunnel air. My hands started to prickle with uneasiness. What if I was late? What if I missed the next shuttle?
Everywhere I looked the women wore walking shoes. Not me. I was the newbie. The transplant. The rookie who made the mistake of wearing the highest heels I had in my closet because they matched my dress. On my first day I wanted to look like I belonged.
Instead, I didn’t. I looked like a novice D.C.’er.
Tomorrow I would shove my heels into my messenger bag like the other locals. I had walked down three flights of stairs from our rooftop apartment and another ten minutes to make it to the red line metro. We lived in a historic building without an elevator. It was charming, but the stairs were a pain in the ass.
Every part of me wanted to reach down and throw the heels in the nearest trash can, but then what? Was I considering showing up barefoot? I had to keep walking.
The metro I had ridden to the Tenleytown stop whizzed behind me, kicking up a hot wind that engulfed my arms and legs as I walked toward the escalator. I could already feel the fabric of my dress sticking to the creases in m
y skin. I hadn’t accounted for the August heat when I’d dressed before six.
Greer had left for work before I’d fixed my first cup of coffee. I hadn’t been able to consult her on my choice. She would have probably warned me about the shoes. I couldn’t believe how early she had to arrive at her office. The few days since I had moved in she was gone before I was awake.
No one else seemed to notice how ill-suited I was for traveling the subway system. They were too busy staring at their smart phones and racing to their jobs. A man brushed past me, taking the spot ahead of me on the staircase.
I grabbed the railing quickly so he didn’t knock me off balance. He either hadn’t seen me, or hadn’t given a shit that he had bumped me.
The escalator was one more thing that didn’t agree with my heels. I teetered on the ridges of the metal steps, pushing my balance on the balls of my feet. It didn’t help that I was holding a cup of coffee and trying to keep my bag on one shoulder.
I exited the metro and turned for the spot where the bus would pick me up. D.C. was blistering hot in August. I stood at the stop, praying the shuttle would arrive quickly. I could feel the sweat trickle down the backs of my knees.
I wanted to make a statement today. First impressions mattered. I deserved this position. I’d earned it. I wasn’t too young or green. My blond hair didn’t drop my IQ points. My southern background didn’t preclude me from intelligent discussions. Without fail I heard the same thing from people I met for the first time.
“Are you really twenty-eight? No. You could pass for twenty-one.”
I always got carded at bars. I was used to it. My friends laughed at me. It wasn’t embarrassing until the time I met my former boss for drinks and the waiter asked him what his daughter wanted to order. I had been mortified, mostly because he was forty.
Today’s first impression mattered, and mine was going to be nothing but a wrinkled, mess of a sweaty dress I bought on sale and swollen feet I hobbled in on to my first staff meeting.
I didn’t want to question my decision to move to D.C. I didn’t want the nervousness to strike again. This was where I was supposed to be. I took a sip of coffee and waited for the shuttle. The liquid churned in my stomach. First day jitters were normal.
I never expected to be on this path. But here I was, changing the course of my career after a brutal two years in private practice. Instead of practicing law I was going to learn how to teach it. I didn’t know how to supervise students, or develop curriculum but I would. This program was exactly what I needed. So why did I feel so nauseatingly nervous?
I exhaled when I saw the bus round the corner. I stepped back as the doors opened outward. The driver looked straight ahead.
“Good morning.” I smiled.
“Mmmhmm.” He closed the door and hit the gas before I found a seat.
The shuttle lurched forward as my bag dropped off my shoulder and I lost control of my coffee. The cup hit the floor, separating from the lid as it splattered at my feet.
“Shit,” I whispered.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I refastened the lid and watched in horror as the spill spread from one end of the shuttle to the other. Oh God, this was a disaster.
There was a man at the back of the bus reading his phone. He never looked up or offered to help.
I looked around for something I could use.
“Excuse me.” I walked to the driver. “Do you have any paper towels or anything? I spilled some coffee. I’m so sorry.”
“You can’t cross the red line,” he snapped.
“Oh, sorry.” I shrank back over the mark on the floor, watching the coffee dry on the tips of my heels. “Do you have something I could use? It was an accident.”
“We’re about to stop on campus. Hold on.” He seemed aggravated. I couldn’t tell if it was from the spill or because I had bothered him while he was driving.
I sat in the seat closest to him, waiting for him to hand me something, anything I could use.
The shuttle came to an abrupt halt. I looked out of the window and saw students walking across campus. Without turning around the driver handed a roll of paper towels to me over his right shoulder.
“I gotta keep a schedule,” he smacked.
“It will only take a second,” I explained.
The other passenger jogged down the stairs and walked off.
My fitted dress made it hard to kneel to the floor. I did the best I could, running the paper towels over the aisle with my foot.
I gathered up the trash and tossed it in the wastebasket by the door.
“Thank you. Sorry about the spill.” I carefully stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Maybe next time don’t bring your coffee on here.” He nodded at me before closing the door in my face.
By the time I found the conference room, there was standing-room only. Holy hell. I wasn’t expecting it to be packed. Or to be in a room with this many other Practioners-in-Residence. There had to be twenty-five of us packed into a room meant for a meeting of ten people. My stomach sank. Until now, I had no idea the pool of competition would be this large.
I was wedged between a girl in a navy blazer and the wall. I smiled weakly at her as I tried to retrieve a notepad from my bag. My elbow banged into the chair railing.
“Can you see?” she asked.
She was extremely tall. I looked down and noticed she had on flats.
“I’m fine.” As long as I had room to scribble notes, I could handle it. That and as long as my feet didn’t give out. It was possible they had lost feeling.
The mumbling stopped as soon as one of the program directors closed the door, sealing us in the claustrophobic space. I tried to take a slow steady breath.
“Good morning. Glad to see so many faces here today.”
He took his time to make eye contact with each of us. I recognized him as one of the people from my interview panel three months ago. His goatee was peppered and he had a long drawn face.
“Some of you are here to practice law. Some of you are here to learn how to teach law.” He cleared his throat. “Some of you are here to do some good for those under-served in our community. Me? I’m here for all of that. I’m the director. If we haven’t met, I’m Max Harrison. This is my twentieth year in the Clinical Program. I oversee all ten clinics. I pick up clients when I can and I also teach a history of law class twice a week. So, I don’t have a lot of free time.” He chuckled.
I shuffled to the right, trying to see past the girl in front of me.
“You should all have your clinic assignments. There are ten clinics, but this year we only had open slots in Taxation, Immigrant Justice, Intellectual Law, International Human Rights, and Women and Law. We did our best to sort you based on experience and personal requests, but it may not have worked out for everyone.
“The positions are for one year. All of this was covered in your interview process, but now that you’re here I want to remind you—you aren’t faculty and you aren’t staff. You are here as a resident of this program. At the end of the year there will be an opportunity to apply for a faculty position, but you can see the competition is going to be fierce.”
This was the part where everyone wanted to size up the person next to them. The tall girl blocked my view from most of the cohorts in the program. I kept my back against the wall and my head down.
I had no way to assess my experience against the people in the room. We were all supposed to be the best in our graduating law classes. We all came from prestigious practices. We all kicked ass in our interviews. None of us would be here otherwise. I didn’t know how they would weed us out.
I thought about the irony of standing here pinned to the wall, preparing once again to compete. I thought that part of law was behind me.
The room was tense. The energy buzzed with sharp focus. We might be here to do some good in the world, but underneath it all each person in the room wanted to win. Each one of us wanted to be the only one standing when this process end
ed.
Max smiled. “I would like to add that even if things don’t work out for you here at the end of the program, we have had many of our law residents go on to receive full-tenure track positions at other law institutions. And some of them even find that doing pro-bono work is sometimes more rewarding than they could have imagined. This year is going to teach you more than you could have thought possible. I think I’ll finish on that note.”
The tall girl scribbled something on her notepad. I didn’t have anything on mine.
Professor Harrison wrapped up his introduction. “You can break and head to your respective clinics. I’m sure we’ll have a chance to get to know each other over the next two semesters. Good luck.”
Max cut for the door and walked out of the room before anyone could bombard him with questions.
The tall girl turned to me. “I’m Trish.”
I smiled. “Emily. Nice to meet you.”
“What clinic did you get?” she asked.
“I’m in the women’s clinic,” I responded. “How about you?”
“Taxation law. I worked for three years at my uncle’s firm in Atlanta.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. There was nothing stimulating to me about accounting or the law that went with it. Since I was pre-law women’s issues had always been a part of my studies.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other some time,” she mused.
“Maybe.” I think we both knew it wasn’t likely to happen.
Trish walked out of the room.
This was always the hardest part about starting over. Even in a room full of people I felt completely alone. Everyone was a stranger. Nothing was familiar. The conference room was new. This building. The next building. Everywhere I turned I saw something strange and foreign.
I told myself it wouldn’t stay like this. Each day I’d learn people’s names. I’d figure out how not to piss off the shuttle driver. I’d learn to wear the right shoes. I’d be able to make it to clinic without having to check the map app on my phone. The pieces would come together. But right now as I watched my colleagues shuffle out of the meeting, it was hard to think that day would ever come.
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