OTHER TITLES BY SHELLY ALEXANDER
The Angel Fire Falls Novels
Dare Me Once
The Red River Valley Novels
It’s in His Heart
It’s in His Touch
It’s in His Smile
It’s in His Arms
The Checkmate, Inc. Novels
Foreplay
Rookie Moves
Get Wild
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.
Text copyright © 2018 by Shelly Alexander
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 Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503901766
ISBN-10: 1503901769
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
For all the parents of special-needs kids out there who get up every day and choose to love. Because love definitely is a choice. Sometimes it’s an easy choice, and sometimes it’s the most difficult choice of all.
And as always, for my husband. A wonderful man. A loving partner. A great father. And the one person in the world I know I can always count on to be there, no matter what.
CONTENTS
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
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
LILY’S LIFE LESSON #1
Never date a man who can’t make you moan louder than your masseuse can.
“I don’t need to get laid,” Trace Remington said in response to his two younger brothers’ smart-ass remarks about his love life. Getting laid was the last thing on Trace’s priority list.
Trace chalked his pool cue and waited patiently for Spence, the youngest, to get too cocky and miss a shot. Always did.
“Might do you some good.” Elliott, the middle brother, chuckled as he lounged on the old orange sofa in the game room of the Remington—the family-owned resort where they’d grown up. Even with the shades up, the dark paneling, dim light from the stained-glass light fixtures, and giant old-fashioned video game machines blocking the back windows made the room look dank.
Spence studied every possible shot on the table. “It might make you more pleasant to be around, big brother.”
“I’m pleasant enough, and you two need to mind your own business.”
“Like hooking up is even an option for him,” Elliott said, as though Trace weren’t standing right there.
Trace flipped off both his siblings, who were only sixteen months apart in age and could pass as twins with their tall, powerful builds, green eyes, and light-brown hair—with just enough curl and length to give them that bad-boy look. Trace, on the other hand, favored their mother. She’d had dark-brown hair that matched the color of her eyes and a smile that had made Trace trust her when she said she’d always be there for them.
He wasn’t a naive eleven-year-old anymore.
“And you two wonder why I don’t want you around my son.” Trace knew that would get a rise. He leaned on his pool stick as Spence cracked a shot that banked left and dropped into the side pocket.
“You love that Ben is around his uncles, who can do everything bigger and better than his dad can.” From the sofa, Elliott tried to poke Trace with a pool stick.
Trace knew it was coming and stepped out of the way just before the tip connected with his ribs. “You do realize you two act like obnoxious teenagers whenever we spend time together, right?”
“We’re a helluva lot more fun than you,” Spence said.
That warranted another flip off, and Trace added, “I can’t wait until you two have kids. I’m going to laugh when a screaming toddler brings your player lifestyles to a grinding halt. Not to mention when the mothers of those children—whoever the unlucky ladies may be—bring you to your knees.”
“I’m not a player, bro.” Spence bent over to look down the barrel of his cue.
Elliott coughed bullshit behind his hand.
Spence ignored him and circled the table like he was on a reconnaissance mission. “I just don’t do long-term relationships, but I always tell them straight up that I’m a commitmentphobe.”
Growing up without a mother did that. All three Remington brothers sucked at relationships. Unlike Trace, at least his two siblings hadn’t been stupid enough to knock up a woman with zero maternal instincts.
A tremor of guilt slid through Trace.
Ben was the best thing to ever happen to him, but being a single father of a special-needs kid required every minute of Trace’s time, every ounce of his energy, every bit of his focus.
Precisely what had caused him to mess up so badly as a pilot in Los Angeles and forced him to make the decision to move back to Angel Fire Falls where he had a support network. Flying vacationers from Cape Celeste to the island in his eight-seater floatplane and giving aerial tours was a lot less demanding.
It was also a lot less stressful leaving Ben with family.
“Seriously, bro”—Spence walked around to the other side of the table—“now that we’re all living on the island again, you can at least go out on a date once in a while. Between Elliott, Dad, and me, we’ve got Ben taken care of. You don’t have to live like a monk just because you’re a father.”
“Women are distracting.” Trace’s tone went flat. “My son has been through enough.” For Ben’s sake, Trace couldn’t screw up again. And since Ben’s mother offered no help whatsoever, Trace couldn’t get sidetracked by a woman.
“Relationships are distracting, not women,” Elliott said. “Big difference.”
Trace shook his head. “Both are complications I don’t need. End of discussion.” He pulled over a barstool and perched on the edge.
Spence’s next shot hit a small wrinkle in the worn felt that covered the old pool table and missed the pocket. “The table needs to be re-covered.”
“No kidding.” Trace got up and looked for the cleanest shot. “The entire place needs an overhaul.” Which was why their dad had hired some hotel executive as the Remington’s new hospitality manager—to bring a fresh face and a new breed of clientele to the place.
Someone who might transform the Remington into a place they no longer recognized. That had Trace’s fatherly instincts rattled.
Trace leaned over and lined up his shot. He’d been back in Angel Fire Falls longer than his siblings—two and a half years, as opposed to Spence’s six months and Elliott’s nine weeks—and had learned to play pool around the wrinkles, memorizing every bump and snag in the felt, just like flying around severe weather and turbulence.
Ben’s Asperger’s syndrome might prevent him from picking up on social cues or tolerating change
without having a meltdown, but the boy could rack ’em and stack ’em. So Trace had played a million and one games of pool. Pool seemed to be one of the activities Ben zeroed in on like a laser beam.
“Dad’s convinced the new manager will have the know-how to breathe life into this place again. I guess we’ll see, because she’s flying in this afternoon. Dad said she’s catching the ferry to the island, but I’ve got to take a few guests who are checking out to Cape Celeste, so I’ll bring her back with me.” Trace let his stick fly, and the cue ball cracked against the solid red number three. It disappeared into a corner pocket, Trace already taking aim on the purple number four.
“Dad asked me to generate a budget so the new employee has something to work with,” Elliott said. Graduating at the top of his class at Wharton, he’d practically set San Francisco’s financial district on fire. After six years of working 24-7, he’d finally burned out and showed up on the Remington’s doorstep for Christmas. No warning. No explanation. Just a suitcase full of expensive suits he’d never bothered to unpack. “I don’t know what changes she has in mind, but they’ll have to be implemented over time. The resort’s bank account isn’t empty, but it’s not overflowing either.”
Spence rubbed the scruff on his jaw. “Dad’s let the place decline the past few years. I’ve already got a list of repairs as long as the island.” As a builder, Spence had a talent for land development and had built quite a reputation throughout the Pacific Northwest—until something had gone terribly wrong with one of his partners and Spence had shown up at the Remington for a visit and never left. “Our guests are mostly older folks. Where did all the family vacationers go? And I can’t help but wonder why a big-city hotel exec would want to live on this little vacation island and work for the Remington.”
Trace shrugged. “Dad said she was looking for a slower-paced work environment. Sounds like she might be past her prime and looking for a less stressful job.”
“She’s coming to the right place.” His head leaning back against the sofa, Elliott pointed to the solid yellow ball. “Left corner.”
Trace sent a blur of yellow flying. It disappeared right where Elliott had pointed.
“So back to you getting laid,” Spence said, just as Trace got off another shot.
The tip of his cue skimmed the side of the ball and sent it rolling in the wrong direction.
“Works every time.” Spence laughed and slowly circled the table, looking for his next shot.
Trace sat on the edge of the stool again. “Funny you have to use cheap tricks to try to beat me.”
“All’s fair in love and pool, especially between brothers,” Spence said, hunching over the table. “Elliott and I can give you some pointers since your game with women doesn’t even register in the positive numbers.”
Trace’s eye twitched.
Elliott laughed and propped one hand behind his head. “This is gonna be good.”
“I don’t need pointers. Especially from you two horndogs.”
Spence straightened. Wrapped both hands around the top of his stick. “Really? Then how long has it been since you scored with someone in the bedroom other than yourself?”
“You’re an asshole.” Trace twirled his cue like a baton.
“Yes, I am.” Spence drew out each word like the smart aleck he was. “I’m guessing if you won’t answer the question, it’s been much longer than you want to admit.”
Trace’s leg started to bounce because his gut told him where this was going.
“Dare you to go out on a date.” Elliott flashed his boyish grin. “We’ll babysit.”
“Not gonna happen. Ben needs all my attention.”
Spence lined up another shot. “Ben probably needs a break from you more than you need one from him. You’re overprotective. Let him skin a knee. Break an arm. Girls love casts. They’ll be all over him.”
“He’s eight,” Trace deadpanned.
Spence dropped another stripe. “I’ll just bet”—he bent to set up his next shot—“you couldn’t get a date if you tried, because it’s been so long you don’t remember how.” The cue ball cracked against another stripe.
Here it came.
“Forget getting laid,” Spence taunted. “I dare you to get a woman’s phone number by the end of the day.”
“Is that so?” As immature as it was, Trace found himself taking the bait just as if they were teenagers again. He never could resist throwing down with his little brothers. Showing them who was boss was just too much damn fun.
Elliott rubbed his hands together, enjoying the show.
Spence scratched his chin. “One phone number by midnight tonight.” He gave Trace a cocky stare.
“That’s it?” Trace smirked and checked his watch. “I’m heading over to the Cape in thirty minutes. I’ll have the number within an hour.” He winked. “All I have to do is tell ’em I’m a pilot, and they’ll practically throw their panties at me.”
Which was why he rarely talked to women about his profession. Doing that had gotten him rushed down the aisle with a starry-eyed aspiring actress who realized she didn’t love him about thirty seconds after the “I dos” were exchanged.
Regret washed through him. He hadn’t been in love with Megan either. His willingness to do right by her hadn’t been enough to keep her from ditching both him and their son when the first signs of Ben’s autism surfaced.
“The number has to be in your phone.” Elliott scratched his chin thoughtfully. “And you have to call her with us in the room as proof you didn’t take the cheap way out by hitting on Old Lady McGill at the ferry crossing ticket window.”
All three of them shuddered. Mabel McGill had a thing for Remington men. Any one of them, including their father.
“This is juvenile,” Trace complained. “But I’ll agree, just to remind you two who’s still boss around here.”
His two annoying siblings, whom he preferred to call Thing One and Thing Two, both flicked the tips of their thumbs across the ends of their noses—the Remington brothers’ code for It’s a go.
Trace shook his head at the secret communication system they’d created as boys. “There’s no one here but us. Is code really necessary?”
Elliott ignored him. “It’ll be a pleasure hearing how humiliated you are after you ask a dozen women for their numbers and still show up here tonight empty-handed.”
They were already acting like adolescent boys, so why not go all in? Trace brushed the pad of his thumb across his nose and sank the last two solids to win the game. He tossed his stick onto the table. “And that’s how it’s done, little brothers.”
“Ooooh God.” The moan of utter ecstasy Lily Barns let out was far more sensual than it should’ve been in a public place. For a small commuter airport, the masseuses who had their chairs set up in the middle of the terminal sure knew how to treat a gal right. A quick neck massage was just what she needed after flying halfway across the continent, changing planes three times, missing her last connection from Portland to Cape Celeste, and having to pay double to hop a later flight. The trip had been hell on heels, and her Jimmy Choos weren’t made for traveling.
A massage might also work out the tension that had her shoulders balled into knots. She’d best be ready to meet her new employer before catching the ferry at Cape Celeste that would take her across the narrow channel to her final destination—Angel Fire Falls.
“Ahhhh,” she moaned again as the small woman, who had Yin embroidered on her uniform, worked out a spasm in Lily’s neck. Her face was planted in the round headrest of one of the portable upright massage chairs when a pair of swollen ankles attached to pale white legs and a swishing floral skirt came to an abrupt stop next to her.
“I think I need what she’s getting,” Ankles said.
Obviously Ankles’s male companion disagreed because all Lily heard was a grunt of disapproval before the two walked off, their suitcases thumping behind them.
Poor Ankles. That caveman grunt was probably why she wa
nted a massage. Probably why she needed something that would make her moan. Maybe Mr. Grunt wasn’t getting the job done.
Lily could relate.
Her ex-fiancé, Andrew, hadn’t exactly rocked her world. Oh, in the beginning, he’d been affectionate and attentive. Everything Lily thought she wanted in a man because the attention he’d lavished on her made up for her father’s indifference. But the two-carat engagement ring, the expensive condo, and the gigantic wedding Andrew had insisted they start planning to impress nine hundred and ninety-eight thousand of their closest friends and family had been for show—not because he was crazy in love with Lily.
Apparently, he loved his reputation as the CEO of one of the most prestigious hotel chains on the Gulf Coast more. The depths of her father’s thievery headlining the news every day hadn’t boosted Andrew’s support or brought out his protective instincts for her either.
He’d broken up with her. Over the phone. And fired her to boot.
She let out a heavy sigh, which made a whistling noise through the headrest as the masseuse went to work on her lower back.
Lily made a mental note to add Never date a man who can’t make you moan louder than your masseuse can to the top of her new list of life lessons. Lessons she’d learned the hard way since her father had gone to prison for embezzlement. Since all her so-called friends had turned their backs on her. Since the death threats had started.
The masseuse dug the base of one palm into a knot between Lily’s shoulder blades. She almost howled from the shock of it, but then the pain melted away along with the knot in her aching muscles, and she relaxed. Good thing she’d paid in advance, because her mind was relaxing as fast as her muscles, and she might not be able to count out money once Yin was done.
“You tight,” said Yin. “Lot of stress.”
She had no idea.
“Need vacation.”
Did Lily ever.
The job she’d taken using her new name was perfect. A secluded resort on an island off the coast of southern Washington State was as far removed from New Orleans’s French Quarter as she could get without moving to another country. The Remington wouldn’t be in the same league as managing the exclusive hotel she was used to working for. The pay wouldn’t be in the same solar system. But less money and blending into a new location with new people would be like a vacation compared to the harassment Lily had been forced to live with since her father’s fall from grace.
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