All eyes turned to the dock and Tyler Harris. Lavender averted her eyes to avoid another round of disturbing eye contact. Her gaze fastened onto his impressive body. Even hidden beneath a raincoat, his broad shoulders and wide chest were visible, along with his long legs. The rain plastered his wet pants to his muscular thighs. His strong calves and ankles ended at big feet. Really big feet. Which from her experience meant—
Big mistake. Mega big one. This would never—ever—do. Jocks were not on her recommended diet, no matter how delectable they might appear on the outside. She’d sworn off any man with the channel numbers for ESPN worn out on his remote. Not to mention one who left his uncle to die on his own.
Lavender scrubbed her face with her hands and banished her current line of thinking.
She knew what was to come next. The word had traveled around town like wildfire. Art had requested it. God only knew why, but he’d always had a flare for the dramatic. He wanted his ashes scattered in Outlaw Bay via his nephew’s renowned throwing arm. The speculation as to how that would be done had run rampant all week.
All eyes were on the dock.
The preacher handed Tyler a football-shaped urn, courtesy of a local ceramics shop, and a gasp rippled through the crowd.
Tyler wrapped his long fingers around it and stared blankly at it. He glanced at the preacher, who said something to him. Tyler nodded grimly.
He turned the football around in his large hand as if assessing its air- or sea-worthiness. With a determined set to his jaw, he spun on his heel and lurched down the rickety dock. The rotted structure rocked from side to side with each step, causing Tyler to stagger like a drunk on a three-day binge.
He stopped near the end and braced his legs apart for balance. The dock groaned and creaked as waves beat at the pilings. His athletic body countered every jolt with ease. He stood in profile, his head thrown back, staring out to the water like a defiant conqueror. His strong chin jutted out, accentuating a slight cleft. His unruly hair, in need of a haircut, plastered against his forehead, but he didn’t bother to pull up his hood.
Art’s orange tabby rubbed around Lavender’s legs and meowed, demanding attention. Art had never named him, and they simply called him The Cat. She ignored the prima donna, and the tabby head-butted her legs. She pushed him away with her foot. His green eyes bored into hers. He twitched his tail from side to side. “Shhh.” She held a finger to her lips.
The cat yowled again. She bent down to grab him, but he eluded her. When she took a step toward him, he streaked toward the dock, weaving in and out of the crowd like a running back heading for the end zone.
“No!” Lavender scrambled after the cat but stopped short of the unstable dock.
Tyler hefted the football urn over his head and cocked his arm. An orange flash darted between his legs. He stumbled in an attempt to avoid stepping on the tabby cat. His front foot couldn’t find purchase on the slippery planks and shot out from under him and off the edge of the dock. The urn smashed onto the dock, shattered, and sent gritty gray ash flying everywhere, coating the preacher and anyone within several feet. Tyler’s ass followed his foot, skidding across the dock and off the edge. His big body crashed into the icy cold water.
The guests watched in horrified disbelief.
The cat ran back to her and sank his claws in her leg. With a yelp, she leaned down and detached the little brat, cradling him in her arms.
“You’re in deep shit, buddy.”
The cat purred. In the self-absorbed way of most cats, he’d didn’t give a damn about all the trouble he’d caused.
Sputtering and cursing, Tyler bobbed to the surface and grasped the edge of the dock. He hoisted himself out of the water and stomped to shore, shaking water from his hair.
Lavender’s eyes widened as he headed straight toward her and Cat, his eyes blazing and his shoes making squishing noises. Every muscle in his six-foot-four frame appeared tensed for battle as he towered over her by more than fourteen inches. She tightened her grip on the troublemaking feline, who was blissfully unaware of the man with catocide on his mind.
“That cat just used up all nine of his lives.”
Standing toe-to-toe with the arrogant quarterback, Lavender shrugged and tossed him a too-innocent smile. “You’re dripping all over my feet.”
His body vibrated with restrained fury. Salt water ran off him in streams and puddled on the already saturated ground. He gave her a once-over as the storm in his eyes built to a category five. “I’m not done with him. Or you.” Whirling around, he grabbed a towel someone handed him and stalked off.
Lavender didn’t know whether to laugh or run like hell. If he thought he was pissed now, just wait until the reading of the will this afternoon.
She’d be replacing Cat as number one on his hit list.
Chapter 3—Animal Attraction
Over the years, Tyler worked hard to cultivate his reputation as an asshole. One hundred percent asshole, from his gorgeous mug to his well-exercised cock, from his fast moves to his irreverent attitude, he practiced the art of being an asshole. In fact, he considered himself a master.
Screw nice. Tyler didn’t do nice. Nice guys were boring. Well, except for his cousin and best friend, Derek. Yeah, Derek could be a lame-ass at times, especially with his wife, but he also had steel in him, and he had Tyler’s back.
On the rare occasions when Tyler was caught doing a good, selfless deed, he buried it in a smoke screen of self-serving bullshit. The press ate it up. Everyone loved to hate an asshole. He gave them what they wanted and made money doing it. More importantly, the asshole role kept people at a distance and discouraged them from looking any deeper. Because Tyler never exposed his soft underbelly to anyone. Never let them see the guy who didn’t watch sad movies, had a soft spot for animals and old people, and anonymously donated shitloads of money to childhood cancer.
Which was exactly why no one knew about his relationship with Uncle Art. Not even his mother or sisters. Thanks to Uncle Art he was here on a remote island with not one fast-food or big-box store.
Jim Miller, his uncle’s attorney, riffled through the stacks of papers teetering precariously on his desk, leaving Tyler to wonder if the old coot had lost the will. Tyler shifted his butt in a chair made for a guy half his size. He stretched his cramped legs out in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest.
His gaze flicked over the hot little chick with the weird name radiating some serious attitude in the chair next to him. He made a mental note to take a rain check on a more thorough body assessment of the sassy redhead.
Just not now.
Uncle Art’s unexpected death had sucker-punched him in the gut. No more secret weekly visits to the Seattle veterans nursing home to play poker with his uncle and his cronies. No more arguing over who was the greatest baseball player of all time. No more stories about ancestors Tyler never knew. Even worse, he didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to an uncle he’d only gotten to know in the past six months.
He’d wanted to take his two older sisters to meet Art, but for reasons known only to Art, he refused. Now he wished he’d done it anyway so they would’ve been able to meet him.
Just one week ago Tyler had stood on the podium after winning his second Super Bowl and hadn’t felt a damn thing but emptiness. He sure as hell didn’t have that problem now. He swore a grizzly bear had torn open his chest and ripped out his heart, leaving a gaping cavity and a load of intense, agonizing pain.
But he’d played through pain before, and he’d do it again. He put on his game face and slipped into his favorite role when things got tough, that of a selfish asshole.
The old attorney with bad taste in clothes finally held the will in his pudgy hands. Tyler bit back a few choice words. He just wanted to get on with it and get the hell out of here and back to civilization. He couldn’t even get cell service on this godforsaken island.
Jim glared at him through his Coke-bottle glasses, as if Tyler had pissed him off somehow
. Hell, Tyler was the one who’d been summoned from his city condo, dunked in the freezing-ass cold waters of Outlaw Bay, and forced to stay on this isolated rock two hours longer than necessary. And for what? To be an unwelcome guest at his uncle’s funeral and make a total ass out of himself? To listen to the reading of a will that didn’t apply to him? Tyler preferred to do his grieving in private, not in front of several hundred hostile islanders in the middle of a fucking hurricane.
Tyler leaned forward, elbows on Jim’s desk, and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, which contributed to his crappier than usual attitude.
The old goat pushed his glasses up his nose and started reading. Tyler tuned him out until he heard his name. “To my great-nephew, Tyler, as the last of the Harris males, I will to you my estate at Twin Cedars and all of my personal effects therein, including my beloved cat. I’m truly sorry my estrangement from your family kept us from knowing each other sooner. After your father died, I should have been there for you, but I wasn’t. At least we had time together at the end.”
What the fuck? Tyler leaned back in his chair, letting the words sink in. He hadn’t seen this coming. Not at all. Especially the cat part.
Hot Chick, a.k.a. Lavender, shrieked one of those high-pitched female sounds that usually sent him diving for cover. She clamped her hand over her mouth, but not before he heard a muffled sob. Oh, crap. Not tears. He’d never been able to deal with a woman’s tears, not even his sisters’.
He played dumb, not hard to do with a 2.0 GPA.
Lavender stared at the attorney seated across the table from her as if his words had sucked the life out of her future. “Jim, there must be some mistake. Are you sure?”
“I wish there was a mistake. Artie requested the change six months ago.”
“Six months ago?” She made that little heartbreaking sound from deep in her throat, the kind usually followed up with hysterical crying and a big dent in his credit card to make things better.
“Right after Art took a fall and went to the veterans nursing home in Seattle to recover.”
Right after he’d called Tyler out of the blue and asked to see him. Tyler bit back a dose of guilt, even though he’d no reason to feel guilty. He hadn’t asked for this. Hell, no one in their right mind would ask for this. The place was beyond repair and a money pit if he ever saw one.
“But-but…” Lavender wrung her hands in her lap. Tyler figured she’d rather be wringing his neck. “Art shared the will with me. We had dreams for the estate—shared dreams once we got the money together. He knew I’d carry on if something happened to him. How could he leave it to this…this person who has no appreciation of the mansion’s history or interest in the legacy of one of the island’s pioneer families?”
“Which happens to be my family,” Tyler reminded her.
She shot him a look that had first-degree murder fantasies written all over it.
“It’s quite clear. Mr. Harris inherits it all if he conforms to the requirements set forth in Artie’s will.”
Tyler snapped to attention. “What requirements?” Jim had better not be messing with him. Tyler wasn’t in the mood for bullshit.
“The terms are clear, Mr. Harris. Before you can inherit the property, you’ll need to be in residence for ninety consecutive days starting today.”
“What?” All those years in loud football stadiums must have screwed up his hearing.
“Ninety consecutive days,” Lavender repeated, as if she considered him a fucking idiot or something.
“Not gonna happen.” No way in hell did Tyler want to be stuck on this frigging island, not even for five more minutes. At this very moment, a float plane idled at the dock, waiting just for him.
“Then the property passes to the Island Yankee Brotherhood and Lavender Mead.”
“Island Yankee Brotherhood? Not the old guys in military uniforms at the funeral?” Hell, they couldn’t even get “Taps” right, let alone deal with a big-ass estate badly in need of millions of dollars in TLC or, even better, bulldozing.
“One and the same.” The defiant look in Lavender’s eyes almost had him smiling. He liked women with balls.
“I’m supposed to get married in a month.” Like that was going to happen. Cass wouldn’t answer his calls after he’d postponed the wedding once again, and truthfully, Tyler was relieved. He knew as well as Cass did that there would be no wedding, and they were finished.
“You’ll just have to get married on the island.” Jim’s helpful suggestion didn’t help one damn bit.
“Cass would never come here. She’d hate it.”
“Then I guess she’ll wait if she really loves you.” Lavender was starting to annoy the hell out of him. She wore her displeasure like a suit of armor.
He considered his options. If he left, he’d forfeit the place to a group of geriatrics and Hot Chick, who’d most likely lose it or sell it. Or he could spend the next ninety days on an island with no cell service, one stoplight, and no nightlife, unless you counted playing pull tabs and swapping fish stories with the locals as nightlife. He’d be completely isolated from rabid reporters and hordes of nosy fans, which did have its merits. Or he could hightail it out of Dodge with nothing lost, nothing gained.
Ever since he’d rear-ended the cop car over a week ago, his life had been hell. The press hounded him day and night. Rumors flew about DUI and drug charges, even a possible stint in rehab. Forget that he’d just won the Super Bowl. Nobody cared about that. They wanted dirt. Even worse, some dipshit videoed the entire fucked-up accident, including the aftermath, and sold it to a major sports network. The clip started with him ramming into the cop, then taking a breathalyzer test—which he passed with flying colors, thank you very much—and ended with him being handcuffed and hauled into jail because he’d given the jock-hating prick of a cop some lip. The cocky son of a bitch had arrested Tyler just because he could. His attorney got him out a few hours later, no charges filed. At least, not yet.
But that didn’t stop the speculation. Everyone wanted to believe the worst of him. No one bought that he’d passed the breathalyzer. He’d been the subject of just about every sports show for the past week—ad nauseam—while his agent worked feverishly to do damage control with the league and the team.
Tyler rubbed his thumb across his stubble, considering his options: peace and boredom, or mayhem and stress. He pinned Jim with a laser gaze. “So, how much do you think that property is worth?” He kept his attention on Jim, not chancing a look at Lavender, even though he heard her sniff and blow her nose.
“Millions. With that much waterfront and with this economy, it’s priceless.” Something flickered in Jim’s eyes, immediately rousing Tyler’s suspicions. The attorney wasn’t being 100 percent straight with him.
Whatever.
Tyler didn’t need a run-down mansion in the middle of flipping nowhere, even if Twin Cedars was his family’s legacy, built over a hundred years ago by his timber baron ancestor, Jackson Harris. Not that he’d keep it in the family.
The land was a different story. Worth millions?
Tyler blew through money like a NASCAR driver blew through the finish line. Being a big spender was all part of his persona. He always figured he’d just earn more.
Even before the playoffs, the winds of change had started blowing across his once-secure future. That big contract loaded with incentives and the lucrative endorsements could all end tomorrow. If he had a mediocre season and the team signed a hotshot rookie quarterback, he’d be relegated to backup status. Even worse, an injury could end his career in the time it took the center to snap the ball. Then where would he be? No source of new income, no marketable skills other than football, expensive tastes, more expensive fiancée, and a family who dipped into his cash a little too often.
He’d seen it happen several times. A washed-up football star goes bankrupt.
Not gonna happen to him. He’d never suffer that humiliation, never do that to his family. They de
pended on him.
He’d be damned if he’d give up a valuable chunk of land just to get out of ninety days of pure hell. If there was one thing Tyler had never had enough of, it was money. And Tyler always wanted more. His life revolved around an endless pursuit of more: more fame, more fortune, more victories, more women, more parties. More of everything. Because somewhere buried in all the excess had to be the one elusive piece that finally allowed him to say: “Now I have enough.”
“Did Art say anything about me?” Lavender sniffed and honked her nose loudly. She’d do a Canadian goose proud.
“Yes.” Jim felt around for his glasses, stuck them on his fat face. He cleared his throat and sent Tyler the same kind of look Tyler used to get from his dad when he was warning his son to be seen and not heard. “‘Lavender, you’re probably really disappointed with me and confused. I’m sorry I let you and the brothers down. You are the granddaughter I never had. You have a gift, a great affinity for senior citizens. I wanted to help you get your degree in gerontology—’”
“The study of old people,” Lavender added, as if she considered Tyler a moron.
Tyler gritted his teeth but said nothing. He’d never pretended to be a Rhodes Scholar, but he hated being talked down to like a dumb jock, even if the cleat fit.
Jim waited for the two of them to stop their mental stare down then continued. “‘—but there’s no money, and I can’t mislead you anymore. Tyler can afford to do what needs to be done. The brothers and you can’t. I only hope after ninety days in residence, he will come to love the place as much as all of us, and do the right thing.’”
“The right thing? What the fuck does that mean?” No chance in hell would he keep the rotting hulk. In ninety days, the place had to go on the market, be sold to the first buyer with a wad of money. Stuff like family heritage and historical significance couldn’t influence his decision. He wouldn’t let it. He needed that money as much as he needed to lie low for a while.
Snap Decision: The Originals (Seattle Steelheads Series Book 2) Page 2