Claiming Amelia

by Jessica Blake

  Bees buzzed around the rose bushes by the front, and I stopped next to them, right below the bottom step. For a second, Aunt Ginger studied my face, and I waited. Finally, she hesitantly stepped down to the ground and wrapped her arms around me for a hug. I tensed at first, but the embrace was surprisingly warm and comforting. Just when I was getting relaxed into it, she pulled back.

  “Come inside. I’ll show you your room.”

  “Thanks.”

  She led the way through the front door. Behind us, Uncle Joe banged around with the suitcases, cursing under his breath.

  The living room felt just as typical as the outside of the house. Long, beige wraparound couch? Check. Flat screen TV on wall? Check. Upright, cheap looking piano? Check. Everything else you might expect in a middle class house in the backwoods South? Check, check, and check.

  That’s not to say the place wasn’t cozy... I guess. It was just much, much, smaller than what I was used to. Already my heart ached for my home. Would I ever get to see it again, or would someone snatch it up off the market before Dad had a chance to get the company flying again?

  Aunt Ginger headed down a short, carpeted hallway and I followed, taking off my sunglasses and hooking them on the front of my top so I could peek through the open doorways. We passed a bathroom and a kitchen with a sliding door leading to the backyard. Another door was closed, but at the end of the hall, one opened onto a small bedroom.

  The twin size bed had a skirt with a ruffle on it. That was the first thing I noticed.

  The only other pieces of furniture in the room were the writing desk and the chair sitting at it. A print of a lavender field painting hung on the wall and in the corner nearest the bed stood a floor length lamp. That was it.

  All of a sudden, my throat got dry and constricted. I was trapped. Was this what walking into prison felt like? Quickly, I glanced through the curtained window, which peeked at a wooden fence along the side yard.

  “Do you have a pool?”

  Aunt Ginger cocked her head. “No, we don’t. The sports center does though.”

  “Oh.” I wrinkled my nose at the thought of sharing water with dozens of strangers.

  So I’d have to make do with laying out. It was too bad.

  “Do you swim a lot?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I took a couple steps into the room and set my purse on the bed. “We have a pool back home.”

  “How nice.”

  Uncle Joe came down the hallway, the suitcases banging against the wall as he did so. With a final huff, he entered the room and deposited the bags near the wall.

  “What do you think?” he asked me.

  I forced a grin. “Great. It’s, uh, cute.”

  What did I really think? The room looked like a ninety-year-old woman had decorated it. The only things missing were the sewing station and a few portraits of random cats.

  Aunt Ginger rubbed her hands together. “Are you hungry? We eat dinner somewhat early.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am.” I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to check the time. Five-thirty. Yep. I was officially stuck in a retirement home. As if the bed skirt hadn’t been enough to clue me in...

  “Your bathroom is the one on this hall,” Aunt Ginger explained. “I’ll go get dinner started and that will give you some time to get settled.”

  “Okay.”

  They both left the room, and I just stood there, staring around at everything, making sure to give each of the four walls the glare it deserved.

  How could it be that only two days ago I had been at Rainy’s house getting ready for one of the best Fourth of July parties in all of history?

  A sudden sob racked my chest, and I closed my eyes, pushing the tears back down. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t deserve to be there.

  Somehow I was going to get out of this mess. Not only would I find my way back to L.A., I would also find my way back to the social status I belonged in. Madi’s sneering face at The Ivy floated across my vision, and I gritted my teeth. Boy, she would be sorry when I showed back up in town.

  After taking a few deep breaths to steady myself, I pulled my phone back out and checked my email and Facebook inbox. No messages. I checked Twitter. There were several dozen hate tweets from people I didn’t even know, saying stupid things like, “Oh how the mighty fall” and “bet @GraceWells is living in the dog house now haha.”

  “Assholes,” I muttered. How come hardly anyone knew who I was until my father’s company went under, and then suddenly I was getting hate tweets like a regular C-List celebrity?

  Throwing my phone in my purse, I stalked down to the bathroom and locked myself in it.

  For a second, I just stared. Not precisely at what was in the bathroom, but more like what wasn’t there. As in, the bathtub.

  I took a step forward and opened the sliding door to the shower. Yep. A shower but no tub.

  And did I mention there was no pool?

  My next breath was the shakiest one I’d taken in days. I took one more step and collapsed onto the toilet seat.

  This is temporary, I reminded myself. Totally temporary.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Luke

  I hit the floor, going straight into my push-ups. Two... Four... Six...

  The run that morning had been a mile longer than usual. I’d taken the standard trail along the river, but then also crossed the bridge and gone up to do a loop around the mountain. My calves ached, and my feet were sore. But it still wasn’t enough.

  I’d done all right for the last four months, emotionally speaking. So why was Lacey suddenly on my mind? We hadn’t spoken since the day we broke up. Thanks to living in different towns, there were close to zero chances of us running into each other.

  I’d been good about staying off social media. After trolling her Facebook page just once, I learned my lesson. The pictures of her at a party with an assortment of dudes clustered around her had not been good for my ego. Yeah, I know. They were probably all friends.

  Or maybe that party was actually an orgy.

  I chuckled to myself as I switched to one handed push-ups. Just the thought of Lacey in anything other than a typical, conservative relationship was laughable. The girl was as American as apple pie. She taught at an elementary school and had dimples that would have made her a candidate for Little Debbie’s next mascot.

  In some ways, she’d been too conservative for me. Ten months of dating and she wanted to know when we were going to get married. I’d been waiting for her to ask for a joint banking account.

  Don’t get me wrong. I loved Lacey. I really did. I think. But marriage?

  With a huff, I hopped to my feet and grabbed the jump rope hanging from the wall of my home gym. Marriage wasn’t something to play around with. Yeah, I wanted it. Someday. But it had to be with the right girl.

  My assertion that I wanted to wait had been enough for that girl. She let me go with a simple flick of her wrist.

  Her presence in my mind the last few days likely had to do with the dry spell I was going through. I knew I needed to get out and meet more people, but I couldn’t help it. I was tired of the games. Tired of the chases. Tired of the shallowness so many people seemed to possess. All of those things I thought I’d left behind in New York. In actuality, it turned out people could be lame no matter what the local population count was.

  Only one year away from thirty and I was already officially jaded.

  From the bench where I’d left it, my phone buzzed. I stopped jumping and wiped some sweat from my brow. My hands were already too slick from exertion to touch the phone, but I glanced at the screen where a text message was scrolling.

  Drinks? Today sucks.

  I smiled. A cold beer and a half hour unloading with one of my best buds was exactly what I needed.

  Mark sat in front of Pit Stop, on one of the long wooden benches behind the tables. Too busy typing feverishly away on his phone, he didn’t even notice my arrival.

  “Hey, big boy.” I
reached down and ruffled his bright red hair.

  He jerked back and scowled. “Hey, watch it. I don’t wake up looking like this.”

  “Oh, really?” I grinned.

  He set his phone down on the table. “Yeah, not everyone is Mr. Perfect.”

  I acted like the insult didn’t get to me and looked through the pub window to see if I could catch a waitress’ attention.

  “I already ordered for you,” Mark explained, removing his feet from the bench across from him so I could take a seat.

  “Thanks.” I settled down with my forearms on the table. “So why does today suck?”

  He shook his head. “Lunch was crazy, and we were short staffed. Two people called in sick. Actually, they were likely hung over.”

  I chuckled. “No shit.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it was a whole lot of fun,” he continued, sarcasm flowing. “You should try it some time.”

  “Cooking on a line? No way. I can’t even make toast.”

  Mark smirked. “You rich boys...”

  I shrugged, not able to argue with him.

  “You sure you don’t need an assistant or something?”

  I rolled my eyes. “To do what? Check my mail and feed my fish?”

  “You make your life sound so boring.”

  “It is boring.” I leaned back against the bench’s backboard, relishing the breeze wafting down the sidewalk. Half of the shops downtown were closed, making it a quiet late Sunday afternoon. Only a couple other people sat in front of the pub, and no more than half a dozen more could be spotted on the sidewalks in both directions.

  “Then why are you still here?” he pointedly asked.

  I sighed and ran a hand through my hair that was still damp from the shower I’d taken right before walking over. “Sometimes boring is good.”

  “Hm,” he said in a tone that told me he wasn’t convinced.

  The pub’s door swung open and out walked Sasha, the raven haired bartender. She set the frothy pints of amber beer on the table and smiled at me. “How’s it going, Luke?”

  “Great. How are you, Sasha?”

  She set her palm against a cocked hip. “Can’t complain. You boys knock on the window if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said, his tongue practically hanging out of the side of his mouth as he stared at her. Sasha turned away from us, and Mark craned his neck to watch her hips sway in the cut-off jeans.

  When the door slammed shut behind her, he finally turned back to me. “Dude,” he said simply, the one word saying everything.

  “Your ogling is pretty hardcore,” I butted in before he could go on. “Watch it. She might kick you out.”

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh, man. It’s not me she wants. It’s you.”

  “What, Sasha?” I scratched my head and gave it some thought. She was pretty, sure, as well as nice. I’d just never felt any sort of chemistry between us.

  Mark took a gulp of his beer. “You could take her home in a heartbeat if you wanted.”

  I lifted my beer, then set it back down. “I’m glad you have confidence in me.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  Gazing down at a thick crack in the table’s wood, I wondered how much I felt like sharing?

  “Is this because of What’s-Her-Name?”

  “Sure, but that’s not her name.”

  “I’m trying to make talking about her easier by not even saying her name.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said, meaning it. “And I don’t know, really.”

  “You never rebounded.”

  I laughed so loud the couple sitting at the other table glanced over at us. “I don’t need to rebound,” I argued.

  “Right.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, his nonchalance completely unreadable. Did he really believe me?

  “Good luck finding anything permanent and real in this town.”

  “Don’t say that,” I groaned.

  “It’s true. This pond is about as small as they get.”

  “Maybe you haven’t fished hard enough.” I grinned at him before picking up my glass again.

  “Seriously, though. You’ve been lots of places. South America. Europe.”

  “Don’t forget West Virginia.”

  “Exactly.” He ignored my joke. “You know what the women of the world are like.”

  “You make me sound like a Casanova. For most of the years I was traveling, I had the same girlfriend, you know.”

  “But you met plenty of women.” He pointed his finger at me. “So tell me... are they really any better in Crystal Brook?”

  I chugged half my beer and then took a deep breath. “Don’t knock this town just because it’s small, Mark. Gems can be hidden anywhere.”

  “All right. Whatever,” he flatly replied. Turning in his seat, he knocked on the window pane. “You want another one?”

  “No. I’ve got work to do.”

  He shook his head. “You’re a saint, Luke Anderson. A living saint.”

  I took a long swallow. “Too bad I don’t take prayer requests.”

  TO BE CONTINUED...

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jessica Blake is the author of the hot alpha billionaire romance series, The Billionaire Prisoner, along with her friend, USA Today Bestselling author, Alice Ward.

  Since she was a young college girl reading and writing romance was her passion. She sometimes writes from her own experiences but she’ll never let on which books those are. Her main goal and delight is giving her fans great stories and deep emotions.

  Living in Miami, she likes to sit by the pool with her laptop and write her next hot romance.

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  COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Jessica Blake

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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