Endurance

by Amy Daws

  Despite my shock, I kiss her, completely powerless to my attraction when she’s like this. When we break apart, we’re both laughing.

  “Wife,” I husk. “You really are crazy.”

  “Husband, you love my crazy.” Her smile is bigger than life.

  I growl and kiss her chastely one last time, then jog over to join the runners waiting at the starting line. No going back now.

  Belle’s laugh echoes in my ears as my brothers stand beside me. There are at least sixty athletes stacked up behind us—big names that only Harris connections could pull in. They are about to have a view of their lifetime right now.

  The man with the starting gun looks at me, and I hold up a finger to him and swerve my gaze to Vi and Hayden located at the other end of the line. Hayden is holding Rocky and waving her cute chubby little hands at me.

  “I’m not proud, boys,” Camden groans.

  “I immediately regret this decision,” Booker states.

  “Fucking Tanner,” Gareth growls.

  “Vi,” I yell and wait for her gaze to find mine. “Cover Rocky’s eyes.”

  “What?” she screams.

  Thankfully Hayden’s action is immediate and he shields my poor niece’s innocent sight.

  And then…we strip.

  But it’s nothing like the Magic Mike body roll, head-snapping strip show that you see on the telly or in the Las Vegas shows. It’s more like overly muscled men fighting the foetal position.

  Laughter erupts all around us as we wrench our shirts off over our heads and quickly slip out of our sweats. We begin kicking everything off to the side with our feet because our hands are all busy cupping our twigs and berries.

  “What the fuck?” I hear a random voice shout amongst the laughter.

  I see a few other parents turn their kids away from the scene. The god awful scene.

  “Boys!” Vi admonishes.

  I can’t even bring myself to look at my dad. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look him in the eyes again.

  But I see my wife laughing so hard with Indie that she has tears streaming down her face.

  God, I love seeing her laugh.

  The sight of her like that turns my insides to pudding and, despite my current get-up, all I can think about is how wonderful it is to see her so happy.

  Eyes locked on her, I lean over and murmur to Camden, “I can’t wait to get her pregnant.”

  “What?” Camden exclaims, but I don’t bother looking at him.

  “We’re ready!” I yell.

  Before Camden has a chance to ask another question, the gun sounds.

  Then, we—the four Harris Brothers—lead the pack, proving to everyone that there is absolutely nothing we wouldn’t do for each other.

  However, what I would do for Belle tops even them. And that is something I never realised was a possibility in my life.

  I think it was Oscar Wilde who said life imitates art. Well, to the Harris family, football imitates life. My brothers and I developed into our prospective roles in life by mirroring our spots on the pitch.

  Camden and I are strikers, both always poised and ready to attack. We create the rhythm of the pitch, a dance of giving and taking, passing and shooting. We control the highs. We gift the biggest moments. Together, we shoot for the glory, but it’s always in service to the greater goal.

  Booker is the gate keeper. He has blinders on to anything outside of the poles because nothing matters more than protecting what’s inside his web. He’s not intimidating at first glance, but when you look beneath his soft, quiet demeanour, there’s a ferocity to him that would kill for what’s his.

  Gareth is a defender. He’s a proud, solid guard, rugged in his style of play but strong in his attack. He shields what’s behind him with stoicism and grace, never buckling to even the most intense pressure. It’s all because what he hides from people is what he holds most dear.

  Above all of us is our sister, Vi, and our dad, Vaughn. They are the tactical manoeuvres. One battles for personal praise, the other, for professional excellence. Both immersed in the game, a tangled web of behaviours. Both fighting a slightly different goal, but each picking up where the other left off.

  But the women in our lives. The women who break us Harris men…They are the fiercest of all. Because it is they who inspire our Happily Ever Afters.

  Now, we wait to see what’s in store for Gareth and Booker. Hell, maybe even Dad someday.

  The End

  There’s more Harris Brothers Love coming!

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  www.AmyDawsAuthor.com

  Or check out some of the secondary characters available now.

  Camden and Indie: Challenge

  Hayden and Vi: That One Moment

  Reyna and Liam: Not The One

  Read on for the full list of my work or check out a sneak peek of Not The One at the end.

  More Books by Amy Daws

  The London Lovers/Lost in London Series:

  Becoming Us: Finley’s Story Part 1 (prequel)

  A Broken Us: Finley’s Story Part 2 (standalone)

  London Bound: Leslie’s Story (standalone)

  Not The One: Reyna’s Story (standalone)

  That One Moment: Hayden & Vi’s Story (standalone)

  One Wild Night: Julie’s Story…coming soon

  The Harris Brothers Series:

  A spin-off series featuring the football-playing Harris Brothers!

  Challenge: A British Sports Rom Com, Camden’s Story (standalone)

  Endurance: A British Sports Rom Com, Tanner’s Story (standalone)

  Pointe of Breaking: A College Dance Standalone by Amy Daws & Sarah J. Pepper

  Chasing Hope: A Mother’s True Story of Loss, Heartbreak,

  and the Miracle of Hope

  For all retailer purchase links, visit:

  www.amydawsauthor.com

  Oh my goodness! What FUN I had with Tanner and Belle! A mankini ending was an idea I had early on in the book. I knew it was a risky, wild, and wacky sort of finale to an love story, but if you’re a member of the Amy Daws London Lovers Fan Group on Facebook, then you know how hilarious I find mankinis. And if ever there was a couple to do something that crazy, it would be Tanner and Belle. I hope you loved my crazy.

  I have so many people to thank for helping me with this book.

  First, my alpha readers Jaci, Julia, Bethy, and Belinda. I like a lot of hand-holding with the Harris Brothers because they stress me out! Having you read as I write made this process so much more fun. I love that you become just as invested in these characters as I do, and I love that you push me! Thank you for dealing with my crazy author neuroses. Your endurance for me is astounding!

  My British sounding board, Lynsey! Thank you for replying to my copious amounts of British lingo inquiries. It’s not easy being an American author writing English characters, but having you on my team makes it miles more fun. I freaking love you, Bruv!

  To all my killer betas and proofers that read quickly and give me thoughtful feedback, thank you! You push me and I appreciate you helping me make my books the best they can be. I loved having you on my beardy Harris rollercoaster. (That almost sounds like mustache ride.)

  My editor, Stephanie! Thank you for knowing my characters inside and out and helping me stay true to them for every book. I owe you a new notebook for the awesome notes you keep of my work. You’re the best. Never quit me!

  My London Lovers reading group. This book was dedicated to you. You guys make writing fun. Thank you for allowing me to torture you with Mankini Mondays and embracing my crazy. Your love for the Harris family is unwavering and I am enjoying the hell out of this ride with you all.

  To my hubby. Thank you for accepting the times I need to be absent from life to get the words out. These characters consume me, but it’s your support that drives me. I’ll try not to release another book during tax season! (That’s probably a lie, but at least the thought
is there.)

  To my Lolo girl. You get more like me every day and that both thrills and terrifies me. I will always embrace your crazy and I will always dance with you like no one is watching.

  To my sky babies. It’s crazy that there was a time in my life when I lost six babies. For how happy I am today and how wonderful I see life now, I know that I wouldn’t be where I am without having gone through all of that. You six are my life barometer. You help me see the beauty in the mundane because losing all of you was anything but ordinary. Thank you for making my life extraordinary.

  Amy Daws lives in South Dakota with her husband and miracle daughter, Lorelei. The long-awaited birth of Lorelei is what inspired Amy’s first book, Chasing Hope, and her passion for writing. Amy’s contemporary romance novels are mostly London-based so she can fuel her passion for all things British.

  For more of Amy’s work, visit: www.amydawsauthor.com or check out the links below.

  www.facebook.com/amydawsauthor

  www.twitter.com/amydawsauthor

  instagram.com/amydawsauthor

  I met my first best friend when I was a twenty-three-year-old grad student. Most people have half a dozen best friends long before they turn eighteen. Not me. I was hell-bent and determined to not let anyone get too close. I liked my space.

  However, the massive chip on my shoulder, and my weird loner tendencies weren’t a problem for Marisa Clarke. She was going to be my friend whether I liked it or not. Thankfully for me, she was one of those people that you were drawn to, even if you swore you hated all bubbly blondes who giggled at everything. Her heart was so full of genuine honesty, love, and happiness that you couldn’t help but want that around. She just made you feel good.

  We were randomly paired together as roommates the first year of our masters program at Oxford. We clicked instantly over the lyrics to a song called Love Life by an American hip-hop band named Atmosphere. She was the only Brit I knew who had ever even heard of the Midwest rap duo. Our first night together in our dorm, we spent hours dissecting every lyric in the song, and eating our weight in Jaffa Cakes.

  Looking at us, you’d never believe we were friends. We used to call each other Yin and Yang. Where she had white blonde hair and fair skin, I was dark haired and olive toned. Her entire appearance was luminous. Mine was dramatically darkened by my inked collarbone and shoulder. She was sweet and bubbly. I was straight forward and snarky. Even our clothing styles screamed opposites.

  As our friendship blossomed, Marisa began texting me these epic rants about whatever was bothering her that day. It varied from her stance on overpopulation, to how a person walked their dog on campus. I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the texts in the middle of class because they were the best part of my day. I would literally have tears streaming down my face in the middle of a lecture because of her rants. They weren’t even funny…that’s what made them so laughable. She was so passionate and ferocious and adamantly serious about nothing. It was delightful.

  I used to wrack my brain trying to figure out how to one-up her, because she deserved it. She deserved to feel that simple act of random positivity that she radiated out to everyone else in the world.

  Marisa was perfectly traditional but gloriously unpredictable. Everything I wasn’t.

  Even my own mother loved everything “Marisa.” She would visit us at Oxford and rave about how wonderful she was. She would even say things like, “Oh Marisa, you have the loveliest skin…so perfect. Like Snow White!” Of course, my mother would have to ruin the compliment by bringing the subject back to my miraculous existence. She would add, “You should have seen Reyna as a baby. That’s why her middle name is Miracle. She was the cutest, tiniest, most perfect creature. Her skin was so—”

  “Mom! Stop talking about my skin!” I’d scream like a petulant child.

  She wouldn’t even flinch. Her reaction to all of my outbursts was always just a proud smile. Even when I was a teenager and telling her that I hated her and wished she would die, she would never crack.

  Marisa pushed me to be kinder to my mother. She pushed me to try to understand her better. And I’m not an idiot—I knew I was horrid. But I couldn’t stop. I was a grown-ass woman and still begging for a reaction from my mother that wasn’t her typical approving smile.

  I wanted my mother to see me the way Marisa saw me. Flawed. Human. Not just the perfect miracle she named me after. If only she would get mad at me. Be disappointed in me. Yell for once! Lord knows I had done plenty of things to elicit such a reaction.

  But she never did. She just continued to shoot that infamous Dr. Miller megawatt smile. It was the same one she served to all of her fear-stricken patients.

  Even in times of complete distress, she carried a beam of hope and pride in her twinkling blue eyes.

  She was perfect.

  So was Marisa.

  They were both so good to me.

  And I hated it.

  I didn’t deserve it.

  Because in my version of reality, I truly believed that goodness wasn’t meant for me.

  “Name?” the man barks while pouring a pint of beer from behind the large stainless steel bar.

  “Reyna Miller,” I answer, shifting on the cold metal barstool.

  “Sounds American,” he huffs and takes a long drink.

  “That’s because it is.” I’m momentarily distracted as I notice the perfectly symmetrical crease nestled between his two red eyebrows. A perfect, mirrored pair of S’s.

  “Christ, not another,” he exhales heavily after chugging half the beer down. The bar is completely empty and apparently this is how they conduct job interviews here. He sets down his glass of amber liquid and strolls over to me. He’s a tall, slender man with a mane of bright red hair that stands straight up on his head. It’s coarse and curly and pairs well with the smattering of freckles across his cheeks.

  “What brought you to London, love? Fancy getting wet?” he asks with a spicy smirk.

  My eyes narrow. This guy is either a pervert or he’s talking about the rain in London. I’m inclined to think perv. “A plane brought me,” my face and tone serious.

  “A smart arse on a job interview? Not bright, America. Not bright at all.” He grabs his glass and takes another swig.

  I cringe and look down. Damn, maybe I read him wrong. My sarcasm isn’t always well received and it has a tendency to let itself out before I can think better of it.

  Clearing my throat I add, “My mother’s a high-risk neonatal surgeon. She got a job offer at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital when I was a teenager.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Are you allowed to ask that?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions here!” he shouts out of nowhere and slams his hand down on the bar.

  I’d flinch at his outburst if it wasn’t so damn funny. I bite my lip to conceal my giggle. It’s glaringly obvious that laughing is not what this guy wants me to do right now. His tiny nostrils flare as his brown eyes bore into me. Someone really should tell this crazy red head that he is failing miserably at being intimidating. I may only be 5’4” compared to his six foot, but I’m certain I could take him if he came at me in a dark alley.

  “You’re probably trying to come up with a way to sue me right now, aren’t you, America? Bloody hell, Lariza is going to kill me,” he murmurs to himself. The lilt of his accent sounds posh, like he comes from an affluent area in London. He places his elbows on the bar and cradles his chin with his hands. “Come now. Be honest. Are you going to sue me?”

  My face splits into a wry grin. I’ve got him right where I want him and honesty suits me best anyway. “First of all, I don’t even know where to begin to look for an employment law barrister. Secondly, all of it sounds expensive and a huge pain in my ass. I’d rather just sit here and get the job instead.”

  “Are you blackmailing me to get the job?” His eyes widen with worry as his mouth drops into an O. “Fuck me…Do you even have bartending experience?”<
br />
  “Yes,” I answer, feeling a twinge of anxiety. “But continuing the honesty train…it’s been a while since my last bartending job.”

  “How long is a while?”

  “Three or four years-ish,” I mumble that last part.

  “Ish.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “So you take a break from bartending for three years and now you come crawling back to it? What’s the story there?” He crosses his boney arms over his chest and looks down at my resume as if he’s trying to crack the code. “You have a masters from Oxford? Are you joking?”

  Contemplating how I want to respond, I pull my lower lip into my mouth, tasting the chalkiness of my deep purple lipstick. Releasing it quickly, I retort back. “You just asked me two different questions. Which one do you want me to answer?”

  He rakes his hand through his hair and it springs straight back up to life. “Fuck me! You do have a degree from Oxford.”

  I sigh heavily. I didn’t want to include my education on my resume, but it killed me to leave it off. Plus, this is a highly coveted job in the service industry and I hoped that it would get me noticed. I nod subtly, confirming his suspicion.

  The red head suddenly whoops with laughter, clutching his narrow waist. “What is it with you Americans jumping the pond with your drama? You’ve got drama, don’t you, America?” he asks, attempting to compose himself.

  I glare at him. “Who doesn’t?” My voice is flat and emotionless. God, I hope he doesn’t press this.

  “Touché,” he replies, cocking his head to the side.

  “Plus, the pay here is worth it from what I hear,” I add, knowing full well that Club Taint is one of the highest paying nightclubs in London.

  “Club Taint isn’t your typical English Pub. I hope you realize this, Oxford.”