Fearless: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Ellie Bradshaw

  Up ahead looms a long, rocky outcropping.

  Eyrecourt threw me a parade when I arrived. Fancy that. A fuckin’ parade. In America, everybody wants something from you. An autograph, a selfie. A shot at your title. But not at home. Here when you show up after a long time away, they all just want to honor that you’re one of their own. That you’ve done something grand with your life. They want to take care of you.

  I’ve never felt that before.

  But I get a brief sense image of Theresa, her warmth curled next to me, holding me as I wept. There is a sharp pang in my throat.

  It’s the cold air, I tell myself.

  At least that’s my own voice.

  The rocks get closer, jagged and black and shiny with wet and moss even under the overcast sky. Anxiety worms its way into my gut. It’s been there a while, but now it’s moving about.

  Everything started here.

  It should have been you that was champion, Aiden. You were always tougher than I.

  Sports Now Magazine didn’t bother announcing they’d let Theresa, their problematic bulldog, go. I had to learn about it from an MMA fanzine. Some astute blogger realized that her column hadn’t appeared in SNM the previous month and called the magazine about it. They let him know that Theresa Vaughan no longer works here and no sir, sorry, we can’t give out her contact information. Seems no one in the sports world has heard from her in weeks.

  No one knows what happened.

  But I know. I happened. I gave her what she needed to take her career into orbit, and then recanted and asked her not to use it.

  Anybody else would have published it anyway. If I’d been her, I would have. But not Theresa Vaughan. A journalist cut from a completely different bolt of cloth.

  A woman willing to be fired rather than break her word to a man who—

  —treated her like shit

  —had only a brief, if passionate, connection with her.

  —Wadded her up and tossed her out like garbage.

  The rocks are right in front of me, and I don’t think. My feet push off the sand and I leap onto the first one even as my stomach lurches. My right foot skids a bit but I catch myself, turning to run down the length of the spit. My legs are stronger now, my steps more sure. I am the athlete that the boy I was could not even imagine becoming. But still I feel gangly, uncoordinated as I dash down the rocks.

  My mind returns to the past. To the night I spent out here in the cold wind. To the damp and the constant spray from the waves. To the look on Aiden’s face as the water took him away.

  What did I think I would find out here?

  —Well, what the fuck are you looking for?

  Again, that’s not my voice.

  What am I looking for?

  Peace. Closure.

  The past.

  The sound of laughter, faint beneath the thudding of my shoes on the wet stone.

  —The past isn’t here. At the same time, it’s always here, so maybe I’m a lying shit. It’s only in your mind, Sean, and you’ll never get closure from that.

  I am in the low place now, the place where the ocean rose up over the stones and cut me off from the land, trapping me on my island of rock.

  Maybe I just need to be where my roots are. Reconnect with who I am.

  More laughter, louder.

  —Bollocks. You’re the light heavyweight champion of the world. The man who fears nothing. The man who doesn’t give a fuck. You don’t need to reconnect with anything.

  But I am afraid.

  The sudden realization hits me like a hard body blow, and I almost miss a step. My heart jumps. Stepping wrong out here would mean a broken leg, or worse.

  But at least there is no more laughter.

  —And what it it you’re scared of, you silly wee fucker?

  I clench my teeth.

  I’ve fallen, Aiden. She knocked me down. And I don’t get knocked down. Not in the ring. Not in life.

  —Ah, I see, the voice says, humor returning. —All this time, all these fights, and you’re still hiding under the bed.

  Another body blow. I gasp.

  I am coming near the end of the spit, dashing across the rocks as if I was on a sprinting track.

  I’m not, Aiden!

  —You were just a little boy, then. But now you’re a grown coward, Sean. Light heavyweight champion chickenshit.

  No! Don’t say that.

  The voice grows hard.

  —She kept her promise to you. She sacrificed her career for you. Why would she do that?

  I don’t know.

  —Bollocks again! You know.

  Almost to the drop into the sea.

  I don’t!

  —If I weren’t dead I’d beat your ass, little brother. You make me ashamed.

  I am crying now. The wind is cold in the damp on my cheeks. My chest heaves with effort from the run and with the sobs that shake me.

  Two more steps to the edge.

  —WHAT ARE YOU RUNNING FROM, SEAN?

  And I run out of stones. The sea yawns before me and I leap from the final stone, soaring out over the water, my arms outstretched and reaching for…what?

  Love, Aiden. Love.

  The ocean closes in over my, filling my mouth, and I know for one flashing moment that this is what Aiden must have felt on his body when the ocean took him in its embrace. But I feel no panic. No struggle.

  My fear is gone.

  I know what to do.

  Chapter 10

  Theresa

  The kitchen is warm, and as I pass into its glow from the frigid winter air outside I shiver. It always feels a bit like melting, walking into the warmth of this room. I put my armload of firewood atop the dwindling pile along the wall next to the cast iron stove.

  “You guys have electricity, Mom. I don’t know why you continue to cook on this old wood-burner.”

  She looks up briefly from the pot of stew she’s stirring. Her long hair parts at her neck and hangs silvery on either side of her face.

  “I really don’t need anything more fancy than this. When we moved out of Iowa while you were in college, I told your dad that I wanted to slow things down as much as we could, get as much slow enjoyment out of the rest of our lives as we could, and just be…whatever we wanted.”

  “But you have a television.”

  She winks. “We all have vices.”

  I’ve heard this story at least once a year since they made the move. At first, I couldn’t understand it, but as my life became more and more demanding, more and more hectic, I began to see the benefits of living on your own terms. Now that I’ve left Sports Now, I’m able to take the opportunity to enjoy that.

  Not that I am actually considering a slowed-down life. Since I came out here a couple weeks ago, I’ve been searching for a new job and a way to get back into the thick of journalistic action. Of course, Mom and Dad don’t have internet service, so I have to drive thirty miles into Butte to get wifi access at the McDonald’s. I make that trip at least three times a week to apply for work. I started with all the major publications, sending query letters to editors of most of the newspapers and magazines you’d find in just about any news stand. No takers. Then I tried some of the lower-tier publications. Ditto.

  For right now, it seems I am a farm girl.

  Living the slow life my parents appreciate.

  I smile wryly.

  Mom looks at the armload of wood I brought in and makes a face. “That’s not nearly enough.”

  “You won’t burn all that cooking stew.”

  She gives me that level stare moms the world over cast upon their children when the children say something less-than-intelligent.

  “No. But over the course of the next week, I will cook twenty-one meals on this stove.” She looks at the stack of wood by the stove with a measuring eye. “I’ll burn that by meal four.”

  I dread going back out into the Montana winter, but grimace and say, “I’ll be right back.”

  Before I can get to
the door, it opens and a blast of cold wind swirls into the kitchen. My dad pokes his big head into the house.

  “Terry, you’ve got—”

  Mom whirls on him. “Jesus, Russell, in or out. Don’t stand in the door gabbing.”

  Dad shoots her a look and sighs. Then he steps into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

  He’s a big guy, my dad. Six foot four, with big shoulders and a waist that’s beginning to spread out with middle age. Most of his curly hair is still red. His face is broad and his gaze is direct. For some reason, even though they don’t look alike, he reminds me a bit of Sean Kelly.

  That thought is unwelcome, and I force it from my mind.

  “Terry, you’ve got a visitor.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Where?” Nobody knows I’m here. I left the city and flew to Montana without telling anyone where I was going.

  Not that I had anyone to tell.

  “Outside.” He jerks his head toward the door.

  I blurt, “And you just left them out in the cold?” at the same time Mom says, “Are you just going to stand there melting snow onto my kitchen floor?”

  Dad and I both look at Mom, and we both sigh.

  “I was just heading out there, anyway,” I say ruefully.

  He puts his hand on the knob. “Well for God’s sake, let’s get through the door quick or we’ll be hearing about it all through dinner.”

  Mom grunts, already focused again on her stew.

  We exit, and Dad immediately clumps down the wooden porch steps and around the house, presumably to make sure the chickens are in their roosts before the big storm arrives. He waves to someone in the large, shiny black Dodge pickup that is parked on the gravel driveway. I start to walk down the steps when the door opens.

  Sean Kelly steps out of the truck. He is wearing heavy boots, jeans, and a blue chambray work shirt. He cocks a lopsided grin at me.

  “How the fuck does anybody exist where it’s this goddamn cold?” He claps his hands to his arms.

  I am stunned. Sean is the last person I expect to see washing up on my parents’ driveway. Honestly, until this moment I never expected to see him again. For a moment, shock washes over me and I don’t say anything. It’s like my brain shifts into neutral. There is definitely a foot on the gas, and the rpms are revving up, but nothing’s moving yet.

  His sideways grin slips a little.

  My brain drops into gear and my mouth moves. “For starters, most of us wear coats.” I point at the heavy Carhartt I’m wearing.

  Sean purses his lips. “I though you were wearing that because you look good in brown.”

  “How did you find me?”

  His voice takes on a slightly haughty tone. “You, Miss Vaughan, are not the only one who can do research.”

  Bullshit. And my look must have said the same, because he grimaced. “I hired a fucking detective to find you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I hired—”

  “Yeah, I get that,” I say, my voice coming out maybe sharper than I would have liked. “What I don’t get is you—” and then I stop, realizing what I’m about to say, but more importantly where I’m about to say it. I grab his arm and pull him toward the barn.

  “Miss Vaughan,” he drawls, his voice amused. “I didn’t know you country girls were so—”

  “Shut up,” I hiss. The barn is old, the wood warped and silvery with age. The big doors are closed, but I open the smaller, person-sized door beside them and pull Sean inside. It smells like animals and tractor grease, but at least the lights are on, and it’s a bit warmer in here than outside. Dad must have been working in here.

  I wheel to face him. “What I don’t get is you fuck me, you tell me your goddamn heart-wrenching story, I don’t publish it because you ask me not to, and you just drop off the face of the earth.” I don’t realize I’m shouting until Sean’s eyebrows lift to his hairline. I don’t want to shout, but I want to be fucking heard, and so I change tactics, poking him in the sternum as I speak. “I know,” poke, “I don’t have a claim on you,” poke, “or whatever that might even mean,” poke, “but it is un-fucking-COOL of you,” poke, “to just fucking ignore me, like I don’t even exist, or matter, or whatever the fuck.” I’m so damn mad I don’t even realize I’m crying until I have to sniff snot back off my upper lip. “And then you have the unmitigated gall to pull the ultimate stalker move and find me with a fucking detective?” Pokepokepokepoke. Frozen breath plumes out of me.

  And now he has the unmitigated gall to look abashed.

  “Look, I—”

  “Should I expect to see you peeping in my bedroom window at night now?” Poke

  “I’m sor—”

  “What! You’re sorry for what, exactly? I’m all ears, Mr. Kelly.” Pokepo—

  One of his hands snakes out, faster than my thoughts could follow, and seizes mine before I could land another taloned strike against his chest.

  “Will you stop that? Please?” He rubs his sternum with his other hand. “It hurts.”

  “Fucking tough guy.” I wrench my hand away from his. Wipe my face. I half turn, ashamed that I’ve made a spectacle of myself. Never say I’m not a dramatic second date.

  His voice is soft. “I heard what happened with your job.”

  I look at the bare earth floor, suddenly weary and just wanting to prop myself up on something warm for a while. “Yep.”

  “You did that for me.”

  My teeth clench. “It’s not your problem. You’re the guy that doesn’t give a fuck, remember?”

  He seems almost tentative as he reaches out his big hand, but when he touches my shoulder he feels strong, solid. “Maybe I do give a fuck,” he says. “Maybe I give a fuck about you.”

  “Nah. It was just one night. You were drunk.” My words have venom, but my body doesn’t seem to feel the same way as my mouth. I lean slightly against that big, warm hand. Allow my eyes to half close.

  “If I had a hat, I’d be here with it in my hand.”

  Color me outraged. “All that money and you don’t have a hat? What’s the matter with you?”

  He runs his hand through his hair, an oddly boyish gesture. “I just don’t like—”

  Another door creaks at the back of the barn, and Dad says, “Terry?”

  Sean mouths my shortened name, incredulous. I put a finger to his lips.

  “Over here, Dad.”

  His boots clump across the packed earth, and he emerges from behind the empty horse stalls. When he sees me standing in the barn so close to a strange man, Dad’s face takes on a concerned look. But, midwesterner through and through, he extends a hand. I make the introductions. When he hears the name Sean Kelly, my dad’s eyes narrow. I haven’t told my parents the whole story, but they’ve heard some of it. Enough of it that Sean’s name is not so much spoken as growled in the house. His knuckles go white as he tightens his grip. To my surprise, Sean winces a little. Dad takes a half step closer so he’s not so much standing in front of Sean as he is looming over him.

  And loom he does. Dad is a couple inches taller and half again as wide as Sean, and he reminds me for all the world, at this moment, of John Wayne in one of the old movies.

  “Well, I’m just pleased to meet you, Mr. Kelly,” Dad says in a low voice. Then, to me, he says, “You want me to kick his ass for you?”

  The absurdity of the question almost makes me giggle. I’ve never seen my father raise his hand in anger to anyone, ever. He’s always been nothing but a gentle, good man. And there is little doubt that Sean, regardless of my Dad’s impressive grip, could pretty easily knock him senseless. But I am touched by the gesture and ignore Sean biting his own lip, struggling to suppress a grin.

  “That won’t be necessary, Dad.”

  He gives me a level look. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “I’m sure. Please don’t beat him up.” I pause. “At least not right now. I’ll get back to you in fifteen minutes or so. Maybe then.”

  Dad re
leases Sean’s hand, and Sean takes it back with obvious relief.

  “Okay then,” Dad says. “If you’re going to be some time out here, I’ll just bring in the wood your mother asked you to get.”

  I go up on my toes and kiss his cheek. It is smooth and smells like aftershave. “You’re the best.”

  Hinges groan protest as he exits the barn.

  Sean works his fingers. “Quite the fuckin’ grip on that man.”

  I half smile. “Dad’s not a fighter. But he’s impressive in his own way.”

  “I can see that.” He’s smiling, but his smile freezes when his gaze meets mine. His eyes, so blue, lock onto me and I can’t look away.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, and something warm suffuses my blood. It feels like a double shot of whiskey on a cold day. Heat blossoms in my stomach and spreads out into my limbs. But I don’t trust this.

  “You should,” I say. “I’m just an unemployed reporter.”

  “No,” he says, taking a step toward me, and another. Now he is the one looming. The heat in my body climbs into my head, makes me ever so slightly, ever so deliciously dizzy. He takes my shoulders between his hands and my head leans back.

  “You want me to tell you something stupid?” he says.

  My lips don’t want to form words, because they have other things on their mind, but I make them. “Is it possible for you to tell me anything else?”

  His head lowers. “I think I’m in love with you,” he murmurs.

  I sigh, going up on my toes. “That’s really stupid,” I whisper.

  Then our lips seal together, and our tongues are doing that hot, slick dance that drives me crazy. We paw at one another’s clothes. There is no art to fumbling out of a heavy winter coat while simultaneously trying to unbutton another person’s shirt. Making love in a barn in the winter is half crazed attraction and half sheer force of will.

  We sidestep and stumble toward the bales of hay stacked in the back of the barn. Sean’s hands are inside my shirt, one stroking along my spine while the other cups my breast. I groan and rake my nails down his chest.

  “In here,” he said. “You’re sure?”

  “Don’t you ever stop talking?” I gasp as his fingers lightly pinch my nipple.