by T. K. Leigh
“Sorry to hear that, Lolo,” he says in his deep baritone, using the nickname he made up for me years ago.
“It’s okay. You should know by now I’m a fighter.” I wink.
“I know. I’ve seen the photos of you in boxing gloves on your Instagram. There’s no doubt in my mind you’ll get through this.”
“Thanks, Ol.”
Noticing a flicker, I glance over his shoulder to one of the half-dozen monitors spread out in front of him, most of them containing surveillance from various parts of the building. But the far one is connected to the computer, a news website showing a live broadcast from a church I know intimately.
“Do you remember that happening?” Oliver inquires, noticing my gaze drawn to the screen.
I swallow hard at the split-screen feed, one side showing the memorial currently underway, the other displaying archive footage of white-sheet-covered bodies being rolled out on stretchers.
I should have expected a few news outlets to cover the twentieth anniversary of the shooting. It was a pretty big deal back then. The first mass shooting since Columbine, this time at a church. It still catches me off guard, though. I didn’t think I’d see coverage of it here in Atlanta when it happened in Virginia. Or maybe I just hoped I wouldn’t.
“It was horrific. Some known white supremacist walked into the church during a choir rehearsal and opened fire. Killed twelve people, including the pastor’s wife. Luckily, the pastor and their daughter were elsewhere in the church and escaped. Sawyer Ross was one of the survivors, too. Do you know who that is? That television preacher and civil rights activist?”
I keep my expression even. “I’ve heard of him.”
“It was all over the news,” Oliver continues, not picking up on my unease. “Such a tragedy. A senseless act of hate. But you’re too young to probably remember.”
I nod. “Yeah.” I turn my attention from the screen, peering out the large floor-to-ceiling windows at the torrential downpour covering the streets of Atlanta.
“Pretty nasty weather, isn’t it?”
“Got to love Atlanta in the summer,” I muse, shifting through my bag for my umbrella, but it’s not there. Just my luck. When I don’t need it, I practically trip over the damn thing. When I do, it’s nowhere to be found.
“Take mine,” Oliver offers, grabbing the umbrella from the side of his desk.
“That’s okay. The garage isn’t far.”
“Are you sure?” He tilts his head. “I don’t mind. You can just drop it back to me tomorrow on your way into…” He trails off, realizing I won’t be back tomorrow.
“I’ll be fine. See ya around, Ol.” I continue past him, needing to get as far away from any mention of the infamous Virginia church shooting as possible.
Approaching the front doors, I hesitate when I see the rain is more like a waterfall, coming down fast and hard, the angry wind whipping around. I doubt even an umbrella will help in this weather. Maybe I should just wait for the storm to pass, sit with Oliver for a while. He wouldn’t mind. I’ve done it before.
But then I make out the familiar sound of my father’s voice coming from the coverage of the memorial. I can’t stomach watching that. Can’t face the reminder of everything I lost. Not only when that gunman opened fire in the church, but also five years ago when my own father refused to stand up for me at a time I needed him most.
“You can do this,” I murmur to myself, then open the door and step onto the sidewalk. A gusty wind blows back at me, causing me to lose my balance. I use the side of the building to steady myself, briefly reconsidering this decision, but eventually power through.
I rush down the sidewalk as fast as I can in my heels. The rain pelts me from all angles, scraping against my face, drenching my jeans and blouse. I hold my breath, as if that will make the rain not as bad, but nothing will help against the deluge coating this city.
Fighting to lift my head, I concentrate on the crosswalk signal, seeing the countdown at eight seconds. I gauge the distance to it, not wanting to be stuck at a busy intersection in downtown Atlanta for several minutes in this downpour. There’s no way I’ll make it to the other side in time, but I convince myself it will be okay. That after my crappy day, something has to go my way. So instead of playing it safe, I quicken my pace.
The few yards to the corner seem to expand with every passing second, the crosswalk feeling like it gets farther away with each step. But I don’t give up, powering through the wind and rain, not caring I must look like a sight with my tight, brown curls plastered to my forehead and cheeks.
I step onto the street, my sole focus the sidewalk opposite the four-lane road, praying all the drivers show me some sympathy and don’t gun the gas the second the light turns green.
As I scurry along, my heel slips on the slick pavement, my legs giving out beneath me. Time seems to slow as my body is propelled up before my back and head hits the pavement with a hard thump.
Disoriented, I struggle to capture a breath, the force of my fall knocking the wind out of me. My neck and back ache, making movement difficult. I manage to slowly turn my head, feeling like I’m in some sort of dreamworld as I watch a white pickup truck barrel toward me.
My brain tells my muscles to move, but they’re frozen, unable to obey a simple command, even though I’m seconds from being hit by someone who can’t see anything in this rain.
You know how people claim they see their entire life flash before them just before they think they’re about to die? Well, that’s what happens to me. When I squeeze my eyes shut, muttering the words to prayers I haven’t said in years, my life flashes before me. It’s almost like a slow-motion rewind, taking me from the present and through my early years. Some moments fill me with anger. Others with regret. And still others with love.
When my mother’s affectionate dark eyes flash before mine, I somehow find solace that, even if the worst happens, I’ll see her soon. Peace fills me, making me feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. That I’m flying.
Then a loud horn blares, pulling me back to the present. I instinctively tear my eyes open, expecting to still be on that asphalt. Except I’m not. I am flying, two strong arms cradling me against the storm.
Playlist
Little Do You Know - Alex & Sierra
Naked - James Arthur
Dancing on my Own - Callum Scott
Jealous - Labrinth
The Hollow in Retrospect - Corey Kilgannon
A Little Fire - Parker Millsap
Can’t You See - Matthew and the Atlas
In Love Again - Colbie Caillat
Waves and the Both of Us - Charlotte Sometimes
Hole in my Heart - Gavin James
Can I Stay - Ray LaMontagne
Mess I Made - Parachute
Sorry - Aquilo
Broken - Lifehouse
The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face - Roberta Flack
Say Something - A Great Big World
Bring on the Rain - Keri Noble
Breathe Again - Sara Bareilles
Colour Me In - Damien Rice
Move Together - James Bay
The Shape of Us - Ian Britt
Perfect Duet - Ed Sheeran & Beyonce
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Free Book!
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My rules for being a Manhattan billionaire's fake girlfriend... No kissing. No fooling around. No falling in love. What can possibly go wrong?
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Note to self: When your boyfriend dumps you on your thirtieth birthday, it's probably not the smartest idea to drink so much that you wake up in the same bed as the mysterious hottie wearing the gorgeous suit who you noticed sitting across the bar.
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The only silver lining in my obvious lack of judgment is the promise of never seeing Mr. Suit again, not in a city the size of New York.
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Or so I thought, until a story I'm working on about the country's most sought-after and elusive escort lands me in the same café as Mr. Suit. So I do what any self-respecting woman of my age would do in my shoes... Try to ignore him.
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But he won't let me.
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Instead he makes a proposition that leaves me questioning whether I need to have my ears checked. Be his fake girlfriend for a summer of wealth and excess in the Hamptons. In return, he'll help me win back my boyfriend's heart.
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Juvenile? You bet.
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Effective? Could be.
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Bad idea? Most likely.
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But what do I have to lose?
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Apparently, a lot more than I originally bargained for.
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Let the games begin...
Acknowledgments
I published my very first book in August of 2013, the book that people still know me best for… A Beautiful Mess. Back then, I thought that story would be the only one I’d ever write. I didn’t think I’d have another story in me. Hell, crafting a book is hard work. I thought I’d be a “one and done” kind of author.
Apparently not.
I just celebrated my five year “publiversary” and can’t believe the people I’ve given life to. You often hear authors discuss our “book babies”, and there’s certainly some underlying truth to those words. We spend months nurturing these stories and characters, then set them free, hoping people love them as much as we do. It’s hard work, and often stressful at times, but it’s honestly the best job I’ve ever had. I still can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be doing this, even five years later.
Of course, I have my husband to thank for that. Since he learned I’d written a book, he’s done nothing but offer me all of his support. I hear stories about how some authors’ spouses look at writing as a hobby. He knows this is a career for me, and I couldn’t be more grateful for him.
On that same note, thanks to my fantastic nannies who treat Miss Harper Leigh with all the love she deserves so I can work on my books. Sharon and Brooke, I wouldn’t be able to do this without you!
There’s only one woman I ever trust with my manuscripts — Kim Young. Thanks for an amazing five years. Here’s to five more!
Thanks to my wonderful admin team who help me manage my social media presence — Melissa, Joelle, Vicky, Lea. And to my fabulous beta readers - Stacy, Lin, Melissa, Joelle, Vicky, Sylvia.
Thanks to Emily from Social Butterfly PR for dealing with the insanity that is my brain. When I told her what was a stand-alone had turned into a duet, then said I was writing a prequel novella, she went with the flow, nothing fazing her at all! You make my job so much easier.
A special shout out to my street team. Thanks so much for taking time out of your busy schedules to help promote me! And to my lovely reader group! Thanks for giving me a place to be myself, horrible jokes and tasteless memes and all!
Last but not least, thanks to YOU! Without readers, I’d have no one to write for, so thanks for taking a chance on my books! Whether you’ve just found me or have been with me since the beginning, I’m forever grateful!
Peace & Love,
~ T.K.
About the Author
T.K. Leigh is the USA Today Bestselling author of the Beautiful Mess series, in addition to several other works, ranging from fun and flirty to sexy and suspenseful. Originally from New England, she now resides in sunny Southern California with her husband, beautiful daughter, rescued special needs dog, and three cats. When she’s not planted in front of her computer, writing away, she can be found training for her next marathon (of which she has run over twenty fulls and far too many halfs to recall) or chasing her daughter around the house.
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T.K. Leigh is represented by Jane Dystel of Dystel, Goderich & Bourret Literary Management. All publishing inquiries, including audio, foreign, and film rights, should be directed to her.
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