The Wife Breaker by Isabella Starling & Kendall Hawkins

Title: The Wife Breaker

Series: Dark Vows Duet #1

Authors: Isabella Starling & Kendall Hawkins

Genre: Dark Romance

Release Date: September 15, 2021

BLURB

They call him The Wife Breaker, and I'm his next victim.

He's the man the rich, corrupted members of the cartel send their wives to.

Using cruel, twisted methods to make women obey, the man is as monstrous as the cartel kingpin I was forced to marry.

He's the mysterious man who breaks and molds women into the perfect meek companions for their husbands.

But I'm not going down without a fight.

It took my husband eight years to realize he couldn't break me.

There's no way some stranger who knows nothing about me can get inside my head and twist me into something I'm not.

I'll never pledge my submission to anyone, let alone a man who prides himself on cruelly breaking others.

The Wife Breaker will never make me obey.

I'd rather die than kneel for him.

The Wife Breaker is the first book of the Dark Vows duet. It is not a standalone book.

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PROLOGUE

HEATH

I never meant to kill her. All I wanted was to see her broken to pieces.

The threads that pull us together and push us apart cannot be tampered with. Every person out there has a story of hardships that broke them, and only some, a story of how they put themselves back together again.

Every person, except her. Because I took that choice away from her. Because I tampered with her strings long enough to change the course of her life. I'm the puppet master. I'm the man that dictates which path she's going to go on with every step she takes.

Our lives have been intertwined in the darkest ways since we were both children. Promised to one another in blood, our bond was unbreakable from the moment she was born. She was meant to be mine. Not just my wife, not just my partner. She was meant to be a prized possession, property. Something to show off, something to treasure.

But then all of that was ripped away from me. From us.

I stare at the thick, dark stain spreading underneath me. My back is soaked in my own crimson blood, my once crisp white shirt dripping with the evidence of what's just happened.

He took her away from me.

He ripped her out of my arms and left me for dead just like he did before.

Except this time, I don't know whether I have it in me to fight the light that's calling me upwards. To a safe space. A space where my parents have been waiting for years. A world with no pain and no heartbreak.

I'm tempted to let it all go. To say fuck it and leave this world broken by the way my strings were set up.

There's someone below, a voice calling out, demanding I stay with them. But it's not her voice, not her hands that are desperately clasped over the gaping wound in my chest, eager to stop the blood from escaping my body in thick, scarlet rivulets.

I try to breathe but blood bubbles on my lips, threatening to choke me with its inky darkness. No oxygen enters my lungs, only more mouthfuls of the red blood that only signifies one thing - the end of my life.

"Fight for her," the voice tells me. "Fight for your woman, don't let this happen, don't leave her, she's doomed without you."

And I think of everything that's led up to this very moment when I'm bleeding out on the tiled floor. All the things I did to keep her tethered to me, to keep her as my toy, my possession, my trophy. Was it all worth it?

Or was it all in vain? My efforts to keep her away from the monster that tore us apart seem to have failed.

The darkness turns into light and my parents call on me to join them, their ethereal hands reaching out for me, long, inviting fingers motioning for me to leave my body here and join them in the spiritual world.

But I can't leave this world behind just yet.

I cling on to the memory of her. My Goldilocks.

Long, flowing golden hair. Eyes as blue as cornflowers. Pale skin peppered with freckles. She is so beautiful. And no longer mine.

I think of the man who took her then. The man who's ruined my life too many times to count. He stole from me, took what was rightfully mine. I swore I'd have my revenge but now it seems like he took that opportunity from me, letting me bleed out like a slaughtered pig while he took the only thing that matters to me anymore.

I want to call out for her but my lips are dry and my throat is raspy as fuck. Not a single word tears itself from my cracked, parched lips as I await the help I desperately need. Shapes and colors blend into one blurry image through which I can only discern her - my beautiful captive, my prisoner, the reason I live and breathe, now ripped away from me and leaving me bare and bleeding.

It feels as if my life essence is being drained from my body. Consciousness comes and goes as my eyes fly open then close with the heaviness of my limbs. I'm tired of this world that's been so fucking evil to me, taking everything I ever had and more.

Maybe it's all a dream.

Maybe my body isn't lying on the ground, battered and broken, bleeding out.

Perhaps I'll wake up in the warm, comfortable bed with silk sheets I paid for in blood. Perhaps I'll be myself once again.

The tall, cruel, dominant man who in no way resembles the boy I used to be.

My childhood was knocked out of me and I was forced into adulthood. Everything was taken away from me, and now here comes my ultimate test. Can I survive against the odds in a world seeped through with dark blood?

Reality fades into the background and I'm caught in a vast inky dark void where every step feels like an effort, as if I'm trying to pull my leg free from the hold of quicksand around my ankles.

I can't swim through it. I can't fight through it. I can merely watch it take me, swallowing, eating me alive until only a gasping mouth remains on the surface, desperately drawing in breath after dying breath.

But I cannot die. Cannot leave this world without her by my side. Cannot let myself breathe my last breath knowing she's back with him, the man I hate most in the world, the man whose blood I've sworn to spill.

I'll kill him one day, but not today. He won the battle today, and the bullet lodged inside me speaks of it just like the dozen of lifeless bodies littering the tiled floor.

I need to hang on to the last threads of vitality that bind me to this world.

Desperately, I cling to the shreds of life left in my body even as my subconscious tries to force me to go under.

I have to live through this.

I have to get through this darkness, this void filled with everything and nothing at the same time. I cannot allow myself to be swallowed up by his black hole. He took everything from me again. I'll force myself to live through this just so I can have my revenge.

Because I'll never let him be the one to kill her.

That is my privilege.

Mine alone.

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Releasing September 30

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ISABELLA STARLING

USA Today bestselling author Isabella Starling describes her books with three words: dark, dirty and forbidden.

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KENDALL HAWKINS

Kendall Hawkins is an emerging author of heart-twisting romance.

Embracing her dark side brought Kendall to write dark romance that leaves you breathless. Since she was a little girl, Kendall has cheered for the villain to get the girl, loved the dark side and adored shocking plot twists. Now, her love of enticing stories fills her days with villainous heroes and the passionate women they love.

Kendall spends her time writing, sculpting and creating in any way she can. Addicted to art, Kendall continues to pour her talents out on any medium available - be it a blank page, a canvas or modelling clay.

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Tate

Amazon 

There’s a spy in my Clan…

She’s threatening to put my entire family in danger.

When I find the lass, I will break her.

Punish her.

Make her rue the day she endangered the Cowen Clan.

But when one lie unearths another,

And our enemies are at our heels...

Our spy may be our only chance of survival.

CHAPTER ONE



Tate



I walk along the icy dirt road, my hands shoved in my pockets. I don’t bloody know where I’m going or why, but sometimes when I need to clear my head, nothing works better than a good, brisk walk where the clouds meet the sky, and the mountain air makes everything seem clearer.

Leith wants me to prioritize a job I never expected him to assign me. He wants me to find the writer of the Clan Chronicles, and he wants me to find her now. His words from an earlier conversation still play in a continual loop.

“No doubt she’s a woman, Tate, and she thinks we can be fucking toyed with. But she’s a spy, and a dangerous one at that. Find her.”

Bailey, our resident dog, trots dutifully beside me. He’s my sister-in-law Cairstina’s, but he likes to hang around with the rest of us, and as soon as he sees me putting on my boots, his ears perk up and he gives me puppy dog eyes. I’m grateful for the company just now.

I like that he keeps up with my brisk strides and isn’t deterred when the icy wind picks up. He faces it bravely, and when snow begins to fall, he gives me a friendly look and laps at the falling flakes. Makes me smile, before I sigh and continue my walk.

I’ve got other things on my mind, too.

Today’s the anniversary of when we found our eldest brother, Tavish Cowen, was gone. I don’t like to remember the details, but none of us can forget Mum’s cry, or the way she collapsed against Dad when she heard the news. It’s the worst memory I have, one I wish I could eviscerate forever.

I don’t allow myself to forget it, though. I force myself to dwell on the memory sometimes, when I need to remember who I am and what my purpose is.

I’m second-in-command of the most powerful mob in Scotland. The name Cowen inspires both fear and respect to anyone who hears it. I can’t afford to go soft. I can’t fucking afford it.

Mum gets a bit melancholy around now, but it helps having little ones about. Cairstina and Leith’s wee bairn’s started toddling around, and Mac’s wife Bryn’s expecting their first in a few months.

Mum loves having bairns in her lap, and it seems half the time I find her in the library reading a book, it’s a dog-eared board book and she’s got the wee one nestled in her lap.

She’s preoccupied, though. I know she is. And today I need to find out why. I’d like to give her some space to grieve, for a little while.

I loop around the cave that flanks the side of the mountain, the furthest spot away from the rest of the homes that surround our main lodge. Deep in the Scottish Highlands, we’re hidden from the view of most people, the large lodge the epicenter of our entire Clan, surrounded by our wee, privately owned chalets that encircle it. The inner members of our Clan live nearby, dozens nearly within arm’s reach. Hidden, though. Even from where I’m standing, the only telltale sign of civilization is the chimney smoke rising high in the air.

The moon’s beginning to rise, the sky around us a bluish hue as the sun settles below the mountain peaks. Suddenly, without warning, a woman’s high-pitched scream pierces the night air.

I’m instantly alert. Bailey freezes and meets my eyes, his body tense, nose pointed in the air. Adrenaline surges through me.

“Where the bloody hell is that coming from?” I mutter, whipping my head to the left, then right. Between the mountains and the wind, it’s impossible to tell the location of the scream, when a second scream follows the first.

“Find her, Bailey,” I tell him. “Go, boy.” Fully trained, he’s off at a run before I’ve finished my sentence, heading toward a barren, desolate spot on the side of the mountain.

I watch my footing, as the terrain’s rocky and icy, but Bailey doesn’t wait. He races ahead, intent on finding whoever’s in distress, so I focus on following him.

Who is it? It’s hard to tell from a woman’s scream who she is, but it could be anyone. My two sisters, my brothers’ wives, my mother, and grandmother all live here. Not to mention the occasional visitor from the McCarthy Clan in Ireland.

Bailey takes a sharp turn, and I keep up with difficulty. Suddenly, the trees give way to a clearing, and I can see everything. I freeze, heaving from the effort of sprinting in the frigid air at Bailey's pace, and it takes me a minute to process the scene before me.

Bloody hell.

Looks like every damn one of the girls is bundled in fluffy coats, with hats, gloves, scarves and boots, taking turns sledding down the mountainside into a valley below. I can’t even identify them all from here, but I can make out my sister-in-law Cairstina, and my sisters Islan and Paisley. Two more girls are apart from the rest, at the top of the hill, preparing to go sledding down.

The three girls standing at the top of the hill quickly turn to look our way.

“Jaysus,” I mutter as I approach, trying to quelch my rising anger. Did they even bother to think about the impact a scream might have on one of us? I try to keep my voice light but fail. “You shouldn’t scream like that.”

Paisley’s eyes glance up at me, and her mittened hand comes to cover her mouth, her blue eyes a bit worried. The youngest of the lot, she’s a bit timid but quick to smile.

“Sorry, Tate,” she says apologetically. She doesn’t like upsetting any of us and looks genuinely repentant. “We didn’t think anyone else was out here.”

Islan grins. “Fancy a jaunt yourself?”

I grunt in reply, and the lass standing next to her—my brother Leith’s wife, Cairstina—giggles with the lot of them. “You look” —she giggles— “like you’ve just come running to save someone.”

“Ha. Ha.” I shove my hands back in my pockets and roll my eyes. “Just out for a stroll.”

“Oh, Tate,” Paisley says, as it suddenly dawns on her. “You heard us screaming and thought someone was hurt, didn’t you?”

“I bloody well thought—”

The sled with the other two takes off, and the girl in the front shrieks, as Bailey throws his head back and howls. The sled takes flight and careens down the hill with building momentum.

We watch, and it becomes evident within seconds they’ve gone off course. A patch of ice derailed them, and they’re no longer heading down the trail that leads to a large, open path below, but toward a thick swath of snow-covered pines. Their screams get louder, and everything seems as if it plays out in slow-motion. I take off at a run, prepared for the worst, but I won’t get there in time to help them. The girls scream behind me as the sled collides with a massive, unyielding pine. The screams from the sled come to an instant, eerie stop.

I’m the first one there. It’s a fucking bloody mess of snow and ice and scarves and hats, as I fall to my knees beside the girls. One I recognize immediately as Mac’s wife Bryn. She looks stricken but otherwise unharmed.

“Fran, Tate. She’s hurt, oh God—”

Bloody hell.

No.

Fran.

Anyone but fucking Fran.

I reach for her. She’s covered in snow and clearly passed out, blood below her hat trickling down her face into her eyes.

“We lost control,” Bryn sobs, scrambling through the snow toward Fran. “Oh, God.”

Paisley and Islan arrive at the same time, breathless and panting. They fall into the snow beside Fran. Paisley’s crying along with Bryn now, but Islan glares, as if her anger could prevent injury. “Bloody hell. Bloody fucking hell,” she mutters.

“Is she alright?” Paisley sobs.

I don’t answer. I’m lifting Fran gently out of the sled, brushing piles of snow off of her.

A chill goes through me at the stark sight of crimson blood against the whiteness of the snow. I kneel, laying her across my lap so I can inspect her.

“She’s out cold,” I mutter, inspecting her carefully. If she injured her neck, I can’t move her too quickly.

The lodge is yards away from us. I can’t risk putting her back in the sled to take her back, not if anything’s broken, or worse.

“She’s hurt her head,” I tell them. At the very fucking least. I jerk my head at Islan. “Call the doctor, have them prepare. I’ll carry her back. It’s the safest way to keep her still.”

In recent years, with Dad’s declining health, we’ve boarded a Clan doctor. It comes in handy in times of emergency. Like now.

It’s a somber affair, all of us walking back to the house. Islan manages to get a signal on her mobile and runs ahead of us. She’s trained hard in the workout room in the main house, running and weightlifting, and she’s got a good lead on the rest of us.

I focus on my job, moving as quickly as I possibly can without jostling or hurting Fran, but when I nearly trip, she comes to with a cry.

“Where am I? Oh, God, what happened?” She hisses in a breath, and I’m sure it’s from pain, poor lass.

“You’ll be alright,” I mutter. “Be still and quiet now, we’re taking you to see a doctor. You’ve injured yourself and can’t risk a sudden movement.”

She doesn’t listen, though, of bloody course, but begins to panic.

“My arm hurts. Is it broken?”

“We’ll find out soon. Stay still, Fran. You don’t want to risk further injury.”

I’m only paces away from the main house when someone flicks a light on, and Fran blinks her eyes from the brightness. She whimpers, then quickly stifles it.

“You’ll be alright,” I tell her, but my tone is gruff. It angers me they were out doing something so fucking dangerous. If she wasn’t fucking injured, I’d shake her. “Shouldn’t have fuckin’ been out there at twilight with the ice over the snow like that, dammit. Do you have a death wish?”

“Save the bloody lecture.” She winces. “Looks like Mother Nature already chastised me.”

I close my mouth but still glare.

“Am I too heavy?” she asks softly.

Until then, I’d made myself focus on my mission, on keeping her still and moving swiftly. I didn’t think about who I held. I didn’t think about how she affects me. I have one job to do: bring her to safety. But at her question, I look down at her in surprise. I don’t answer right away.

Bloody hell.

Tears and snowflakes dot her thick black lashes like gleaming diamonds. Even injured and bloodied, the woman’s gorgeous. Her deep brown eyes, like crushed velvet, look up at me, and for one startling moment, I’m afraid I might kiss her.

Until recently, Fran was married. Off limits. But now…

Jesus, I’m carrying the woman to the doctor and have to get my damn act together.

“Too heavy? You girls are out of your bloody minds. Always worrying about being too heavy, like I can’t bloody carry you.” I roll my eyes. “Didn’t even get winded.”

She opens her mouth to protest, then winces.

“Lie still and stop troubling your damn head,” I mutter. Concern’s made me irritable as fuck.

I try to think of this as a job, like Fran is one of my sisters I’ve been bound in duty to protect.

She isn’t my bloody sister, though, dammit.

We dated once—so briefly it hardly even counts, but I’ve had my eye on her ever since.

She married last year, and I fucking hated that she did something so stupid. Met her ex-husband online, married him a week after they met in person, and caught him cheating on their wedding night.

You’d think it bloody ended there, but it fucking didn’t.

I shove the memory away and keep going. It only makes me angrier.

Islan’s ahead of us, and she opens the door.

“As luck would have it, the doctor’s nearby,” she says. “He said to bring her into the study, since the light’s good in there and you can lay her on the chaise.”

I walk in through the kitchen, the entire staff watching us as I traipse through. A fire burns in the hearth, and someone stirs food at the stove, but I walk past and go straight to the study.

Leith’s waiting for me when I arrive, watching me somberly.

“What happened?” he asks Islan, who quickly tells him. I’m assuming his wife Cairstina filled him in before we got here.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Knew we should’ve cut that damn tree down when they started sledding down that bloody hill.”

Islan snorts. “Leave it to you to level a damn tree like we’re children that need protecting.”

He scowls.

Fran opens her mouth as if to say something, then winces, closes her eyes, and doesn’t say a word. I imagine the pain’s intense.

Bright lights shine, as the Clan doctor waits.

“Rest her here, Tate,” he says. I put her down with reluctance, as gently as I can.

I liked holding her. When I held her, I knew that she was safe, almost like I could control this. Control… something.

“Ooh, got a right good gash on your head, there, lass.”

“Ah, is that what the throbbing is? Thought I hit the Jameson a bit too hard last night.” Fran smiles wanly, and even injured and in pain, she’s bloody beautiful.

She looks up quickly at me and winces from the sudden movement. “No need to growl, Tate, you did enough of that on the way back.”

I didn’t even know I was bloody growling. Did I?

I grunt in reply, as the doctor examines her. A moment later, he sits back and shakes his head. “You’re awfully lucky it wasn’t worse, lass,” he says gently. “An inch or so to the left and you’d have injured an eye, likely beyond repair.”

Her jaw drops, and she looks down at her hand. “And my arm?”

“Doesn’t look broken, but it would be best if we had an x-ray. I don’t have the proper equipment here. I’ll put a brace on to keep it steady, but you’ll need that seen with a specialist first thing tomorrow and time off, days or even weeks.”

She winces. “I have to work tomorrow,” she says with a sigh. “I have no vacation time left. If I don’t get to work…” Her voice trails off. She works at the little bookstore in town, in Inverness Centre.

“Sorry, lassie,” he says, shaking his head. “You have to. You could risk something so much worse if this isn’t properly treated.”

He hands her a few white pills. “Here, take these. It’ll help with the pain.”

Fran sighs, pops the pills, then drinks down a glass of water. He continues inspecting her with a frown, meticulous and thorough. We hired him because he’s the best there is.

“Why so long for a head injury?” Fran asks.

“Head injuries are bloody dangerous,” I tell her. “Don’t you know what could’ve happened? You could’ve gotten fuckin’ brain damage, or worse.”

Islan rolls her eyes but Fran just blinks at me in surprise. The doctor continues his examination when a knock sounds at the door.

“Come in," I say. Mum comes in carrying a plate, laden with soup, bread, and a steaming pot of tea. It's well past dinner time, but it's in her nature to feed people when they're injured. Says it helps with recovery and all that.

"How are you doing, lass?”

“Oh, I’ll be better soon,” Fran says with a self-deprecating laugh. “How’s Bryn?”

“Bryn walked away without a scratch.”

“Thank God for that,” I mutter, and Fran gives me a curious look.

“Just that Mac would lose his bloody mind.”

“Aye, he would,” Islan says. “It’s the way you all are, isn’t it?”

I don’t reply. It is how we all are, but I can’t quite place the look on Fran’s face.

The doctor takes his leave, with strict orders she rest and allow people to help her, followed by Leith and Mum. The other girls have gone off to take care of the children and Bryn, perhaps sensing that Fran doesn’t want a lot of visitors right now. She’s in so much pain, even the bright lights seem to hurt her eyes.

It’s just me, Islan, and Fran now.

I should go. I have work to do. Her best friends are right here, in this very house. Surely they can make sure she’s alright. I’ve got a pressing job Leith wants me to tend to, but I can’t seem to make myself do it.

“We’ll get you situated here for the night,” Islan says. “Not the best accommodations, but I do think it’ll be best for you, give you a little privacy. There’s a toilet nearby the kitchen, and you won’t have to walk upstairs.”

“And it’ll be easy enough to get you to the car to go to get your x-ray in the morning,” I say.

She frowns. “Might be a little hard to drive like this—”

“Of course you bloody well can’t drive,” I snap.

She blinks, then her cheeks flush a little pink. “Excuse me?”

“Now, Fran,” Islan begins, her hands outstretched as if to placate her. “No need to get you riled up.”

“Riled up?” I ask, astounded that that’s even a question. “Of course she bloody well won’t. She’ll lie right there and obey the doctor's orders.”

Fran pushes herself up to sitting higher on the chaise, as if the adjustment in height gives her an advantage, which it definitely doesn't, especially because she winces again in pain.

"And… somewhere between me cracking my skull on the side of your tree, and you playing the hero carrying me back up to the house like some sort of… Tarzan or something," she spits out the word as if it's distasteful, “you got the idea you have some say in this?"

“I do,” I tell her. “I’ve got an errand in town tomorrow and will take you.” I want her to feel obliged to me, though I wouldn’t admit that out loud.

I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she says, fuming. “No need to trouble yourself, clearly.” She rolls her eyes. “Honest to God, I’m no concern of yours.”

Is that what she thinks?

Islan rolls her eyes. “You’ve nearly grown up here, Fran, you know how they all are.”

She purses her lips and narrows her eyes, and I half expect her to wise off with her smart mouth again, when her head suddenly lolls to the side a little like she’s tipsy. She blinks, then blinks again. What the fuck?

“Y’alright?” Islan asks.

“Just feel a bit… a bit…” Fran giggles. “Can you hear those words, or is it in my head?”

Islan turns to me. “Oh, dear.”

Is she… high?

I look at Fran in puzzlement. She shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Was just saying, I can’t bloody well skip work tomorrow. No way.”

“They’ll be fine,” Islan says with conviction. “Or I could cover for you. Your boss is so bloody distracted, she wouldn’t even notice the difference.”

I look from Fran to Islan, then back again. Islan’s tall and willowy and blonde, and Fran’s all lush brown hair and buxom curves.

“Are you fuckin’ legally blind?”

Fran gives me a reproachful look, then begins to giggle. It’s… adorable.

Islan rolls her eyes. “Oh, whatever,” she says. “I just mean I could go in and be a sort of temp for the day or something.” Leith’s said for a while the girls have been spoiled and honest to God, I didn’t see it until now. I always kind of took the girls’ side when it came to his overbearing tendencies.

I shake my head. “Leith would say no, and I’d agree with him. For Christ’s sake, you're making one stupid decision after another.” Islan’s brows snap together, but I’m not finished. “First, you decide sledding down that hill is something fun to do, even though you could've killed yourself. Second, now you want to go take a job in the city centre, knowing full well who you are and how that puts you in danger? Are you out of your bloody mind?"

“I see what you mean,” Fran mutters, giving Islan a sympathetic look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing,” she says airily, and I swear her eyes look a bit unfocused. The doctor’s given her some heavy pain relievers, and it looks as if they've kicked in. “Only your sisters may have mentioned once or twenty times that you boys are all a bit overprotective, and I think she has a point.” For some reason, she finds this outrageously funny, and the next thing I know, her head falls back and she snorts with laughter. Literally snorts, so loudly Islan jumps. She looks at me in alarm.

“What’d he bloody give her?”

I shrug. “Dinnae. Reckon it was something strong?”

Fran’s giggling so hard she’s tipped over to the side, tears streaming down her face. What’s so funny? I don’t bloody well know what to do with her.

“Oh, no,” Islan whispers to me. “Tate, I think she’s high off her nut with the meds the doc gave her, isn’t she?”

I look back at her, and she’s giggling something fierce.

“I think you’re right,” I mutter. “Jesus.”

“The look on your face!” Fran says, as she erupts into peals of laughter again.

“Mine?” I ask.

“Och, aye,” she mutters, deepening her voice and wagging a wobbly finger at the two of us. Her accent’s thick, like a Scottish caricature, as she mocks me. “Are you out of yer bloody moind?”

“What’s she doing?” Islan whispers.

“Doing a right good job of pissin’ me off,” I whisper back.

“Oi’m the head of the fuckin’ mafia!” she howls, wagging her finger in the air. She reminds me of a man I once saw in a pub in the city centre, drunk, running his mouth so loudly in the pub he got a personal escort out. “Or one ‘a the heads of the fuckin’ mafia, whatever and all! And I swear to fuckin’ God, if ye don’t know what’s right for thee, you’d do what yer bloody told or I’ll send you swimmin’ with the bloody fishes!”

Islan snorts and covers her mouth to hide her laughter even as her eyes swing back with concern to me.

“Ought to fuckin’ gag ‘er,” I mutter. “She’s fuckin’ stoned.”

“And oye don’t make mistakes, so don’t even question me! There are two infallible people in the world and one sits in Vatican City, the other right ‘ere in Scotland.”

“Fran!” Islan hisses, doubling over with laughter. “Oh my God, stop!”

“Need to speak with…” But her voice is muffled and I can’t make out what she says. Someone’s name, though?

Islan looks at me in an absolute panic, no more laughing. Her eyes are wide and she’s totally sober.

“Did you hear that?” she asks.

“Hear fuckin what?” I shake my head. “All I hear is her going on and on about bloody nothing.”

“Oh,” Islan says with a laugh. “It’s nothing, nothing at all. She just mentioned… Paisley. Sounded like Paisley?”

What the fuck is she hiding?

I look sharply back to Fran, but she’s passed out. Her hand falls to the side, and she's softly snoring.

“I’ll stay with her,” Islan says. “Poor thing. She might wake up in pain.” She’s adjusting the blankets and pillows around Fran, tucking them all around her to make her comfortable. "We didn't even get a chance to help her change out of her clothes."

I look around the room. There’s no comfortable place for her to stay.

“Islan, you can’t stay here, lass. There’s nowhere for you to sleep, and you’ve got school to go to tomorrow.” I frown at her. “Yet another reason why you can’t go to the bloody bookstore.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, Tate, I wasn’t really going to. Her boss will understand, of course. I was just trying to get her to relax.”

“Alright, then, fine. But you can’t stay down here. You won’t get a wink of sleep, and you’ve got to be prepared for your classes.”

She sighs. “Aye, that’s true, isn’t it?” She worries her lip. “She can’t be alone, though.”

I grunt. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

She looks at me sharply. “Don’t even think of any funny stuff with my mate.”

“Funny stuff? Are you out of your fuckin’ mind? You think I’ve got a bloody somno kink?”

She makes a disgusted face. “Oh, ew ew ew, what does that even mean. Do I want to Google?”

“What do you think it means?”

I can’t help but crack a smile at her look of utter disgust. She actually wipes her hands on her clothes as if to physically rid herself of the memory of what I said.

“I’m literally going to go shower now, thanks to you.”

“Good. Stay the bloody hell away and get some sleep already.”

“Aww, love you, too,” she quips, rolling her eyes again. Jesus, that girl better hook up with a man that can handle the likes of her. The door shuts with a bang, and Fran jumps up, startled, and blinks at me.

“Go to sleep.”

She rolls over and snores loud enough to rouse a deaf man, probably the first bloody time she’s ever done what she’s told without backtalk. Not that she really meant to even this time.

I sigh and try to get comfortable on the tiny excuse for a sofa across from where she lies. It’ll be a long bloody night.

USA Today bestselling author Jane Henry pens stern but loving alpha heroes, feisty heroines, and emotion-driven happily-ever-afters. She writes what she loves to read: kink with a tender touch. Jane is a hopeless romantic who lives on the East Coast with a houseful of children and her very own Prince Charming.

Connect with Jane at http://janehenryromance.com

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Falling For Her by Monica Murphy

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Chapter One
Jake

“How about that one?”
We all snicker when we see who Diego’s discreetly pointing at as we walk past her in the hallway. Some freshman who looks about ten, with big blue eyes and a mouth full of metal. She’s cute enough, but way too young.
“I don’t think so,” I tell my friends as we stride toward the quad.
It’s lunchtime. Our senior year. We’re able to drive off campus now, but not today. Coach wants us to watch game film of the team we’re playing tomorrow night. So we have about fifteen minutes to grab food before we all meet in the team room to study our opponents. Learn their weak spots, their strengths. See if they’re better defensively or offensively.
When I say Coach, I’m talking about my dad. I just try to keep that shit separate. It’s easier that way.
“Check her out,” says Diego—one of my best friends—nudging me in the shoulder and now not-so-discreetly pointing at a group of girls sitting at a nearby picnic table.
“Which one?” Again, they’re young. Maybe sophomores? I don’t really recognize any of them. If they’re a couple of years younger than me and not friends with my sister Ava, who’s a junior, or on the football team, I don’t bother getting to know them.
That makes me sound like an asshole, but I don’t have the time. I have my circle of friends. I even have my circle of acquaintances. This year, my last year in high school, I don’t need to add to either group. I’m perfectly content with what I have.
“Any of them.” Diego slaps me on the back, a giant grin on his face. “You need to find someone, bro. This single, I-don’t-bother-with-any-girl business is getting old.”
I don’t bother with any girls anymore because when I do, they tend to take my heart and rip it to shreds. It’s ridiculous, but when I fall, I tend to fall hard.
Sophomore year I got my heart broken twice, once by Cami Lockhart. We got back together the beginning of junior year only for her to cheat on me—and I found out via Snapchat.
That sucked.
I’ve never bothered with a girl again. Fuck ’em. I’d rather focus on football and my friends and school, exactly in that order.
“Too young,” I tell Diego, and Caleb, my other best friend, bursts out laughing.
“Oh come on. She’s cute. I’d bet she’s down,” he says with a smirk.
Caleb is an actual asshole. He hooks up with an endless stream of girls, yet most of them don’t complain. It’s like they’re proud to be a Caleb fan girl.
“Find him a senior then,” Diego says, stopping in the direct center of the crowded quad. He settles his hands on his hips and turns in a slow circle, scanning the area with a narrowed gaze. Diego has a girl and they’re supposedly madly in love. I mean, good for him. They seem totally into each other—for the most part. They’ve been together for over a year, and Jocelyn treats him like a god, while she’s his princess, as he calls her. I’m pretty sure they’ve talked about getting married, which is just…insane if you ask me.
“Her.”
We all swivel our heads to see Tony—our quietest friend—inclining his head toward a table to the left of where we’re standing.
There’s a girl sitting there, her back to us. Alone. She’s wearing a black T-shirt, her reddish-blonde hair spilling down her back in loose waves. Her elbow’s propped on the table and she’s resting her cheek on her fist, an open book in front of her. Like she’s reading. For fun.
What the hell?
“No way,” Diego says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Jake’s not into smart girls.”
I’m immediately offended. “Who says?”
“You, with the choices you’ve made in the past,” Diego points out.
He’s got me there. Cami wasn’t that smart. None of the girls I’ve dated were. Not really.
“I like her hair,” Tony says, his tone, his entire demeanor impassive, like we’re talking about the weather. “She’s cute.”
“You should go for her then,” Caleb suggests to Tony.
“Nah. Not my type.” Tony’s gaze meets mine and he tilts his head, like he’s giving me permission to talk to her.
Huh.
“How do you know she’s a smart girl?” I study her, taking in her narrow shoulders, the elegant slope of her back. She brushes her hair back from her face, tucking the strands behind her ear and offering me a glimpse of her profile. She’s pretty in an understated way, I guess. Upturned nose. Pale skin. Freckles.
I don’t recognize her at all.
“Because she’s reading a book, dumbass.” Caleb sounds enormously pissed off, though I know he’s not. That’s just how he always sounds. “If you don’t ask her to wear your jersey, I think I’ll ask her instead.”
Yes, this is what we’re doing on a Thursday afternoon during lunch. Trying to find a girl for me to ask to wear my jersey on game day. It’s a big deal at our high school, and so far during my reign as the varsity team’s quarterback, I’ve only had one girl ever wear my jersey, and for only one time. It was Cami Lockhart, right at the beginning of our junior year, when I thought there was a possible chance we could work shit out and be a couple again.
But then someone sent me her private story off Snapchat—a video of her making out with motherfucking Eli Bennett, the quarterback for our rival school’s team, and I was done. Finished.
For some reason, this year my boys want to see me make a claim. Find a girl. They tell me I’m too grumpy. That maybe if I’m getting some on the regular, that’ll mellow me out. Some of them even complain I’m too focused, which I don’t get. Why wouldn’t they want me focused?
Focused wins games. I’ve had that drilled into my head over the years by my dad.
“No way,” I tell Caleb when he acts like he’s going to approach the mystery girl sitting at the table. “I’ll do it.”
I don’t know why I’m bothering with this. I don’t know her, but I’m guessing she knows me. Most girls would probably be flattered if I asked, but I’m not that sure if she’s into football, or if she even goes to the games. But it would be cool to see her wear my number around school all day.
Maybe I could make it a thing. Give it to a different girl every week. They’d start fighting for their chance. It could turn into a contest. Maybe it would go viral…
“Go ask her.” Diego gives me a shove in the girl’s direction, his hand right in the center of my back. “Before you chicken out.”
Okay, that shit’s annoying. And it’s just the incentive I need to make it happen. Glancing over my shoulder, I glare at my three best friends, but all they do is make clucking noises at me in return like they’re a bunch of chickens.
Assholes.
Slowly I approach the table, wondering what I should say first. I don’t have a problem talking to girls. I never really have. I almost wonder if this is because I grew up in a household full of women. Don’t get me wrong, Dad is a strong personality and is a big influence on me, but he wasn’t around much when I was little. He was busy working all the time.
Growing up, I was always with Mom, my older sister Autumn and my younger sister Ava. Our little brother Beck didn’t come along until years later, and by then I was resigned with the idea that I’d never even have a brother.
So I was constantly surrounded by girls. Autumn and Ava used to fight like cats and dogs. Now that Autumn’s gone, away at college in Santa Barbara, we don’t see her that much. Ava is happier with Autumn gone, I think. Having an older sister trying to boss you around all the time gets old.
I know I got tired of Autumn’s bullshit. Now, I miss her. Not that I’d ever tell her that.
Deciding I need to approach this mystery girl straight on, I walk around the table, keeping a wide berth so she doesn’t get suspicious or think I’m a stalker. And once I’m facing the table, I take a good, long look at her.
She’s vaguely familiar, so I’m assuming she’s a senior like me, or maybe a junior. Our school is small, so most of the time I feel like I know everyone, but I can’t place her. I don’t remember her name. Her hair is this burnished, reddish-gold color and her eyes are big and blue. Her features delicate—except for her mouth. Full, bee-stung lips that fill my head with dirty images.
Every one of them involves my dick.
Not that I’m actually interested in this girl. I don’t even know her. But as far as my first choice to wear my jersey this week, it’s not a bad one.
Not a bad one at all.
One of my friends, I’m not sure who, makes a bok-bok noise and I send them all a menacing look before I march right up the table and clear my throat. “Hey.”
The girl lifts her head, sky-blue eyes meeting mine, her expression open. Friendly.
Until she keeps looking at me, her gaze narrowing, that open, friendly expression disappearing within seconds. Almost as if she realized who she’s looking at and doesn’t like what she sees.
Damn.
When she still hasn’t said anything, I decide to keep talking. “What’s your name?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t know my name?”
I know this sounds weird, but I like the sound of her voice. A lot. “Should I?”
“I know yours.” She sniffs, shutting the book she was reading. “Jacob Callahan.”
Ah, see? She knows me. She’ll totally agree to wear my jersey. “You have the advantage then.”
“Because you still don’t remember my name?”
I shrug helplessly and flash her a smile that’s hopefully equal parts bashful yet charming. “Guilty.”
She rolls her eyes, resting her arms on top of the table. “Did you have a question or something?”
Her tone is short. Dismissive. This girl is totally trying to get rid of me. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do have a question for you.”
“I’m waiting on pins and needles,” she says, her voice going up a notch, those blue eyes of hers extra wide.
They’re pretty, I’ll give her that. She’s pretty. There’s a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and she has very white teeth.
“I was wondering if you wanted…” I let my voice drift and I glance down at my shoes, kicking at the base of the picnic bench. I’m trying to up the anticipation a notch. Going for the golly, gee bashful vibe. Girls seem to like it.
“Wanted what?”
Huh. Guess she’s not one for anticipation.
“If you wanted to wear my jersey tomorrow.” I lift my head, my gaze meeting hers straight on, and I see the surprise in her eyes. I’ve shocked her with my request.
Come on, I can see why. I’m me and she’s…whoever she is.
She studies me for a while, and now it’s my turn to wait with anticipation. Her full lips part, like she’s about to say something, but instead, she looks away from me, grabs her things and starts shoving them into her backpack.
As if she’s about to leave.
When she shoots me an irritated glare, slides off the picnic bench and walks away without another word, I chase her, surprised by how quick she is. My friends are laughing, I can hear them as I follow after this chick—still don’t know her name—but I can’t worry about them right now.
Even though they’re total assholes for laughing at me.
“Hey!” I call out, but it’s like my voice only spurs her on. She’s practically in a full jog as she heads toward Adams Hall, and I wonder if her plan is to duck into a classroom and hide from me.
Putting a little speed behind my step, I catch up with her easily, hooking my fingers around her upper arm and stopping her escape. She turns to face me, the look on her face so full of disgust I immediately release her and take a step back.
“Why are you chasing me?” she asks breathlessly. Her cheeks are pink, and she’s practically panting. I get the sense that maybe she doesn’t exercise much? I mean, I’m not even winded.
“You never answered my question.”
She lifts her chin. Blows out an exaggerated breath, like what I’m asking is too damn much. After enduring the last five minutes with this chick, I don’t even want her to wear my jersey now. She’s making way too big a deal about this.
But for some weird reason, I have to know what her answer is.
“My name is Hannah,” she finally says, and it all hits me at once. I do know her. Barely. Hannah Walsh. Senior. Moves in a completely different crowd. As in, she doesn’t really move with any crowd. I’ve never had a class with her ever, because she takes all the advanced courses. My friends were right.
She’s a smart girl.
“Right. Hannah.” I nod and smile. “I know you.”
She smiles in return, though it doesn’t quite reach her sky-blue eyes. “Uh huh. Sure you do.”
“I do. You’re friends with…” My voice drifts. I don’t know who she’s friends with. I can see their faces, but at the moment, I can’t recall their names.
“Please.” She reaches out, settling her hand on my forearm, and it’s like a spark of electricity between us the moment our skin makes contact. She snatches her hand away like I burned her. “Stop trying so hard.”
I almost want to laugh. This girl is telling me to stop trying so hard? Does she even know who she’s dealing with? The power I wield at this school? I’m the most popular guy in the senior class—maybe in all the classes. This is my year to shine. My year to reign.
And this Hannah nobody is telling me to stop trying so hard?
Get the fuck out of here.
Can’t back out now, though. I’m fully committed.
“So what do you say, Hannah? Are you in? Do you want to wear my jersey tomorrow?” Not like I want her to anymore. She’s been rude from the moment I started talking to her.
“Gee, I sure appreciate the offer, but…” She scowls at me, her lush lips pursed. “No.”

Killian Ryan Michele

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While You Were Spying by Stina Lindenblatt

Title: While You Were Spying

Series: Love Undercover #1

Author: Stina Lindenblatt

Genre: Romantic Comedy

Release Date: February 20, 2020

Blurb

She needs a fake husband. He needs to protect his best friend...

Ever since I caught my boyfriend getting hot and steamy with another woman, I’ve thrown myself into my career. But now I’m ready to move from being the super-efficient office manager to an operative with Quade Security and Investigation.

Just as soon as I prove to my boss that I’m kick-ass enough to do the job.

So when my grandmother asks for my help, there’s no way I can say no. Her former love has a mission for Jayden—my hot colleague and best friend—and me. What more could I want?

***

The last thing I want is for Isabelle to be is an operative. She’s my best friend, and I hate the idea of her being in danger. Unfortunately, our boss has other plans.

Isabelle and I go undercover at a resort for happily married couples. But forget moonlight walks and hanging out by the pool. To maintain our cover, we have to participate in activities that would make a nun blush.

Clothes come flying off, and we agree to temporarily be friends-with-benefits while there. No strings attached. No complications. Nothing could be simpler. Right?

Wrong—because there’s another reason we’ve been lured to the resort. A reason that will put our hearts to the test…and our lives on the line.

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Chapter One

Isabelle

I nod at the jogger heading toward me. Six foot. Maybe six foot one. Marathoner. Early thirties.

Good-looking.

Single.

It’s also possible he has a girlfriend or wife, but she doesn’t like to run with him. Every day, rain or shine. Or as is so often the case during our regular morning runs overlooking the bay and marina…the fog.

He nods back like he does every time he sees me, his long stride effortlessly eating up the distance—the opposite of how the run is for me. My legs and lungs burn, beg me to slow down. Possibly even take a siesta.

Not much farther, I remind them. You can do this. I mentally break out the pom-poms and cheer my legs on while I keep an eye on my surroundings, noting anything unusual for this time of day.

That’s not to say I live in a bad neighborhood and have to watch for thugs and whatnots. But the number one rule of being an operative with Quade Security and Investigations is to be aware of your surroundings. The people, the location, the vehicles. Nothing is ignored. Nothing is considered insignificant.

Truth? I’m not an operative.

I’m the office manager—the person those five hot alpha men couldn’t survive without.

But although I enjoy my job, I have a different career aspiration. I want to be more than just an office manager.

I push myself a little harder and a little further, then slow my pace for the cool down. Even though the temperature isn’t exactly warm, sweat soaks through my T-shirt and running shorts. I can thank the last round of fartlek training—sprints that left my legs burning with resentment and resignation—for that.

I can also thank, with a healthy dose of cursing, Jayden Price.

My best friend. My colleague. And in his mind, my personal trainer.

Who is currently away on a mission, being all dark and dangerous and hot, helping to take down a Russian mafia crime boss.

I power walk across the street to the familiar Victorian-style bungalow, sandwiched between two taller houses. Their exteriors are light blue. Mine is rose pink—the color my grandmother on my mother’s side painted it many moons ago.

When she died five years ago, the house became mine, and I decided to keep the colors as they were: warm and eclectic.

I approach the stairs to the porch. Mojo, the big goofball of Bernese mountain dog, lumbers to his feet. His face shifts into his friendly doggy grin.

“Hey, boy. Anything exciting happen while I was running?” Despite his size, Mojo sucks as a running companion. He doesn’t like to run. At. All. Relaxing is his activity of choice.

Not exactly the dog you would associate with a man like Jayden, Mojo’s owner. You’d expect something big and powerful—and a whole lot of scary—like a German shepherd or a Rottweiler.

Mojo gives me a happy woof.

I laugh. “You don’t say. How about I shower, and then we can head to the office? And maybe the guys will be finished with their mission today.” I untie my sneaker shoelace and remove my front door key from it. Then I unlock the door and let Mojo into my house.

As I walk toward the bathroom, my cell phone rings from the kitchen table. Thinking it might be Jayden, informing me that he and the men are on their way to San Francisco, I make a quick detour to the kitchen and answer the phone without checking who it is.

“Hello?”

“Isabelle, darling,” Grandma Josephine exclaims.

A smile breaks out on my face. “Morning, Grandma.” And because I know she’s on speakerphone, and I know her routine, I add, “Good morning, Liza and Henri.”

I open the kitchen cupboard and remove a glass.

The three eighty-two-year-olds say good morning back to me, their voices more excited than they typically are for this time of day. And normally their voices are pretty damn happy.

“I’m in a bit of a kerfuffle,” Granny says. “Can you come over right away?”

“I have to go to work, but I can visit you afterward.”

“Now would be better. It’s rather urgent.” Her honey-smooth voice, which seduced the trousers off many a man in her younger days, has shifted slightly to the panicked zone.

And panic is not an emotion I associate with my grandmother.

“I just returned from my run, and I’m sweaty. Let me shower first.”

“A woman is never sweaty,” Liza says in a falsely snotty tone. “She only glows.”

“Well, my glow needs to be washed off before I can join you. And just so you know, I have Mojo with me.”

“Oh, is tall, dark, and handsome joining us?” Henri’s tone is more excited than usual.

“Darling,” Granny purrs, “how many times does Isabelle have to tell you Jayden isn’t gay?”

“I know that. Besides, even if he were, I’m old enough to be his father.”

“More like his grandfather,” Liza points out with a snorted laugh.

“No, Jayden won’t be joining me. He’s away on business.”

All three of them release a disappointed sigh.

“Such a shame,” Liza says on another sigh.

“I won’t be long,” I tell them before ending the call.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m in Sausalito, pressing my grandmother’s doorbell. After a heartbeat, her housekeeper opens the door and lets Mojo and me inside.

I hug Juanita, who is more like family to me. She’s been in my grandmother’s employment for as long as I can remember. Because the elegantly furnished estate home is too massive for her to handle on her own at her advanced age, she mostly does the cooking and light cleaning. A gardener and housekeeping company are also on Granny’s payroll.

Juanita fusses over Mojo, who laps up the attention like a paper towel. “Now, don’t you get fur all over the place, young man,” she chastises him with her typical warm and friendly smile.

He whimpers as if to apologize for snoozing on Granny’s couch the last time we were here.

“They’re on the balcony,” she tells me, even though I already know that. Unless it’s cold and rainy, the trio always eats their breakfast outside.

Mojo and I step onto the large deck that overlooks the bay. My stiletto heels click against the light, reddish-brown tiles.

Granny and Liza are seated on the wicker sofa, looking as elegant as always in their designer outfits. Henri sits in a matching armchair.

In front of them, the coffee table is loaded with teacups and an assortment of cut fruit and pastries, including my favorite—strawberry-and-cream filled croissants.

Which Granny only has on hand when she knows I’m coming over.

So, this definitely wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment request for me to join them.

Henri, being the gentleman that he is, stands. Or at least attempts to stand. It takes him a minute to get to his feet, his movements not as spry as they were twenty years ago. He’s wearing an expensive Italian-cut suit, the jacket a checkered camel fabric. He also has on a burgundy tie, dark-brown slacks, a fedora, and leather shoes that are worth a small fortune.

Henri has always had an eye for fashion.

I walk over to him, and he kisses me on both cheeks. “Looking gorgeous as always, Buttercup. I can’t believe you still haven’t found a beau yet. Those men are nothing but fools.”

I laugh because he says that every time.

“There’s nothing wrong with our Isabelle being particular,” Liza says. I lean down and kiss her powdery cheek. She pinches mine in return, with a teasing gleam in her eyes. “Although if she doesn’t hurry up and find herself a man, her eggs will be as old and wrinkly as mine.”

“Darling,” my grandmother says, “your eggs withered away decades ago. As did mine. But Isabelle has no need to worry about that. Thanks to modern technology, she can freeze her eggs now, so they are still youthful for when she’s ready to settle down with Mr. Perfect.”

I kiss her on the cheek and hug her. “I’m not interested in settling down with a man. I’m too busy with my career.”

Okay, that’s not entirely true. My career hasn’t exactly traveled in the direction I had envisioned it would when I obtained my political science degree.

Before attending college, I had planned to be a human rights lawyer and follow in my grandmother’s humanitarian footsteps. She was a popular film and stage actress in the sixties and seventies and then switched to focus on her philanthropic work.

She never went to law school. It was my father who pursued his law degree—corporate, not human rights. It was my father who strongly encouraged me to follow in his footsteps.

Except, being a lawyer wasn’t for me, I eventually realized.

A lifetime of legal talk sounded dull and uninspiring.

“That’s true,” Liza says. “It can’t be easy working for those five hot men.” She fans herself.

“Any luck yet convincing your boss to promote you to an operative?” Granny asks.

“Not yet. I know Liam wants to hire at least one female to join the team. Possibly two. But he’s been too busy to even consider candidates.”

Plus there’s the matter of him wanting experienced individuals, which I’m not. Or at least not experienced at the level he’s looking for.

“What you need to do is prove you’re fully capable of doing the job.”

“I know, but it’s not like I’ve had the opportunity to do that.” Other than some minor tasks, like interviewing persons of interest who were more likely to open up to a woman than a man.

But I want to do more than that. I want to be involved in the dangerous missions. Like when the government hires the team for operations that require outside assistance, beyond what the FBI and CIA can do.

The side of the company that the general public doesn’t know about.

As for the threesome’s original discussion about my love life—or rather, lack of one—I’m not looking to find my own happily ever after. My father cheated on my mother when I was a little kid. Mom never remarried after that. Dad did. Four more times. His marriages tend to last as long as a harvest moon. At most.

But I didn’t let this jade me against relationships. Not at first, anyway. I’ve had boyfriends over the years. But none—except for one—lasted long. Richard was a fellow political science major. The love of my life.

Until I found the love of my life going down on another woman. In our bedroom.

He’d never gone down on me, so my discovery was a double layer in the brick wall of disappointment.

I guess it was my fault for not kicking his sorry ass through the door sooner. Even before the situation with the other woman, I knew deep down that he wasn’t the right man for me.

For one, he hadn’t been a fan of the colored streaks in my hair (they were purple back then). And he preferred that I didn’t speak my mind when I accompanied him to the dinner parties his graduate school professors had thrown.

He even hinted more than once that I should also go to grad school and become a boring academic.

All right, he didn’t use the word boring.

That was all me.

A slight breeze blows a strand of hair into my face. I brush it behind my ear and bite into the yummy croissant. “So what was so urgent that I needed to rush over?”

Last time it was because she needed a fourth opinion on an outfit she was wearing to a gala for the opening of an art gallery. It was exhibiting photos by famous photographers—both alive and dead—that showcased the movie stars of the past—also both alive and dead.

“Urgent” means something entirely different to me than it does for Granny.

She exchanges a glance with Liza and Henri. They both rapidly nod their encouragement. “I’ve got the perfect opportunity for you to prove to your boss that you’ll be a great operative.”

“What opportunity?”

“An ex-boyfriend of mine needs your help.”

“Do I know him?” There have been a string of casual boyfriends since Grandpa’s death.

“No. Bernard Bradshaw and I used to be an item before I became famous. He was a director at the time, waiting for his big break. We dated for a few years, but then he had an offer to work in Europe.”

“Okay, but what kind of help are we talking about?”

Henri picks up his teacup. “The kind of help that you and that tall glass of hot stuff can give him, Buttercup.”

Granny grins. “He means Jayden. You and Jayden would be perfect for this mission. And Bernard agreed with me when I told him about you two.”

“Great, but what exactly does he need help with?”

“Bernard would rather talk to you face-to-face about it—because of the sensitive nature of what happened. But what I can tell you is that some information might’ve been stolen from at least one guest while they were staying at his resort. Bernard has several security guards employed there, but he wanted to hire someone from the outside, in case it was an inside job.”

“What resort?”

“Paradise Springs Resort.”

“It’s in Huntington Beach,” Liza chimes in.

Granny nods. “That’s right. You and Jayden would be staying there. You’ll love the place. The five-star resort is supposed to be incredible.” She’s positively beaming as she tells me this.

“Jayden and the rest of the team are away on a mission,” I inform her. “But I’ll call Bernard, and he and I can discuss what he needs from us.”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it on the phone. He has kind of grown paranoid in his old age. He wants to talk to the two of you in person about the case. He’s willing to fly you both down for the weekend. If not this weekend, then I’m sure he will be happy to wait until Jayden returns home.”

“Jayden’s pretty busy for the next while.” As the firm’s office manager and Jayden’s best friend, I am more than familiar with his schedule. “But I can easily fly down and meet with Bernard.”

She shakes her head. “That won’t do. If you two agree to help him, you will need to go undercover as guests at his resort.”

“Okay, I can do that. And I don’t need Jayden to join me for that.”

Henri chuckles. Liza giggles. “Buttercup, Paradise Springs Resort isn’t the kind of place a single woman goes to, hoping to find her soul mate. It’s a place where married couples go. Together.”

“That’s right. You and Jayden will go undercover as a happily married couple.” For some reason, Granny looks almost pleased by this.

But I can’t imagine why.

“Why Jayden? The other men I work with are just as good at their jobs as he is.” However, like Jayden, they’re also busy with other cases for a while.

“Yes, but from what you’ve told me, Jayden doesn’t want you to advance in your career at the firm. This would be the ideal way to demonstrate to him that you’re more than capable of doing the job. Just think about it. But I really do think you’ll agree that you don’t want to miss out on this golden opportunity to prove yourself to your boss.”

She has a point there.

“But what if Jayden doesn’t want to come with me?” Which is likely the case if he believes the mission is too dangerous—for me.

Liza giggles again, for a reason only she’s privy to.

Or maybe it’s just me who’s clueless about the cause. The other two appear to be in on the joke, their lips pressed together as though stifling laughter.

“I’m sure, Buttercup, you can persuade him,” Henri says with a wink.

Author Bio

Born in Brighton England, Stina Lindenblatt has lived in a number of countries, including England, the US, Finland, and Canada. This would explain her mixed up accent. She has a kinesiology degree and a MSc in sports biological sciences. In addition to writing fiction, she loves photography, especially the close-up variety, and currently lives in Calgary, Canada, with her husband and three kids.

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