You know that awkward moment when your lava-hot boss says “marry me?” Not for love. Not for real. Not without a mammoth payoff. Of course, this fortune comes with a ginormous snag—Ward Brandt.
Call me bananas. I must be short of a full bushel rejecting Chicago’s finest billionaire. Who knew he was my boss when he crashed my worst date ever? Oh, but he found out. He swore I wasn’t fit for Brandt Ideas, chewed me up, and spat me back out. I vowed I’d prove him wrong—and sabotage a metric ton of his coffee.
Then tragedy strikes, upending his limitless ego. Guess who needs an image makeover to shore up the family business. Big fat hell no. King Snarlypants has a peanut-sized heart and a chip on his shoulder bigger than a redwood.
Find another sucker, Ward-hole. Even if I agreed, my shields are up. No magnetic kisses. Zero butterflies. Nix the blushing when everyone gushes over what a “perfect couple” we’d be. Then again…it’s just ninety days and mama needs a windfall. What’s one little white wedding lie with a bossy grump built like a god?
When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is check my email.
I’m expecting Miss One Glass to send back some whiny message about how unfair it was for me to bury her under an avalanche of projects.
There’s nothing like that, but a slideshow of the final bid in its current form attached to a blank email with the subject line Done.
Damn her.
It’s incredible how she maintains her scathing sass with a single word.
At the office, Nick stands in front of Miss Holly’s desk, sipping his sugar rush mocha and leering over her. Probably trying to look down her shirt.
Careful, you idiot. This girl knows Illinois employment law by heart. She’ll have your balls stapled to your jacket.
Muttering silently, I stop on the way to my office and my eyes meet hers. “I take it my coffee’s waiting on my desk?”
She looks up and glares a second too long, those green eyes glittering like a jungle cat’s.
“Nope.”
“No?” I spit back.
“Shocking espresso shortage. The Bean Bar only had enough left for a mocha and one double shot, and Mrs. Beatrice Nightingale Brandt takes seniority. If I’d waited for them to resupply, I’d have missed your oh-so-important deadline. Mrs. Brandt told me to let you know you could see her if you had a problem with it, though.” She flashes me a murderously triumphant “gotcha” grin.
“The Bean Bar does not run out of espresso,” I snarl through clenched teeth. The coffee shop has its shit together better than anything else in this city—the whole reason we love it and treat ourselves to Chicago’s finest dressed-up caffeine overload a few times every week.
“Sorry. We’re one cuppa joe short, but I figured the project was more important, so…” Holly just smiles and shrugs like a schoolgirl who’s gotten away with cherry-bombing a high school toilet.
The motion sends my eyes lashing down her face to the low cut of her blouse.
For a tortured second, I’m no better than my idiot brother, my eyes glued to a pair of ample tits I’d like to boss around with my tongue, my teeth, my—
Damn her to the moon.
With nothing else to say, I turn around and nearly slam into Nick.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” He greets me with his usual lopsided grin.
“Nowhere, apparently.” I level a glare on him. “Shouldn’t you be in your office working?”
He holds a hand up. “Bro, if you’re jonesing that bad for coffee, I can run down to the bar downstairs and get you an espresso. My treat.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
I need to move it before my humiliation is complete, so I push past him, go to my office, and slam the door shut. Then I remember, I’ve only seen one completed project this morning.
Where’s the other?
I open the frosted glass door and stick my head out. “Where’s the Winthrope comp catalog?”
Miss Holly looks up, twirling her blond hair like spun gold. “I’m working on it now! I can send you what I have. The final should be ready before lunch.” She points to her computer.
My eyes narrow and I fold my arms.
“It was due at eight a.m.”
Nick watches us for a minute and huffs loudly. “Yo, Ward, give her a break. It’s still her first week.”
“No excuse to miss deadlines. She has the credentials and work ethic, when she applies them,” I say.
“Aw, c’mon, the last girl took at least a solid week to make those catalogs,” Nick fires back. “There’s so much crap in them—”
Miss Holly jumps in. “Most of it I’ve been able to copy and paste, which is why I’m done with the North American hotels for comparison. Since Mr. Winthrope is coming by for a check-in this week, I thought the slideshow was more important. I’ll be done with the catalog today, like I said.” Nick’s eyes trace from Paige—Miss Holly—to me.
Nicole Snow is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author. She found her love of writing by hashing out love scenes on lunch breaks and plotting her great escape from boardrooms. Her work roared onto the indie romance scene in 2014 with her Grizzlies MC series.
Since then Snow aims for the very best in growly, heart-of-gold alpha heroes, unbelievable suspense, and swoon storms aplenty. With over a million books sold, she lives for the joy of making two people fight with every bit of their soul for a Happily Ever After.
Current fan favorites include her Enguard Protectors series, accidental love novels, plus long beloved MC romance thrillers like the Grizzlies and Deadly Pistols.
A double cross sends a couple of friends on the adventure for their lives.
A chance run in with an old friend becomes a run for their lives when Sherry Rose and Benny Freeman have a misunderstanding with local drug dealers. Witnessing the massacre of friends of Sherry’s double crossing boyfriend leads them to be hunted down by corrupt law enforcement.
Having a near death experience gives them a chance to start a romance they never knew the other wanted.
Will they survive when the bad guys close in on them and finally find the love they always wanted?
It was the first time I saw her at ‘The Fred’ in that two-piece. Her body had just developed overnight. She’d gone from wearing a onesie bathing suit with tree trunks for thighs, hanging below her to the most stunning woman this side of Dominique Chinn with tree husks for thighs and a treasure chest flowing out the top and sides of her bikini looking like she had two floatation devices. She wore a powder blue swim cap that looked like a JiffyPop popcorn tin ready to explode with popcorn. The lifeguard on duty at the deep end was a customer. I had come to let him know Ray and I were open for business and the Cherry Punch strain wouldn’t last long. He hopped out his chair, asking me to hold down the fort. He’d be right back as he dashed into the men’s locker room where Ray was waiting for him.
It wasn’t more than ten seconds after he disappeared that Sherry burst out the water like a mermaid onto dry land. The strap for her cap must’ve loosened as it floated deep into the waters as she stepped onto the concrete. Her curly hair glistened in the rays of the sun from whatever moisturizer she was using.
“Your cap,” I pointed out as I stretched my fingers to waters behind her.
Water cascaded around her as the most glorious figure emerged from the pool. Her arms had the tone of a gymnast, she was ripped from her wingspan to her calves. I knew she spent a lot of time in the water, but damn. Her face had a glow as the sun tried to crack through her darkness while water beads rolled to the ground.
“Can you get it for me, please?” she asked sweetly as her fingers rushed to her bushy hair.
I stepped back away from the life guard stand as fear instantly consumed me overtaking the shame I felt as I didn’t dare admit I didn’t know how to swim.
My eyes darted back and forth for someone to retrieve the plastic cap before it floated any further and sank below.
“Please, Benny, get it for me?” she pleaded and I was stunned. She knew my name. Like Charlie Brown’s little red head girl, she knew my name.
I took a step forward, bracing myself, telling myself it wouldn’t be that bad. I could make it out into the waters and maybe turn back. Or at least toss Sherry her cap and signal for her help after she secured the cap in place on her head. Sheesh, how long would that take? I hesitated.
“Really?” I heard from behind as Ray in a pair of red and white Speedos ran past me. A back splash of water rained upon me as he dove into the water saving the day and securing another satisfied customer.
“Marvin Mason has arrived as a refreshing new storyteller with this fun adventure of young people and African-American Midwest life, the seemingly quiet but oh-so interesting world that molded me but rarely shows up in the media.” Kalisha Buckhanon, American Library Association ALEX Award-winning author of Upstate and Conception, winner of the Friends of American Writers Literature Award.
I assume there’s going to be a whole lot of jockeying for position in the first few weeks at Kingmakers. Every kid here thinks they’re the alpha — and they probably were, wherever they came from. But we can’t all be alphas at the school. There’s going to be a new hierarchy. I intend to be at the top, like always.
Bram probably thinks the same thing. He narrows his eyes at me, tossing back his longish hair and muttering something to his friends. The other Penose give me venomous looks.
Bram’s the next shooter. He rolls the point number three times before hitting a seven, ending the round. He scoops up his winnings, grinning.
“Hey Dmitry,” he calls. “Why don’t you come join?”
He’s calling to a tall blond boy who’s standing at the railing looking down at the water. The boy took his shirt off because of the heat. A Siberian tiger is tattooed to the right of his spine, done in the classic style as if it were crawling up his back. Because the boy is so pale, the tiger looks snow white with black stripes.
Dmitry turns around slowly, facing our group.
He looks right at me, and seems to recognize me immediately.
I get a similar jolt.
He’s strangely familiar, even though I know we’ve never met.
His eyes narrow, his jaw tightens, and his lip curls up in a sneer.
“No thanks,” he says, coldly. “I don’t like the company.”
“What?” Bram says, glancing back and forth between us. “The Amerikanets?”
“What’s wrong with Americans?” I say. I keep my voice level, but I’m looking the blond boy right in the eye.
Bram and I sized each other up last night, and it was clear that we both thought we were hot shit. Who’s shit is hotter remains to be determined. With Dmitry it’s something else. He doesn’t view me as a rival. He’s looking at me like an enemy.
“It’s not Americans,” he says to me. “It’s you.”
His voice drips with disdain.
Something in his tone, coupled with his coloring and the familiarity of his features makes it all click at once.
I’m talking to my cousin. He’s calling himself Dmitry, but this is Dean Yenin, I’m sure of it.
Not that Dean considers us family.
His father and my mother are twins. They were best friends growing up. Until my mom chose my dad over her own family.
Dean’s grandfather tried to kill everyone I know and love at my parents’ wedding: my uncle Nero, my aunt Camille, Uncle Dante, my godmother Greta, even my father. He succeeded in murdering my grandpa Enzo, so that I’ve only ever known him from a portrait that hangs in my father’s office.
And in return, my father reigned down bloody retribution on Dean’s family. Dean’s grandfather is dead, strangled to death by my dad. And his father Adrian is burned up worse than Vader from what I’ve heard.
So we are enemies, maybe more than anyone else on this boat.
I knew that Dean was coming to Kingmakers.
I knew this was coming.
But it’s something different to meet him face-to-face, after never even having seen a photo of him.
He’s the main reason my mother didn’t want me coming here. She’s tried to reach out to her brother over the years — tried to repair their relationship so they could at least have a measure of forgiveness, even if they could never be close again.
He never responded to her, not a single word.
It’s clear from the expression on Dean’s face that my mom was right. The Yenins weren’t just avoiding us. They fucking hate us still.
“Is that any way to talk to your cousin?” I say to Dean.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of glaring back at him. Instead I paste a grin on my face, like I don’t take him seriously. I know that’s the best way to really piss him off.
Sure enough, he takes another couple steps toward me, closing the space between us. Instinctively, everyone else steps back. They all know the feeling of a fight about to happen. That anticipation in the air, the electricity between two people itching to do each other harm.
“Don’t call me that,” Dean says.
It’s funny how even the simplest words can cut if they’re said sharply enough.
Dean hasn’t raised his voice, but he makes it perfectly clear that he isn’t fucking around. His fists tighten at his sides, and his shoulders swell as his body shifts into a more aggressive stance. He’s got the look of a fighter, as if he’s most natural in that position. If I were anybody else, I’d probably take a step back, cringing like a little bitch.
But I’m not somebody else.
I’m me. And I don’t back away from anybody.
“Don’t call you what?” I say. “Cuz?”
Dean takes another step forward until we’re within arm’s reach of each other. I’m taller than him by two inches, but he’s got a decent amount of muscle packed on his frame, and he looks fast too. I’m watching him carefully, though I don’t let it show. I stand there as relaxed and casual as ever.
“We’re not family,” Dean hisses. “Because your whore of a mother betrayed her family. She’s not a Yenin anymore. She’s just a piece of treacherous trash.”
I want to hit him so bad my fists are throbbing. I can’t let that go unanswered.
“The Yenins broke a blood oath,” I spit back at him. “I don’t know how the fuck you’re even here. You should be excommunicated. Whose cock did your father have to suck to get you back in?”
We rush each other at the same moment. I throw the first punch, right at his stupid fucking face. But to my surprise, he slips the hit so my fist barely glances off his jaw. I’ve never missed like that before.
At the same time, he hits me with a left hook that fucking rocks me. Dean may not be quite as big as me, but he’s fast as fuck and strong, too. My head is ringing, and my hangover headache comes roaring back.
I swing back at him, and this time he can’t quite duck it — at 6’5 I’ve got a fuck of a longer reach than he’s used to. I pop him in the cheek, raising an instant red welt under his eye.
In retaliation he slugs me back in the gut, and that fucking hurts too. Jesus he’s got a sledgehammer for an arm.
The howls of Bram and the other students draw the attention of the sailors. Two of the deckhands tear us apart before we can finish the fight. They’re big, burly men, and they fling us down on the deck shouting for us to knock it off.
The bigger of the two, a man with a glass eye and two sensuously entwined mermaids on his forearm, points a sausage-like finger at me and growls, “Raise your fists again and I’ll chuck you in the fuckin’ ocean. No fighting on board.”
He stands there, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching us both until Dean picks himself up off the deck and resumes his sullen position at the railing, and I head back toward the bow.
I climb up in the net once more, making Ares stir and mumble in the midst of his nap, and Anna glances up from her book.
“What the hell?” she says. “What happened to you?”
She’s staring at my face.
I swipe my hand under my nose, seeing blood smear across my knuckles.
“Little family reunion,” I say.
“Dean?” Anna asks, eyes wide.
“Who else.”
“Why’d you have to go and fight him?” Anna says.
“He started it. I was willing to be friendly.”
“For how long, two seconds?” Anna frowns.
“He called my mom a traitor!”
“Of course he did! You know what he’s probably been told. Did you even try to talk to him?”
“It’s not my job to talk to him!” I scoff. “His family are the fucking traitors, and if he says another word about my mom, I’ll break his jaw for him.”
“You’d better not,” Anna says, darkly. “You know the rules—“
“He’s the one—“
“They won’t care!” Anna cuts across me. “This is exactly what Aunt Yelena was worried about—“
“Oh, get off it,” I grumble at Anna. “I heard enough of that before I left.”
I hate when Anna acts like she’s on my parents’ side about me not going to Kingmakers. She should be happy that I came here with her, instead of taking my full-ride to the University of Kentucky. Does she want to be here alone? I thought she’d be thrilled that we’re both experiencing this together. The thought of going to some school without her, any school, makes me sick to my stomach. She’s my best friend. We’ve always done everything together.
Sophie Lark is an Amazon Bestselling author who writes intense, intelligent romance, with heroines who are strong and capable, and men who will do anything to capture their hearts. She lives with her husband, two boys, and baby girl in the Rocky Mountain West.
She has a slight obsession with hiking, bodybuilding, and live comedy shows. Her perfect day would be taking the kids to Harry Potter World, going dancing with Mr. Lark, then relaxing with a good book and a monster bag of salt and vinegar chips.
