TITLE PAGE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG

ALSO BY K. BROMBERG

COPYRIGHT

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

COMING SOON

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG

“K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”

—USA Today

“K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Audrey Carlan

“A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances, and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”

—New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting

“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”

—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans

“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”

—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott

ALSO BY K. BROMBERG

Driven

Fueled

Crashed

Raced

Aced

Slow Burn

Sweet Ache

Hard Beat

Down Shift

UnRaveled

Sweet Cheeks

Sweet Rivalry

The Player

The Catch

Cuffed

Combust

Cockpit

Control

Faking It

Resist

Reveal

Then You Happened

Flirting with 40

Hard to Handle

Hard to Hold

Hard to Score

COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2021 by K. Bromberg

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by JKB Publishing, LLC

ISBN: 978-1-942832-23-2

Cover design by Helen Williams

Cover Image by Wong Sim

Cover Model: Mitchell Wick

Editing by Marion Making Manuscripts

Formatting by Champagne Book Design

Printed in the United States of America

PROLOGUE

Ryan

“WHEN WE’RE DONE AND OUT of here, man, I think we should all open a bar together,” Shotgun says with a disbelieving laugh, pointing to the desert-brown plywood around us. Beyond that are concrete barriers with razor wire on top, more fencing, and security watch to keep out our enemies, who are probably sitting in the hills surrounding us, watching our every move.

Dickman holds out the bottle of whiskey to me. Or at least I think it’s whiskey. We’re not one hundred percent sure, but he got it from someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows our translator, and despite alcohol being illegal for us, we have it anyway.

Maybe that’s why I’m hesitating taking it. The last thing I want is to get caught by our commanding officer and put on burning-the-shitter detail as punishment.

However, I reach over, take the bottle, and tilt it to my lips for one long, deep swallow. I wince as the burn fires down my throat but Jesus, it’s welcome if only to help me forget for a few goddamn minutes where I am and what we’re doing.

“A bar?” Richard asks.

“Yep. The four of us will buy a bar together and call it FUBAR as a silent ode to this once-in-a-lifetime experience we’re enjoying right here.” Shotgun’s sarcasm rings loud and clear, and we all laugh.

“I can get on board with that,” I say with a nod, the alcohol hitting faster than I expected. “Jesus, that’s some strong shit.”

Dickman laughs like a crazed loon, and we all shush him so we don’t get in trouble. “It definitely has a higher alcohol content than the shit we have back home.”

“Home,” Shotgun murmurs. We all fall silent, because we know his girl just dumped him and he’s taking it hard. Hell, we’ve only been here a month, so she didn’t even let his sheets grow cold before doing it either.

He may have lost his girl, but I lost my dream.

Fuck. That definitely hurts.

“What is it you guys can’t wait to get back to?” Richard asks as he hands the bottle back to me.

“Pussy,” Dickman deadpans, and we all burst out laughing.

“No shit,” Richard says, punching him in the arm. “I’m serious. Like we’re here and shit, but what are you hoping for when you get back?”

“We should just kiss our old lives goodbye,” Dickman says, “because nothing will ever be the same again.”

“C’mon,” I mutter. “That’s not true.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Dickman says, and of course, we all pay more attention when he speaks because this is his second tour.

“No, I’m dead serious.” He points to me. “Don’t you get it? You’re no longer PFC Ryan Camden. You’re a faceless number among many. When the brass looks at you, they see a guy who mans the gun. Now to them, you’re simply Gunner.”

“Whatever.” I wave a hand at him and dismiss his I-know-more-than-you bullshit.

“You think I’m joking?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Richard over there has been dubbed Nixon, because he’s a tricky motherfucker who gets himself out of situations no one else can. Shotgun is . . . he’s always sitting shotgun beside me, so yeah, that’s what his name is.”

“And you? Why are you Dickman?”

He snorts, his eyes glassy when they meet mine. “Because I’m a dick, man,” he says in a total stoner voice. It draws a chuckle from us, but we all meet each other’s eyes through the darkness. That nickname is like hitting a nail on the head. He’s great, but thank fuck he’s on our side.

“I’ll drink to that,” Shotgun says.

We fall silent as we hear a noise in the distance. It sounds like a gunshot, but we’re so used to the sound in our short time here, none of us even flinch.

“Look, we all gave up something—a lot of things to be here—but the question is: what did you give up that you’ll never get back?” Dickman continues on his depressing roll.

His words have me thinking, wondering, cringing at the decisions I made and how I ended up here.

“Isn’t hope a good thing?” I finally ask. “Why give it up when it’s something we can look forward to?”

“You’re not getting it, Gunner,” Dickman says and takes the bottle from my hand. “Everything has changed. No one there cares about you anymore like you thought they did. Or if they did, it’s now different.” Concern flickers through Shotgun’s eyes. “The easiest thing to do, for your own sanity, is to pick the one thing you loved the most and say goodbye to it. Make it official and let it go. Hell, you might as well write your last letter to whatever or whoever it is, and say goodbye as if you’ll die.”

“I’m not buying it,” I mutter, then get up and leave the pow-wow, a little less steady on my feet.

Regardless of how much I know his comment is, in fact, complete crap, it runs on repeat in my head.

Over and over.

I lie in my bunk, thinking of everything I gave up. The doubts, the what-ifs, the maybe I should’ve fought a little harders, eat away at me.

And then to think of what my mom found after I left for deployment. The voicemails from agents. The interest and belief in my talent.

All wasted now.

“Let it go, Ryan,” I mutter to the darkened ceiling. Tears burn in the back of my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut to force them away.

Maybe Dickman is right. Maybe holding on to hope is only going to cause me more pain. It’s not like the MLB will want me after my four years are up anyway.

Let it go, Ry.

Maybe holding on to a dream that’s already dead and gone is pathetic.

Let it go, Camden.

I sit up in my bunk, turn on the light, and grab a pen and paper. The easiest thing to do, for your own sanity, is to pick the one thing you loved the most and say goodbye to it.

Let it go, Gunner.

CHAPTER ONE

Chase

I TOY WITH THE CORNERS of the envelope in my hand, half-listening to the conversation going on around me, half making up a history to the name and contents inside of it.

Who was he?

What’s his story?

Its edges are worn and tattered, the stamp all but falling off, and the ink so faded it’s barely legible.

But it’s the date on the postmark that catches my eye.

“And you’re not paying attention to a word I’m saying, are you, Chase?”

I glance up to find four sets of eyes staring at me. All curious. All expectant.

“What?” I ask with a quick shake of my head.

“Langley?” Dekker, my older sister, asks—or rather my eldest sister since all three of them sitting around the conference room table are older than me.

“What about Langley?” I ask.

My dad, Kenyon Kincade’s, chuckle fills the room. “Should I be worried about whatever new goal you’re so focused on, that you can’t concentrate on our meeting at hand?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Brexton mutters and earns a roll of my eyes. “Can you stop being the overachiever for once? I mean, the rest of us are sick of looking like slackers around you.”

“Oh, please,” I mutter. “Maybe if you stopped being so gaga over Drew you, too, could accomplish more like I do.”

“Little brat,” Brexton says with a grin, which should convince me that love just might be all it’s supposedly cracked up to be, and then tosses a paper clip at me. “I’m holding my own just fine.”

“In between lunchtime sex dates,” Dekker says, causing our father to bark out a cough in shock.

“Christ Almighty,” he mutters before clearing his throat to try and gain control again.

“Lunchtime sex dates, says the pregnant one,” Brexton replies, as Dekker rubs her hand over her abdomen where she’s just starting to show.

I snort. It’s all I can do, because what the hell do I know or care about this kind of shit—love and babies? I have way too much to accomplish to allow either of those two things to cross my mind. In the future? Perhaps. My mind isn’t made up on that yet.

But for now? My plate is too full, my goals too varied, and my future too wide open in front of me to be distracted with the things my three sisters are now all experiencing.

Am I happy for them? Of course.

Is it for me? That remains to be seen.

“Ladies, can we get back on task?” our father asks drolly, fighting a smile. “Your sex lives are the last thing this old man wants to know anything about.”

“This is one of those times I’m more than happy that I get to Zoom in,” our sister Lennox says via the monitor and speaker on the wall in front of us. Her smile is sharp and her eyes are full of humor as she looks at the four of us from her home in England.

Dekker raises a middle finger to her in response, and we all laugh.

“Six-month progress reports. Can we finish the last one so we can get on with our work? I know we’re all rather busy,” he redirects and gets varied responses of yes from the four of us.

All eyes turn back to me.

“So I’ve checked off everything on my list. I have a fifteen percent increase in client growth. I’ve upped my pursuit of endorsement deals and am more than pleased with the return. A quarter of my clients are getting first-time deals, which is huge. I’ve added depth to my roster by adding one of just about every sport we represent and—”

“And I’m so perfect that I make my sisters sick,” Lennox says in a singsong voice to mock me that has Dekker and Brexton bursting out in laughter.

I stick my tongue out to the camera so she can see it. “I know you all wish you could be as perfect as me.” My grin is pure cheese and I do it for the sole purpose of annoying them.

“No thanks.” Lennox makes a show of rolling her eyes and pushing away from her desk as if she’s not having any of it.

“Please tell us there’s something you didn’t accomplish. Please? That way we can all feel a little better.”

I fight my grin. When you’re a little sister who is the last to get to do everything, you take a lot of pride in doing something they didn’t—like smashing all of the goals the team set for you.

“I thought the point of goals was to hit them,” I say in my primmest voice. “I’m not going to apologize that I didn’t hit them because I got sidetracked by a man.”

There’s a rumble of disagreement despite the smiles on their faces.

“Maybe that’s exactly what you need,” Lennox says. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past year, it’s that having a work-life balance is important.”

“Okay, Oprah,” I mutter.

“No, she’s right,” Dekker chimes.

“She is,” Brexton adds.

“I think we need to add a goal to your list,” Dekker says.

“Maybe she needs a cause to fight for,” Lennox chimes in. “Something to put her Type-A personality behind because then she knows shit gets done.”

There’s something about Lennox’s words that strike me. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I need to find something—a cause. Is that what I’m missing? Knowing I’m making a difference somehow?

“Or instead of a cause, we could always get her a man,” Dekker says.

“And that’s where this conversation can end,” I mutter.

“No, seriously. How long has it been since you last dated?” she persists.

All eyes wait for an answer as I give a panicked glance to my dad, who’s no help to me when he holds his hands up in surrender. His accompanying chuckle is just as bad.

“It’s been at least two years, hasn’t it?” Lennox asks. “Finn was the last guy you were serious about and—”

“And let’s not talk about him or have this discussion at all. Shall we move on?” I ask, my smile tight and insincere.

“No, we shall not,” Dekker persists. “You don’t date.”

“I date.”

“Dating a guy and going out compared to a booty call to heat up your sheets are two completely different things.” When our father groans and shakes his head, Dekker waves her hand at him and continues. “Are you going to argue that?”

“I’m going to argue that what I do outside of work is none of my nosy sisters’ business and leave it at that,” I say.

“I’m not knocking booty calls,” Lennox says. “God knows I’ve been down a time or two—before Rush, of course—but I used to think like you . . . and there’s so much more, Chase.”

If they didn’t know that tugging on the collar of my shirt was my “tell” that I was uncomfortable, I’d be tugging on it right now. But I will not let them see me sweat. Cannot let them. I know that will just egg them on.

“Can the let’s scrutinize Chase’s life portion of the program be done now? Please?” I implore this time with a more convincing smile.

“We’re adding a goal to your list,” Dekker says with a decisive nod.

“You’re not the boss,” I say with a shrug that just earns laughter from everyone.

“We’re adding a goal because we all know you well enough to know that you’re competitive, and if we lay it out there like this, you’re too Type A not to prove to us that you can do it.”

“Wow. Really, Dekk? You think I’m that easy to manipulate?” I ask, while secretly cringing at not accomplishing a goal assigned to me.

“Yes,” all three of them respond without hesitation.

“I’m feeling a little set up here.” I laugh to ease my own nerves. “I don’t adhere to peer pressure, let alone the Chase-needs-to-have-a-boyfriend plan.”

“That’s not the plan,” Brexton says.

“Then what is?” I ask, fully aware that if the three of them are answering questions for each other, then this has been a topic of discussion behind my back.

“The goal is to get you to go on dates. At least two dates with two different men within the next two months,” Dekker says, giving me the mother look. You know, the stare that says she’s not budging.

“That’s total bullshit.” I shove my pad of paper away from me. “What will that prove? That I’m not a spinster?”

“You don’t have to get angry,” Brexton grumbles.

“I’m not angry. I’m pissed,” I state, knowing they’re one and the same. “I love that we’re all a close part of each other’s lives, but you don’t get to tell me what to do in my love life. I’m not built like you . . . and while I respect you and your personal decisions, I’d like to think you’d do the same for me and mine.”

We all stare at each other until our father sighs. “On that note . . .”

“We weren’t ganging up on her, Dad. We just want to make sure she’s happy.”

“Happiness is subjective.” I glare.

“This meeting went way off the rails,” he says with an uncomfortable chuckle. “The last thing this father needs to hear about is the sex lives and booty calls of his daughters . . . so let’s call this meeting over and get back to work.”

“You’ve heard worse,” Brexton says with a laugh.

“Why are we talking about me and not Finn Sanderson?” I ask, pulling attention back to work, off me, and on to our rival agent—and my ex-boyfriend.

“You actually want to talk about him? That’s a first.” Lennox snorts.

“Not him per se, but did any of you see the coverage of him fulfilling the Make A Wish kid’s dream to be signed with an agent and an NBA team?” I ask.

“How could we not?” Lennox says. “It’s been on every damn news station, sports channel, and newspaper. It’s maddening.”

“Whoa. Have a heart,” Dekker says, which prompts a sigh from Brexton.

“That came out wrong.” Lennox gives a quick shake of her head. “The story is awesome and heartbreaking all at the same time. It’s just more maddening that Finn is getting all this feel-good PR when we all know the only reason the man took on fulfilling the kid’s wish was for the press it would bring him.”

“Typical Finn,” I say, not really wanting to think about my ex in any capacity.

Brexton’s cell phone rings and she jumps up. “I’ve got to take this,” she says. She presses a kiss to the top of our dad’s head as she walks past him on the way out.

“Twenty bucks that’s Drew calling for a lunchtime quickie,” Lennox says of Brexton’s fiancé.

“I could have lived without knowing that,” our dad mumbles.

“On that note,” Lennox says, “I might just go do the same.” Her laughter is all we hear as she waves to the camera and signs off.

“I’ll be leaving too,” Dekker says and raps the corners of her papers on the desk, “but not for a quickie.” She rises from her seat and points her cell phone at me. “I’m serious about that goal, Chase. I want to see proof of dates with two different men,” she says in her best imitation of our father.

My only response is a lift of my middle finger as she heads out of the conference room door.

“Well, that was fun. Not,” I joke, then chuckle, as I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. “How did we get so sidetracked when I had ideas and things to talk about and . . . Christ.”

“Ideas?” He looks like a gopher sticking his head up out of a hole, begging for a change in topic. “What ideas?”

I laugh and ask, “How is business going?”

“Meaning?” He sets his pen down to show I have his full attention.

“Meaning we started this operation Screw Finn Sanderson,” I say referring to the undercutting and stealing of clients from my ex, “to save Kincade Sports Management. Have we been successful? Have we made a dent in recovering more clients? How is our bottom line and future looking?”

He nods slowly. “This is a fickle business, Chase. What one client hates in the form of management, another might prefer. Every contract is a gamble. Every new client a chance to hang on a star.”

“You’re talking in your fatherly metaphors.” I laugh. “Can you just say what you mean?”

“KSM is doing better.” He lifts his eyebrows to make sure I hear him. “We’ve taken on more clients, more contracts . . . but I don’t know, kiddo, I feel like I’m stuck in the dark ages, and maybe I’m dragging down the agency with it.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

How can he think that when he built this incredible business? This place, which has anchored our family since our mom died, is past its prime.

“Finn’s the king of public stunts. He gets people talking. Maybe I’m old because I think they’re all stupid, but they do seem to reel in athletes fresh from college. They like flashy and he’s definitely flashy.”

“Umm, I’m younger than Finn, Dad. Are you telling me I’m not doing my job?”

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