Queen Move
“Romance is about the possibility of a thing.”
— Love Jones
By Kennedy Ryan
Queen Move
By Kennedy Ryan
Copyright 2020 Kennedy Ryan
ISBN: 978-1-952457-02-9
Published by Blue Box Press, an imprint of Evil Eye Concepts, Incorporated
Model: Lashae Dennie
Makeup: Nakita Lochard of FaBelle Inc.
Cover design by Asha Hossain
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
Book Description
Book Description
Queen Move
By Kennedy Ryan
From Wall Street Journal, USA Today Bestselling and RITA® Award winning Author, Kennedy Ryan, comes a captivating second chance romance like only she can deliver...
“The boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can't have.”
Dig a little and you'll find photos of me in the bathtub with Ezra Stern.
Get your mind out of the gutter. We were six months old.
Pry and one of us might confess we saved our first kiss for each other.
The most clumsy, wet, sloppy . . . spectacular thirty seconds of my adolescence.
Get into our business and you'll see two families, closer than blood, torn apart in an instant.
Twenty years later, my "awkward duckling" best friend from childhood, the boy no one noticed,
is a man no one can ignore.
Finer. Fiercer. Smarter.
Taken.
Tell me it's wrong.
Tell me the boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can’t have.
When we find each other again, everything stands in our way--secrets, lies, promises.
But we didn't come this far to give up now.
And I know just the move to make if I want to make him mine.
About Kennedy Ryan
About Kennedy Ryan
A RITA® Award Winner and USA Today Bestselling author, Kennedy Ryan writes for women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts.
Kennedy and her writings have been featured in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today, Entertainment Weekly, Glamour and many others. She has always leveraged her journalism background to write for charity and non-profit organizations, but has a special passion for raising Autism awareness. The co-founder of LIFT 4 Autism, an annual charitable book auction, she has appeared on Headline News, The Montel Williams Show, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for ASD families. She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son.
Also from Kennedy Ryan
Also From Kennedy Ryan
Click to purchase
ALL THE KING’S MEN DUET
The Kingmaker (Book 1)
The Rebel King (Book 2)
HOOPS Series
(Interconnected Standalone Stories)
LONG SHOT (A HOOPS Novel)
BLOCK SHOT (A HOOPS Novel)
HOOK SHOT (A HOOPS Novel)
HOOPS Holiday (A HOOPS Novella)
THE SOUL SERIES
My Soul to Keep (Soul 1)
Down to My Soul (Soul 2)
Refrain (Soul 3)
THE GRIP SERIES
FLOW (The GRIP Prequel)
GRIP (Grip #1)
STILL (Grip #2)
THE BENNETT SERIES
When You Are Mine (Bennett 1)
Loving You Always (Bennett 2)
Be Mine Forever (Bennett 3)
Until I’m Yours (Bennett 4)
Coming Soon!
The Killer & The Queen
(co-written with Sierra Simone)
Acknowledgments from the Author
Acknowledgments from the Author
There are always so many to thank, this part is nearly as hard as writing the book itself. Not really, but it’s hard to not leave anyone out. LOL! I first want to thank Liz, Jillian and MJ, the Evil Eye Team, for this incredible experience working with you and bringing Kimba’s story to life. You believed in me, in her, every step of the way, and that means the world. I have to thank my publicist Jenn from Social Butterfly. You always stretch and pull with every one of my new expectations. Every 2am email and midnight text—you never complain. Your friendship is invaluable. Tia Kelly, thank you!!! You cared about Kimba as much as I did. Maybe sometimes even more! Hahaha. I appreciate your honesty and determination and your “spidey senses.” Most of all your belief in me and encouragement have been a lifeline more than once. To my alpha reader Joanna, I can’t really thank you enough for never settling; for not letting me get away with mediocrity. For being ruthlessly honest, even when it’s the last thing I want to hear. For pushing back when I don’t want to listen because you care so much about the story. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. You’re my safety net and your friendship is so precious. <3
I’m so grateful to my sensitivity readers Sylvia and Hannah. Thank you for sharing the richness of your heritage to help me write this story. And to Felicia Grossman for answering all my questions and having candid conversations to help inform this journey. Anything I got wrong is on me, not on these amazing women who helped me understand so many things as I wrote Ezra’s character and experience. To my beta readers LaDonna, Cordelia, Terilyn, and Sarah, THANK YOU for the feedback. You helped shape this story more than you could know. Even one of your questions led me to ask myself several more, and the answers contoured these characters.
Thank you LJ Shen for answering all my obnoxious questions, (and asking your husband the ones you didn’t know! Hahaha!) for reading early when the book was not at its best and giving me insight to make it better. That means a lot. You mean a lot, my “tell it like it is” friend, and you’ll always be my Molly.
Thanks to my promo team! (Kennedy's Krew, BlockStars, Pinkballerz and Kennedy's Crusaders). You guys are the best in the game. Your hearts are huge and I’m humbled by your support. To my Kennedy Ryan Books group on Facebook, THANK YOU for being my virtual soft landing. You keep me encouraged and give me a safe place to celebrate every single day. I love you! To Melissa Panio-Peterson, THANK YOU for being my right arm and left flank. Hehehehe. I ask a lot, and you never complain. I don’t tell you enough how much your presence in my life makes things easier. I love you.
To my mama, Aunt Evelyn and Aunt Joyce, the first queens I ever met. The women who showed me as much as they told me. Who put compassion and character on display and taught me what real power looked like—the power to help others and make the world better where and when you can.
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Book Description
Table of Contents
Book Description
About Kennedy Ryan
Also from Kennedy Ryan
Acknowledgments from the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two
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
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Epilogue
Author’s Note
An excerpt from The Kingmaker by Kennedy Ryan
Discover 1001 Dark Nights Collection Seven
Discover the World of 1001 Dark Nights
Special Thanks
Dedication
Dedication
For all the girls who have to work twice as hard.
You know who you are.
Prologue
Prologue
Kimba
Two Years Before Present
Is there anything sadder than a daddy’s girl at her father’s funeral?
My mother’s quiet sniffs a few seats down give me the answer.
A grieving widow.
“He was a good man,” someone in the long line of mourners offering condolences whispers to her.
Mama’s head bobs with a tearful nod. In this day and age, she still wears a pillbox hat and veil. It’s black and chic like Mama, channeling tragic Jackie Kennedy or Coretta Scott King. My father was not just a good man. He was a great man, and everyone should know he leaves behind a widow, grieving deeply, but ever-fly. I squeeze the funeral program between my fingers, glaring at the printed words.
Joseph Allen leaves behind a wife, Janetta, three children, Kayla, Keith and Kimba, and six grandchildren.
He leaves behind.
Daddy’s gone, and I don’t know how to live in a world my father does not inhabit. The casket is draped with sweet-smelling flowers in the center of the funeral tent. When we leave the cemetery, it…he will be lowered into the ground with unfathomable finality, separated from us by white satin lining, six feet of dirt and eternity.
Kayla, my older sister, sobs softly at the end of our family’s row. Her four children watch her carefully, probably unused to seeing their unshakeable mother shaken and reduced to tears. Even I’d forgotten how she looks when she cries—like she’s mad at the wetness streaking her cheeks, resentful of any sign of weakness.
It’s not weak to cry, Daddy used to say. It’s human.
“But doesn’t the Bible say even the rocks will cry out?” I’d challenged him when I was young, loving that something from Sunday school took. “So maybe tears aren’t just for humans.”
“You’re getting too smart for your britches, little girl,” he’d said, but the deep affection in his eyes when he kissed me told me he was pleased. He liked that I asked questions and taught me to never accept bullshit at face value.
I miss you, Daddy.
Not even a week since his heart attack, and I already miss him so much.
Humanity blurs my vision, wet and hot and stinging my eyes. I want this to be over. The flowers, the well-dressed mourners, the news cameras stationed at a distance they probably deem respectful. I just want to go to the house where my parents raised us, retreat to Daddy’s study and find the stash of cigars that only he and I knew about.
Don’t tell your mother, he used to whisper conspiratorially. This will be our little secret.
Mama hated the smell of cigars in the house.
“Tru.”
Who would call me by that name? Now, when the only people who use it, my family, are all preoccupied with their own pain? A tall man stands in front of me, his thick, dark brows bunched with sympathy. I don’t know him. I would remember a man like this, who stands strong like an oak tree. A well-tailored suit molds his powerful shoulders. Dark brown, not quite black, hair is cut ruthlessly short, but hints at waves if given the chance to grow. His prominent nose makes itself known above the full, finely sculpted lips below. His eyes are shockingly vivid—so deep a blue they’re almost the color of African violets against skin like bronze bathed in sunlight. No, a man like him you’d never forget. Something niggles at my memory, tugs at my senses. I’d never forget a man who looked like this, a man with eyes like that…but what about a boy?
“Ezra?” I croak, disbelief and uncertainty mingling in the name I haven’t uttered in years.
It can’t be.
But it is.
In place of the awkward boy I knew stands a man exuding self-assurance in the confident set of his shoulders, the proud bearing of his head. If adolescence was the rough draft, this finished product is a masterpiece of symmetry and beautifully sketched lines.
He nods, a tiny smile relieving the sober line of his mouth. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Maybe it’s the emotion, the vulnerability that shatters the guard I always lock in place. Maybe it’s the compassion in his expression. Or maybe it’s finding in the eyes of a stranger the comfort of a long-lost friend. It could be all of these things, or maybe it’s none of them, but I surge to my feet and fling myself into his arms. He doesn’t seem as surprised as I am by this ungoverned physicality, his strength tightening around me right away. He’s much taller than I am, much taller than the last time I saw him, and he dips a little closer to my ear.
“I’m so sorry, Kimba,” he says. “He was one of the finest men I ever met.”
His words and arms warm places left frigid all week, and this moment melts into a million others I thought I’d lost forever. Ezra and me tracing our names into wet concrete with sticks. Riding our bikes through the streets, shouting and laughing at summer dusk, racing the sun. Pumping our legs to propel us so high on swings at night in a deserted park our feet seemed to kick the stars. Ezra Stern was the axis of my childhood.
“Ez.” I pull back far enough to look up at him, scouring his features for the changes twenty years have made. “But you…what are you…how—”
“I moved back to Atlanta a few years ago. I ran into your father and we…” He swallows, releases me to shove one hand into the pocket of his dark slacks. He used to do that when he was unsure. It’s one of the few things remaining of the boy I knew. And those eyes.
“We talked,” he continues. “We kept in touch. He helped me. I hope it’s okay that I’m here.”
He spares a quick glance to my mother at the other end of our row, still elegant and too devastated to really notice those standing in front of her, much less the man standing in front of me.
“It is.” I squeeze his free hand, connecting our gazes. “I’m glad you came.”
Something like relief loosens his tight expression. “Good. I didn’t want to—”
“Dad.”
The voice comes from behind him. I glance around and see a handsome kid with African violet eyes. His skin is a few shades lighter than Ezra’s, his curls less coarse, and there are traces of maybe Asian ancestry in his features, but there’s something of the boy I knew years ago in this one, and my heart contracts.
A son. Ezra has a son.
Of course he does. We’re in our thirties. He’s probably also got a—
“Noah, I asked you to wait with your mom.” Ezra brushes a hand across the boy’s hair.
“I was,” Noah says, his eyes wide and locked on his father’s. “But bà ngoại called. It’s an emergency. Mom says we need to go.”
Ezra and Noah both look beyond the tent and across the cemetery’s carpet of grass. A petite woman paces in a tight circle, a phone pressed to her ear, distress on her face. I see the other parts of Noah in her. A sheath of dark hair hangs to her waist and, even at this distance, she’s obviously a beautiful woman.
Ezra’s wife. Ezra’s son. I haven’t seen this man in more than two decades, but my breath hitches when faced with the life he made apart from me. We were just kids, and of course he made a life without me, just like I made a life without him, but my heart still sinks like an anchor to the ocean floor.
A family. Ezra has a family.
“I saw you on TV,” Noah says, studying me closely.
I frown, for a moment so removed from the reality of life beyond this funeral tent and the cloying scent of flowers that I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“The campaign,” Ezra says, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “You were doing an interview on CNN.”
“Oh.” I nod and manage a facsimile of a smile for Noah’s benefit. “My job has me talk on television sometimes, but I’ll tell you a secret.”
His eyes glint with childish delight.
I bend to his ear and whisper, “I get really nervous, and it’s not as easy as it looks.”
Noah nods, his face sobering. “I’d be nervous, too, but Daddy said you’re the smartest girl he ever met.”
I zip a glance at Ezra, who looks self-conscious for a moment before meeting my eyes. “Still not smarter than me, though,” he deadpans defiantly. “And don’t you forget it.”
I thought there was no way to laugh, not on the day I buried my father, but a chuckle rattles in my throat. “You’re just mad because I beat you at chess.”
“You beat Daddy at chess?” Noah’s eyes stretch to full moons. “Nobody ever beats him.”
“Once,” Ezra interjects with a heatless glare. “She beat me once.”
“Now the excuses start,” I tell Noah.
Ezra smiles, but his gaze flits back to where his wife stands and the brief flash of humor disappears. “We better go, Noah. Let’s see what your mom needs.”
Noah takes off, dashing from the tent and across the grass to his mother. When he reaches her, she pulls him into the crook of her arm and kisses the top of his head. What a beautiful family. I’m happy for him.
Ezra turns his attention back to me. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Pay my respects.”
A dozen words idle on my tongue at the prospect of him disappearing again.
Don’t be a stranger. Let me get your number. We should stay in touch.
He looks down at me, and the words lodged in my throat seem to burn in his eyes, too, fueled by regret. And hope. All the things clamoring in my chest play across his expressive features.
“Kimba, we could—”
“It was good seeing you again,” I cut in with soft politeness, dropping the hand I didn’t realize I still held until now. “Thank you for coming.”
He stares at me for long seconds, and despite my best intentions, I stare back. When I was a little girl, no one was closer to me, no one knew me better than Ezra Stern. It was the kind of closeness you cherished as a child—the kind that between two adults could be nothing short of intimate.
“Goodbye, Ez,” I whisper, blinking at fresh tears.
“Yeah.” He looks out across green grass and headstones to where his family waits, and nods. “Goodbye, Tru.”
Long, swift strides take him to his wife and son. They disappear over the crest of a hill, hand in hand and then out of sight. They were here only a few minutes. I doubt Mama even realized he was here. She’s still trapped in her worst nightmare where the love of her life is gone.
“Goodbye, Daddy,” I say, loud enough for just myself and him to hear, like the little secrets he and I used to keep. The casket in front of me breaks my heart for what I’ve lost.
I glance over the hill and shed a tear for what I never had.
Part One
PART ONE
“We are stardust brought to life,
then empowered by the universe to figure itself out—
and we have only just begun.”
― Neil deGrasse Tyson, Astrophysics for People in a Hurry
Chapter One
Chapter One
Ruth
1983, Atlanta, GA
Shabbat Shalom
The words come—sudden, unexpected. A greeting my heart offers when there is no one to reply. No one for me to say it to. Friday evenings, once a day of rest, a Sabbath, are now the most restless days of the week. My soul churns, yearns for rest, but there is no peace here tonight.
“Your ass is set!”
My husband Alfred’s animated words thunder from the living room, shattering the small moment of quiet I found for myself by a steaming tub of water. It’s our first time having anyone over since we moved. With the food out, our new neighbors all entertained, I used my baby’s nighttime bath as an excuse to slip away. Despite my melancholy mood, Alfred’s laughter and booming voice coax the corners of my mouth up in a smile.
“Sounds like Daddy’s winning,” I say, pressing my nose to my son’s. He gurgles back, laughing and stretching his little starfish palm toward my face. He squirms as I lower him into the warm water. A grin squints the corners of eyes the same color as mine, a blue so deep it’s almost purple. The contrast with his golden skin and cap of springy dark curls is striking. Some of me. Some of his father. Wholly himself.
Is he adopted?
The cashier had asked today, the syllables dragged into a molasses drawl, her wide eyes flicking between my son and me. It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that since we moved to Georgia. Even in New York, this petite Jewish woman carrying this baby boy drew the occasional stare. But here? Every time I venture out, they can’t seem to look away. Some are discreet, at least trying to hide their curiosity, but many don’t even bother. From my experience so far, the famous Southern hospitality is, at least in our case, overruled by good old-fashioned nosiness. Sometimes outright rudeness.
I squeeze baby shampoo into my palm and rub it into his soft hair. “What have we done bringing you here, Ezra?”
I was so ready to get away from my family in New York, I didn’t fully consider where we were going. My husband couldn’t turn down a full ride to Emory University, and my mother and I were barely speaking by then.
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