Wrong for You

Title Page

Cover design copyright © 2017 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

American Fork, Utah

Copyright © 2017 by Jenny Proctor

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect
the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

ISBN 978-1-52440-341-6

Dedication

For my parents,

who raised me to believe in God, in family, and in myself

Acknowledgments

I was sitting in on my daughter’s viola lesson, taking notes in her binder, when the idea for this novel fell into my lap. Four brothers, a soccer field, and a girl too competitive to walk away from a challenge. It’s been so fun chasing the story down and fleshing out the details. Many thanks to all those who consulted with me on matters of pickup soccer games, Puerto Rican food, small-business accounting, and the wonders of modern technology. Paul, Steve, Susan, DeNae, Kenny—thank you for helping me not sound like an idiot.

Jolene, thank you for being such a willing and intelligent sounding board. Rachel and Laura, thank you for beta reading an entire manuscript in twenty-four hours and for providing such insightful feedback. That’s true friendship right there.

Emily, as always, this story is as much yours as it is mine. Thank you for endless hours of talking about people who live only in my head. Thank you for always reading first, for your impeccable notes and thoughtful compliments. Most of all, thank you for believing I’m good enough.

To my team at Covenant, thank you for taking such good care of my words and stories. Samantha, thank you for your guidance and support, your wit and wisdom. Four novels! I’m not sure I ever thought I’d get here. I’m so glad we’ve gotten here together.

And finally to my husband, Josh, and my spectacular children. Thank you for loving me anyway, for dealing with deadlines and distractions and a mom and wife who heeds the siren call of her stories. There is nothing in this world greater than you all, and I happily love you the most. But I’m so glad you love that I love writing too.

Chapter 1

I was done with root beer floats.

My old singles group out in California suffered from such severe refreshment impairment that even the girls never broke out of the norm. Root beer floats and Oreos. Every. Single. Gathering. They claimed it was tradition. I claimed it was nothing short of idiotic.

I spent more than a year cursing the guy who decided mixing root beer with vanilla ice cream was a good idea and wishing I could kick him in the shins. After the kick, which I’m sure would have made me feel better, I would have drafted a letter to every Church singles group from there to Mississippi, letting them know the root-beer-float ship had sailed in 1982 and for all that was good and holy could they please make brownies or something?

I landed in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, pretty much over it. Over all of it.

Was I still young enough to attend singles activities?

I was twenty-five, so technically . . . yes. But who wanted to dwell on technicalities? Definitely not me. Not with root beer on the menu.

By the end of my second Sunday in Chapel Hill, I was already lined up to start teaching Sunday School to seven-year-olds in the “not for singles” family congregation, which sounded positively amazing. Before I moved in, I’d kinda hoped family-style church would be my only option, but Chapel Hill was a college town surrounded by other college towns. Three major universities and half a dozen smaller ones fed into the same body of Mormon singles, including UNC, Duke, and NC State, which made for a pretty impressive gathering. Impressive enough to warrant giving the singles their own meeting time free from hovering grandparents or noisy children. I’d felt momentarily lured to the idea of singles church when a well-intentioned woman sharing my pew had given me a flyer for the following day’s singles mingle.

“My daughter is head of the social planning committee in the singles group, and they do all kinds of fun things,” she’d told me. “Plus, there are lots of grad students. If you’re worried about being too old, don’t be. You’ll fit right in.”

I’d ignored the rub of her tactless observation—I hadn’t said anything about feeling too old, which meant I just looked it—and considered the possibility of grad students. But then I’d taken a quick glance at the flyer.

Board games and . . . wait for it . . . root beer floats.

Yeah. There couldn’t have been a clearer sign. I’d crumpled the flyer on my way out the door and chucked it into the trash can at the end of the hall.

Seven-year-olds? Here I come.

I’d moved into the tiny garage apartment above my grandmother’s house two weeks before I was due to start my new job at the Winding Way Inn. The back side of the inn abutted my grandmother’s property, and I’d been quick to make the inn’s grounds my summertime haunt whenever I’d visited Granny Grace. I’d wandered through the gardens, sat on the giant porch swing, and read in the limbs of the blossoming cherry tree on the east end of the rose garden. I’d never spent any time inside—I wasn’t a guest, so I wasn’t allowed—but I still felt like the inn was mine. Like some cosmic force understood that simply loving a place was enough to make it my own. Which was why I’d been so excited when Granny Grace had called me to tell me about the job opening. She’d seen it in the local paper and called me right away. “You always said you wanted to run the place one day, Lane. Now’s your chance.”

It wasn’t really running the entire inn. Just the special events. But still. Winding Way was infused with all the magic and charm of my childhood summers, with the added enticement of being back on the East Coast and closer to my family.

The Saturday before my first day at work, I stood at the foot of my apartment stairs and stretched my long arms over my head. I needed to run. Was dressed for it and everything. But it was hot. I was used to North Carolina’s humidity. I’d grown up in Asheville, a city four hours west, but Chapel Hill was flat and relatively breezeless—too far east to benefit from the mountains and too far west to benefit from the coast.

“It’s too hot to be running, Miss Lane.” Granny Grace stepped out onto the porch and leaned on the paint-chipped railing, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun.

“It’s June. It’s too hot for everything.”

“Not drinking sweet tea.” She held up her glass. “Never too hot for that.”

I didn’t love stereotypes. I was a Mormon, a Southerner, and biracial—my mother was Puerto Rican, and my father was black—which meant I had all kinds of reasons to resent people categorizing me based on what they thought I was before they knew anything else about me. But as far as Southern women went, my grandmother on my father’s side, Grace Ann Bishop, was quintessential. If you take everything I love about the South—the kindness, the gentleness, the food—and roll it into one person, you have my grandmother.

“You have something to drink?” Granny called. “You’ll need it.”

I held up my water bottle. “Just filled it up.” I retied my left shoe. I was stalling, but the heat was brutal.

Granny Grace wiped her brow and stepped toward her front door. “I’m making a meat loaf later if you want some. Just knock if you get hungry.”

She’d brought up a meat loaf the night I’d moved in—crispy onions on top, a tangy sauce drizzled over the entire thing, and a heaping pile of mashed potatoes to go with it. I especially appreciated Granny Grace’s love for cooking because I hated to cook. Loathed it. Unfortunate because of how much I loved eating. It wasn’t just about the food though. I loved the togetherness food brought. The family gatherings. The friendships. To have one of my favorite people living right downstairs who loved to cook and share was a little like a dream come true.

“I’ll definitely come by,” I told her.

Finally off my porch, I hit the sidewalk and ran square into the middle of what could only be described as a gaggle of women. One stepped forward. She was tiny and perky and blonde.

“Are you Lane?”

And her voice sounded exactly like her do-gooder, flyer-sharing mother. I’d been outed. “Yeah.”

“Oh my word. You are just as beautiful as Mom said you were. Are those curls natural? Seriously. So gorgeous.”

My hair was pulled back into a ponytail for my run, so I don’t know how gorgeous it actually was, but I wasn’t going to reject a compliment. “Thanks. Yeah, it’s natural.”

“I’m so glad we caught you.” She glanced at her watch. “If we hurry, we’ll make it before the game starts.”

My eyebrows went up. “Game?”

Another girl stepped forward. “Trust us on this one. It’s tradition. Every time a new girl moves in.”

I took a step backward. “Right, but I didn’t move in. I didn’t really want to join up with the singles this time around.”

Perky Blonde rolled her eyes. “But you’re still one of us. I’m Chloe, that’s Emily, Steph, and Melanie. I promise we’re harmless. We can even be fun sometimes. Just come. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

“I was about to head out for a run.”

“And you still can.” She put her tiny hands on her tiny hips. “After the game. We drove all the way over here from Raleigh to pick you up. You have to come.”

I sighed. She was little, but she was fierce. “Do we have to go back to Raleigh? I don’t know that I have that kind of time.” It wasn’t like the capital city was far. Maybe half an hour, but still. This was my last Saturday before work started. Time was precious.

She smiled. “Nope. Only over to Carrboro. It’s less than ten minutes from here.”

Hmm. Carrboro meant they were driving right through Chapel Hill to get there anyway, so it’s not like they’d gone out of their way to pick me up. They would have driven all the way from Raleigh regardless. But whatever. I’d been looking for reasons to delay my run anyway. “Fine. But I have to be home by noon.”

Chloe smiled in victory. “I promise.” She tossed her keys to a brown-haired girl—Melanie?—behind her. “Start the car. I want to be there before they start warming up.”

* * *

I was expecting the worst. Singles-organized, Saturday-morning badminton. Or the most cursed of all group sports—volleyball. Turned out, the game was soccer. I was willing to get behind a soccer game. Until I realized I was meant only to be a spectator.

I wasn’t good at spectating. Especially when it came to soccer.

“So we just sit and watch? Who’s gonna play?” I asked.

“Yes, we just watch.” Chloe tugged me down onto the bleachers that lined the field. “And you’ll see why soon enough. They should be arriving any minute.”

It didn’t look like there was going to be an actual official game. There was some semblance of a team warming up on the right half of the field, but I didn’t see any refs or officials. There wasn’t even a scoreboard. It looked like a casual pickup game in the park, which only reaffirmed my desire to play instead of watch. I was about to say as much when Chloe grabbed my arm and pointed. “Right there. There they are.”

“There who are?” I followed her gaze across the field. Walking in a side-by-side line past the left goal and toward center field, looking a little too much like an Adidas commercial, were four men.

“We call them the untouchables,” Emily whispered, her voice breathy and high.

“The what?”

“The untouchables,” Melanie repeated. “The Hamilton brothers. All Mormon. All gorgeous. And all completely, irrevocably undateable.”

Chloe sighed. “Sad, isn’t it?”

As soon as Melanie said “brothers,” I could see the common thread running through them all. It wasn’t a bad thread. It was decidedly good. I mean, I wasn’t going to sigh, but I also wasn’t sorry I’d come along. “Why are they untouchable?”

Chloe cleared her throat. “That one on the end—Cooper—he’s only nineteen and leaving for a mission at the end of the summer. The one in the blue—that’s David. He’s one of the twins. Not identical. He’s engaged. Gray shirt, green stripe on his socks—that’s Simon. He’s the oldest and totally boring and has a long-distance girlfriend who lives in . . . I don’t know. Somewhere far away. Overseas, maybe? I can’t remember.”

My eyes focused on the only brother yet to be mentioned. The other twin. “And the last one?”

Chloe wiped her palms on her knees. “That’s Jamie. The best-looking of the bunch and the only one unattached.”

My eyes darted from Jamie back to the oldest brother, Simon. I actually thought maybe Simon was the best-looking. When I said as much to Chloe, she squinted at the field for a second, then shook her head and gave me a dismissive wave. “No way. Jamie’s totally hotter. Plus, the girlfriend disqualifies Simon.”

I moved my gaze back to Jamie. He jogged away from his brothers, calling something over his shoulder with a grin, then turned and looked directly at us. Every girl on the bleachers gasped. Except me. I did not gasp. He smiled and waved.

“He’s the biggest flirt,” Chloe said.

“Then why is he untouchable?” I asked. “You said he was unattached.”

“That’s just it. He flirts, but he never asks anyone out.”

I scoffed. “Has anyone ever asked him?”

“There are rumors it’s happened.” Chloe gave her shoulders a dismissive shrug. “But I think it’s all talk. Everyone is too chicken.”

“Because he never says yes to anyone.” Steph finished her thought. “For whatever reason, he’s just . . . impossible to catch.”

“Untouchable,” Melanie said. “Completely.”

“You’re lucky,” Chloe nudged my shoulder. “They don’t live that far from you. We’re all so spread out, but you guys are almost neighbors.”

Neighbors. Interesting. I crossed my arms. No one was impossible to catch. Maybe he just hadn’t met the right girl. No. Scratch that. Maybe he hadn’t met the right woman. Not a sideline-sitting, sighing girl but a woman. Someone willing to get in the game. Figuratively and literally. I knew life wasn’t a big game of truth or dare. We weren’t in middle school. I didn’t have anything to prove. But sitting there watching Jamie warm up, I felt the tiny thrill of challenge that had driven me my whole life. I was a woman who went after the impossible. I was a woman who liked to win.

I stood. My running gear wasn’t the greatest for soccer, but it would do for one game.

“Where are you going?” Chloe asked.

“I’m going to play.”

“Play what?”

I raised my eyebrows and motioned to the field. “Soccer? It looks like they could use another player.”

Steph shook her head. “You can’t play. They get really serious about these games. Do you even . . . Have you played before?”

Ha. Yeah. A few times. “I’ve played enough. It’ll be fine. You guys can cheer for me.” I stepped off the bleachers before they could protest again and headed straight for Jamie. Untouchable? Yeah. I didn’t think so.

“Hey.” I stuck out my hand. “Lane Bishop. You need another player? I’m great midfield.” Up close, he almost did make me sigh. Dark, short hair. Clean-shaven. Dimple in his chin. Deep-set, chocolate-brown eyes.

He shook my hand and smiled. “Jamie Hamilton. You’re here with the girls from church, but I’ve never seen you before. That means you’re new.”

“I am new—just moved in a couple weeks ago—but I opted out of the singles scene this time around.”

“What does that even mean? Opted out? You aren’t single?”

“Funny. I’m asking you about soccer, and you’re asking me very personal questions.”

He grimaced. “Noted. Sorry for prying.” He gave me the once-over. “You don’t really look dressed for soccer.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know there was going to be a game. I promise I know how to play. Maybe someone has an extra set of shin guards?”

He scratched the back of his head and looked back at his brothers. A group of guys had collected around them, but it still didn’t look like enough for a full team. “I really think we’re all set.”

I did a quick count, then shot him a look. “Come on. You’re down three men. At least let me play outside defense.” I motioned across the field to the other team. “They look like they’ve got a full lineup. You’d rather play outnumbered than have me on your team?”

He huffed. “That’s not what I said.”

“Okay. I’ll play, then.”

He glanced back at the bleachers where Chloe and the others still sat. “Look, things may look casual, but . . . we play tough. Are you sure you won’t be in over your head?”

In over my head? Sure, it had been a few years since I’d played in a real game, but who was he to discount me so quickly? I took a step backward. “You know what? You’re probably right.”

He held up his hands. “Look, I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t. I totally get it.”

“We can kick the ball around later if you want. After the game?”

For a second, I wondered if Chloe would have considered that a victory. It was almost like he’d asked me out. But I didn’t want a sympathy sorry-I-hurt-your-feelings date. “That’s kind of you to offer, but I think I’ll be fine. Thanks though.” With a final wave, I turned and jogged across the field right into the middle of the other team’s huddle. “Okay, who’s in charge over here?”

Beyond a few raised eyebrows, no one responded. I huffed. “Seriously? You’re all going to stare at me, but no one will talk?”

“Hablamos español, chica. No comprendamos.”

I rolled my eyes. Fine. “Quién está a cargo? Capitan del equipo?”

At least that got a response. A guy motioned behind him with his head. “Hey, Carlos?” he said. “Está encargado?”

“Depends on who’s asking.” Carlos sat on a bench a few yards away, tying his cleats. He looked a little older than everyone else, maybe midthirties. His long hair was pulled back, and he wore a closely trimmed goatee. I walked toward him, and he stood to meet me. “Sorry. We don’t let Matias out of his cage very often. When we do, he forgets how to be polite.”

I stuck out my hand. “Sorry for barging in on your game. I’m Lane.”

“Carlos.” He smiled. “What can I do for you?”

I motioned to Jamie and the rest of his team across the field. “How hard are those guys to beat?”

Carlos folded his arms across his chest and grunted. “They’ve had a bit of a winning streak lately, but it isn’t impossible.”

“How frequently do you play?”

“Most Saturdays.”

“When was the last time you beat them?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

I weighed my next words carefully. “Because I really want them to lose today. And I want to help make it happen.”

A few other players moved closer.

“You, huh?” Carlos asked. “Forgive my doubts, but you’re just one person.”

“One person the other team isn’t expecting to be any good. Jamie just shot me down like I’m still playing youth league. But I promise I’m qualified.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “How qualified?”

“UC Berkeley. Three-time conference champions, Division I National Champions my senior year.”

“Jamie—the tall one. He played in college too,” Carlos said.

My confidence wavered. I had an impressive soccer pedigree, and I knew it. But ultimately, I had no idea what I was up against. I’d been riding on determination buffered with a little bit of bravado and a hope for some good luck. It didn’t take much effort to imagine a smirk on Jamie’s face if my plan backfired and I helped the opposing team to nothing but defeat. Still, it was too late to back down.

“Just let me play. If we don’t win . . .” I hesitated. “I’ll buy your entire team dinner tonight.”

Carlos laughed and shook his head but then seemed to consider. “Dinner for the whole team? You’re not worried we’ll throw the game just to get a free meal?”

I narrowed my eyes, and a few of the players chuckled. “You wouldn’t.”

He rubbed his chin. “You play midfield?”

I nodded. “Center.”

He ran his hand across his forehead. “Fine. But if you screw up, you’re moving to the outside, and you’ll never touch the ball.”

Good grief. Jamie was right. These guys were serious about their sport. “I won’t screw up.” Did he think I’d pretended my way through four years of collegiate soccer?

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