By Colleen Masters
Copyright © 2016 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
* * *
Also From Colleen Masters:
Shot Caller (A Badboy’s Baby Novel) by Colleen Masters
Stepbrother Bastard (Hawthorne Brothers Book One) by Colleen Masters
Stepbrother Broken (Hawthorne Brothers Book Two) by Colleen Masters
Stepbrother Backstage (Hawthorne Brothers Book Three) by Colleen Masters
Stepbrother Billionaire by Colleen Masters
Stepbrother Untouchable by Colleen Masters
Damaged In-Law by Colleen Masters
Faster Harder (Take Me... #1) by Colleen Masters
Faster Deeper (Take Me... #2) by Colleen Masters
Faster Longer (Take Me... #3) by Colleen Masters
Faster Hotter (Take Me...#4) by Colleen Masters
Faster Dirtier (Take Me…#5) (A Team Ferrelli Novel) by Colleen Masters
* * *
DEDICATION
To all my beautiful readers.
Join thousands of our readers on the exclusive Hearts mailing list to receive FREE copies of our new books!
CLICK HERE TO JOIN NOW
We will never spam you – Feel free to unsubscribe anytime!
Connect with Colleen Masters and other Hearts Collective authors online at:
http://www.Hearts-Collective.com, Facebook, Twitter.
To keep in touch and for information on new releases!
CROSS CHECK
A Marriage Contract Novel
* * *
by Colleen Masters
CONTENTS
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
Epilogue
-> BONUS BOOK STEPBROTHER BILLIONAIRE <-
Prologue
Little Silver, NJ
June, 2004
The wheels of my yellow beach cruiser hiss across a stray drift of sand that’s settled across the bike path. In the gathering twilight, I don’t even spot the hazard until I feel the telltale wobble of my bicycle going over the sandy patch. Though my body may be here, coasting along this familiar path on my hand-me-down cruiser, my mind is a million miles away. Well, 258 miles away, to be more precise. That’s the distance between this little beach town where I’ve spent my entire life and Cambridge, Massachusetts—the place where the next four years of my life will unfold.
Though my high school graduation ceremony wrapped up hours ago, I’m still wearing the dress I chose for the occasion. With its fitted bodice of white eyelet giving way to a full skirt, it’s not exactly as contemporary a getup as most of the other girls in my class were rocking under their graduation gowns. In fact, my dress is as vintage as it gets; it belonged to my mother. I figure since she couldn’t be here to see me graduate as salutatorian of my class, I could at least bring her along in this small way.
“Wow,” was all my dad had managed to utter as he caught sight of me wearing Mom’s dress this morning. “You’re just the spitting image of her, Leah.”
It didn’t escape me that this was high praise, coming from him. My mom, Eva, had been the apple of Dad’s eye from the time they were fourteen years old. Right up until she passed away during my freshman year of high school, those two were inseparable. Mom and Dad even worked side-by-side as the housekeeper and groundskeeper of the King Family estate here in Little Silver. We all lived together in the groundkeeper’s cottage, tucked away in a peaceful corner of Loudon and Priscilla King’s sprawling bayside property.
For the last four years though, it’s just been me and Dad. And in a few weeks’ time, I’ll be off to college. I can’t even think about leaving Dad alone here without choking up a little, no matter how many times he assures me that he’ll be “Just dandy” on his own. Taking in a huge breath of salty sea air, I try and let the distressed thought flow out of my mind. All I want right now is a quiet moment to sit and reflect in my favorite spot on the entire King property—and let me tell you, there are a lot of spots to choose from on this opulent North Jersey plot.
I brake gently as I approach an old gazebo, swinging my leg over the side of my bike and walking it the rest of the way down the faint path. This isn’t exactly the most heavily trafficked corner of the estate, and it shows. The once-stately gazebo has been more or less given up on. Where there used to be white paint, there is now bare wood. Where there was once a well-trod footpath, there is now sand and grass. Cattails have sprung up all around the modest structure. Maybe by the time I make it back home again from college, they’ll have swallowed up the gazebo completely.
Resting my cruiser against the weather-worn structure, I tread lightly up the creaking steps and let a sentimental smile play across my face. This simple landmark has been my “secret spot” since I was a copper-haired munchkin exploring the estate like it was the Wild West. I’ve lived on the King property my whole life, and was given free rein to explore the land by my trusting parents (who honestly had enough on their plates, what with running this place and all).
But it wasn’t just my mom and dad who gave me license to run wild here—it was the master of the house, Loudon King, as well. Mr. King inherited the Little Silver estate, along with his family’s entertainment empire, forged just over the Hudson River in New York City. The Kings had been in the “business of show” since the early 20th century, when Vaudeville still reigned supreme. Their company, King Enterprises, has expanded a bit since then—and today, they’re one of the most successful entertainment financing companies in the country.
Maybe it’s because he’s still thought of as “new-ish” money by the other East Coast bazillionaires, but I’ve always considered Mr. King to be a standup guy—not the prototypical tycoon one might imagine. With his George Clooney good looks and Daddy Warbucks-esque generosity toward me and my family, I’ve always been fond of Loudon King. He’s always had a bit of a soft spot for me as well. All my life, he’s gone out of his way to compliment my scrappy determination, my hard work, my success in school and love of the arts. More than anything, Mr. King loves holding me up as an example to his own two children: the spoiled layabout Cordelia, four years my senior, and Jamison, Jay for short, who graduated alongside me just this afternoon.
The mere thought of the Jamison King sends my fingers curling into agitated fists. I suppose this response is hardwired in me after 18 years of competition and one-upmanship. Whether I like it or not, Jamison King has been a constant figure in my life, popping up from my very earliest memories onward. He and I were born just months apart, and despite the difference in their stations, our moms kept each other good company when we were small. Even when my mom returned to work as the Kings’ housekeeper, Jay and I were often sent out to play together. Maybe the Kings thought it would build up their son’s character, being friends with “the help”.
It may have done, too, if Jamison and I weren’t such natural born rivals. From the time we could put two words together, we've teased and torn each other down relentlessly. Everything is a competition with Jamison King, and I’m one of the only people in his life who doesn’t immediately let him win. He's had the e
ntire world handed to him on a silver platter, a fact to which he is painfully, and willfully, oblivious. Even though our companionable rivalry has mostly given way to indifferent silence as we’ve gotten older, I don’t think the competitive fire will ever completely go out of our relationship… Whatever you would even call our relationship, at this point.
As I lean against the railing of the gazebo, looking out across the bay, the warm summer breeze shifts subtly. All at once, snippets of grating Top 40 music start sailing my way, puncturing the bubble of peace and quiet I hoped to find out here in my “secret spot”. I glance over my pale, freckled shoulder with annoyance. Of course Jay is throwing one of his famous ragers tonight. With his parents out of town for some film festival or other, and Priscilla anything-but-studying abroad in Spain, Jay has the King mansion all to himself tonight. Well—himself and every decently appointed kid in our graduating class, that is.
I try and ignore the pounding music and caterwauling voices of my classmates as I gaze out across the water. With only a few weeks left to enjoy my hometown, I don’t want to let the escapades of a bunch of rich kids derail my generally uplifted mood. It’s been a daily struggle, finding my equilibrium again since Mom lost her battle to breast cancer nearly four years ago. But tonight, as I prepare to fly away from this sleepy little town forever, I finally feel like I’m starting to make peace with all that’s happened…
Though of course, no feeling of peace is likely to last long with a roaring house party going on a stone’s throw away.
My ears prick up at the strident footsteps crunching along the footpath toward me. Bracing myself to intercept some drunken classmate or other, I tuck my long auburn hair behind my ears and plaster a benign smile on my face. The few good friends I’ve held onto at school wouldn’t be caught dead at a kegger like the ones Jay is known to throw, but I can bear to make nice with a school acquaintance. At least for a minute.
“What’re you, waiting for your prince to come?” a familiar, taunting voice rings out in the near-darkness. “Hope you’ll settle for a King instead.”
A peal of sarcastic laughter escapes my lips before I can even turn around. “Good lord, Jay. I hope for your sake you haven’t tried that line on anyone else.”
“Nope,” Jamison King grins, appearing at my side as he slings a broad arm across my shoulders, “I was saving that one just for you.”
“Why don't you save it for someone who’s likely to fall for your nonsense?” I shoot back, ducking out from under his arm. “Surely there’s some starry-eyed freshman back at the house who’d eat that crap up.”
“Nah. I’ve been through all the freshmen already,” Jamison shrugs, his blue eyes dancing as he watches me from across the gazebo. “Besides, those preppy girls bore the hell out of me.”
“Poor little rich boy,” I drawl, crossing my arms tightly across my chest.
I pray to god he doesn’t notice the goosebumps that sprang up across my skin as his bare arm glanced against my shoulders. Jamison King may be a rich, entitled, womanizing jock, but even I have to admit that he’s one fine specimen. Having always been a natural athlete, Jay eventually chose ice hockey as his main sport—and he has the chiseled, powerful body to prove it. With his sandy blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and imposing six-foot form, Jay is the quintessential high school golden boy. And he knows it full well, too.
“Why didn’t you come to my party, Brody?” Jay challenges, hanging a pool towel over the gazebo railing. He’s dressed for a swim, wearing nothing but his black swim trunks. I force myself to keep my eyes on his face, rather than letting them trail down his impressively muscled torso. “Are we not friends anymore, now that you’re off to the Ivy League?”
“We’ve never been friends,” I remind him bluntly.
“Come on, of course we have!” he shoots back with mock innocence.
“You called me ‘Grody Brody’ for the first thirteen years of my life,” I press, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“And you called me ‘Captain Trust Fund’ right back. It’s our bit,” he shrugs.
“You’re forgetting the part where you went from name calling to radio silence for the last four years,” I point out, “Was that a bit too? Or could your reputation just not take a hit like speaking to the class bookworm even one time?”
Jamison’s sharp jaw pulses with tension as my words land. Have I actually found a chink in his golden armor?
“I guess I figured you could do without my bullshit after…You know,” he says softly.
His meaning catches me square in the gut. After my mom passed away freshman year, everyone in my life started treating me differently. Handling me with kid gloves, for the most part. In hindsight, Jay was no exception—though I barely noticed at the time, what with my entire world being forever altered and all.
“Actually, I probably could have used a sparring buddy,” I laugh shortly, averting my eyes from his, “I spent so much time playing the Good Grieving Daughter, it would have been nice to let off some steam once in a while.”
“Well…Why don’t we make up for some lost time, then?” Jay grins, reaching into the pocket of his trunks and pulling out a sleek silver flask.
I smile back despite myself, happy not to dwell on the subject of my mom’s passing. It’s not exactly my favorite event to revisit.
“Why the hell not,” I say, holding out my hand to accept the flask, “It’s our graduation night, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” Jay replies, taking a swinging stride across the gazebo towards me. We lean back against the railing together, facing the wide expanse of the bay as we pass the flask back and forth between us.
“That’s pretty nice,” I remark, savoring the smoky sip, “Someone raided Mommy and Daddy’s liquor cabinet, huh?”
“I’ve been stealing their scotch since I was thirteen—why stop now?” Jay laughs, taking a deep swig.
“That’s the Jay I know and barely tolerate,” I say wryly.
“Hey, I’m sharing aren’t I?” I shoot back, “Give me some credit once in a while, Brody.”
“I will. When you earn it,” I reply, no longer joking.
Jamison glances down at me, a dark streak of indignation flashing in his blue eyes.
“Like I could ever earn anything for myself, according to you,” he says coldly.
“You could, you just choose not to,” I shrug, not holding anything back. Not tonight. “You’ve always taken your life for granted, Jay. Coasting by in school, not even trying—”
“We can’t all be rocket scientists like you, Leah,” he cuts me off, “I work my ass off just as hard as you do.”
“You’re joking, right?” I scoff, whipping around to face him.
“No, I’m not joking,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height, “Just because my work happens on the rink instead of at the spelling bee or whatever the fuck—”
“So you spend a few hours every week slamming other dudes into the boards at the ice rink,” I say flatly, “And for that you think you deserve your scholarship to BU?”
“Just as much as you deserve yours to Harvard,” he replies, not giving an inch.
“Well,” I say, shaking my head, “I just hope they actually make you take an actual class or two while you’re up there. Maybe you’ll finally get schooled on the concept of privilege.”
“Fuck it,” Jay growls, turning away from me, “I don’t know why I let you draw me into this petty bullshit. You made up your mind about me a long time ago. Why not just let it lie?”
“Fine by me,” I snap, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks. Thank god the low light of the evening will hide the easy flush coloring my face. My complexion is as Irish as they come. I couldn’t suppress a blush to save my life.
A stormy silence falls over the gazebo, but neither of us will be the first to walk away. That’s one thing we have in common: unrelenting stubbornness. It’s not the only thing we have in common, though, surprisingly enough.
Nostalgia lifts my ga
ze to a bench across the gazebo from where Jay and I stand silently fuming. Padding across the weathered boards in my white flats, I make my way over to the narrow seat, sinking carefully onto my knees before it. I can feel Jay’s eyes following me as I go. If I didn’t know better, I could swear I feel them lingering on the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips and chest. Glancing over my shoulder with a small, conspiratorial grin, I grab hold of the seat’s wooden edge and push gently. The bench opens up on rusty hinges to reveal a small cubby, long unused.
“Damn,” I say quietly, “I was halfway expecting to find something waiting for me. Way to let a girl down.”
“Are you kidding?” he says gruffly, “We haven’t used that since we were, what, twelve?”
“I know,” I sigh, “Just muscle memory, I guess. You have no idea how much I looked forward to your Top Secret Deliveries back then.”
“I think I can guess,” he allows, going along with my trip down memory lane.
When Jay and I were still in elementary school, just progressing from Dr. Seuss to chapter books, I used to pine after his family’s extensive library. My nose was practically pressed up against the glass of the Kings’ study, desperate as I was to get my hands on the classic stories locked away in there. Looking back, I can’t even remember how Jay learned of my unspoken desire to share in the wealth of knowledge contained in those tomes. But somehow, we came to an unspoken agreement on the matter.
Using the remote gazebo bench as a “top secret” drop site, Jay started lending me books from his family’s collection. I’d devour every story he let me borrow. Soon, we began to discover that our taste in stories was more similar than we ever could have imagined. We were both drawn toward stories of fantastical adventure, hero’s journeys and classic science fiction. Any story about feeling out of place in the world, about wanting to set off and find where you really belonged, was totally our jam.
Cross Check (Marriage Contract #1) Page 1
