by Scott, S. L.
Copyright © 2021 by S.L. SCOTT
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Published in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-7371472-1-3
Cover Photographer: Kyla Jeanette Photography
Cover Models: Karlie Place & Colin Ringas
Cover Designer: RBA Designs
Editing:
Marion Archer, Making Manuscripts
Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies
Rebecca Barney, B. Barney Books
Proofreading: Kristen Johnson
Beta Reading: Andrea Johnston
Contents
Also by S.L. Scott
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Never Got Over You
Never Got Over You Chapter 1
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Complementary to The One I Want
Never Got Over You
We Were Once
Everest
Missing Grace
Finding Solace
Until I Met You
The Everest Brothers (Stand-Alones)
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Force of Nature - Bennett Everest
The Everest Brothers Box Set
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Tulsa
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The Revolution
The Rebellion
DARE - A Rock Star Hero (Stand-Alone)
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SAVAGE
SAVIOR
SACRED
FINDING SOLACE - Stand-Alone
The Kingwood Series Box Set
Playboy in Paradise Series
Falling for the Playboy
Redeeming the Playboy
Loving the Playboy
Playboy in Paradise Box Set
Talk to Me Duet (Stand-Alones)
Sweet Talk
Dirty Talk
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We Were Once
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Until I Met You
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A Prior Engagement
Lost in Translation
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S.L. Scott
S.L.Scott
Prologue
Andrew Christiansen
It’s a list.
As if I have nothing better to do with my time, I now have five more things to check off a list. There’s no getting out of it because my mom made me, a grown man, pinky swear before I left California, and I always keep my word, or in this case, my pinky swears. So here I am with ridiculous to-dos as if I didn’t already have enough on my plate.
Lie in the grass in the nearest park at 9:17 AM on a sunny weekday.
Eradicate negative vibes from the apartment on the sixth Thursday after arrival.
Perform in front of an audience. (Work doesn’t count, Andrew)
Read Shakespeare on the steps of the New York Public Library just after midnight.
Number five . . .
“What is my mom thinking?” I can’t even bring myself to read number five without scoffing. It’s like she doesn’t know me at all. If she did, she’d realize that’s the last thing on my mind.
I review it once more before tucking the list under a magnet on the side of the fridge. I’ve gone over this list more times than I can count. Would she know if I didn’t follow through? I ask myself that question every time I read it.
This week is not the time to drop this guilt trip on me. I can’t believe I’m even considering it. I can’t. “Sorry, Mom.”
Maybe next week.
Or not.
1
Andrew Christiansen
Two weeks and a few days later . . .
What am I doing?
Why am I ruining a perfectly good shirt with grass stains and the scent of the outdoors?
How did I get talked into this?
Cookie Christiansen. My mom has me acting like a fool in the middle of Manhattan. I’m the CEO of a billion-dollar company, dammit. Why do I even entertain her New Age nonsense?
Guilt made me do it. That and not wanting to disappoint her.
I lie in the grass, staring up at the blue sky. The occasional cloud floats by, but it’s a beautiful spring day. Sure, it’s not LA, but if I close my eyes and let the sun warm me, I’m almost tricked into believing I’m back home again. Maybe that was my mom’s plan.
When I open my eyes, I check the time. 9:14 on a sunny Monday. I have three minutes to go. This may be utterly ridiculous, but the longer I lie here, the easier it is to forget that I’m supposed to be at work right now. Probably in a meeting, but I push those thoughts aside and inhale deeply, making the most of it.
Closing my eyes again, I release a breath as visions of sitting on the shores of the Pacific Ocean back home, long drives in the convertible I had to leave behind, and game days with friends on Sunday afternoons return.
Stress from work rarely allows me time to enjoy the present. After officially launching our Seattle office two months ago, I shifted my full attention as CEO—pro tempore—to expanding Christiansen Wealth Management beyond the three offices. Although headquartered in Los Angeles, the New York market has the greatest growth potential. Once this office is bringing in the numbers we’re used to seeing in LA and then grows beyond that, I can expand into a southern city like Dallas or Austin.
T
his world is full of wealth. It’s my job to find these whales and bring them onboard. My father’s eyes are on me, and Corbin Christiansen never accepts less than excellence. That’s what I intend to give him. Sometimes, I feel the weight of his legacy—a vision implemented with enormous success—is on my shoulders. Sometimes—no . . . always—all eyes are on me, not only to make this company bigger but better than my father did.
My younger brother, Nick, chose a path that led to his professional and personal happiness. I’ve not been given the same luxury as I continue to sacrifice my personal life for this company. For my family.
So, this distraction by my mom does nothing to help me reach my goals. Giving her crazy ideas five minutes of my valuable time is already giving her notions more credit than I should.
Ridiculous.
Ocean.
Convertible.
Friends.
I get my thoughts back on track, releasing the tension and closing my eyes again. Reaching out, it almost feels possible to touch the water again, surf at sunrise, or even sit in solitude after a long day.
Agh!
My stomach tenses as my eyes fly open. Reflexively, my head digs deeper into the grass as I’m met with two dark, round eyes surrounded by a lot of hair and a yap. “Um, what are you doing, dog?”
Perfectly content to stand on top of me, he pants and then sits, comfortable in his lack of training. Not sure if he’ll bite me, I look to the side. Is anyone looking for this dog? It barks again, not scaring anyone, least of all, me.
“What? What do you want?” I look around, wondering where his owner is. “Where’d you come from?” I ask him, narrowing my eyes as I continue lying on the ground like an idiot. There’s no way one of these prissy dogs would survive on the streets. Its white, brown, and black coat is too clean to make me think this dog is anything less than pampered on the daily.
Since it’s staring at me like I have a pocket full of treats, I hold my hands up. “I have nothing for you. Now scram.”
“Hey!”
I turn and see a woman in a baggy sweater flapping against her sides and a skirt pressed to her shapely legs as the excessive fabric flows behind her. Arms covered in the chunky knit material flail in the air, and I may be wrong, but it appears she’s holding a leash in her hand. “Hey! Grab the dog. Please—”
Her words are swept away with the wind, causing me to miss the last part. The dog woofs again, though, and I put two and two together, swiftly taking hold of him. His tail wags, and then he leans in to lick my face. His breath stinks.
Another good washing is in order to rid the smell of saliva from my face. Great, another delay in my day.
Since the dog seems to consider us friends now, I sit up and then stand, tucking the dog under my arm.
The woman slows her pace as she approaches. She may be out of breath, but relief brings a smile to her face. Dipping forward, she squeezes her side and then holds up a finger. “I need a sec.”
Despite the body she’s trying to hide under those baggy clothes and her white Converse, I think it’s safe to assume she’s not a runner. I point at the dog. “Is this your dog?”
“Yes,” she says through huffing breaths. Finally standing upright, she smiles at the dog. “Oh my God, you saved me.” She tickles the dog’s little head and goes nose to nose with him to whisper, “Who’s a little rascal? You are.”
She’s quite stunning. Her green eyes with a hint of brown are bright with happiness (so what if it’s because of the dog. I’m not threatened by the fuzzball). Her dark blond hair is twisted on top of her head with wild strands loosened from the run, and her lips have a gentle covering of pink that matches her heated cheeks.
She reaches for the dog, but I should really ask a few questions and keep him firmly anchored to my side. “Hi,” I start, wiggling my nose in hopes of evading the stench of the animal. At this rate, I’ll be taking another shower when I get home.
“Hi.” She grins and then wraps her hands around the fuzzball’s body, but when I don’t release it, she asks, “Are you going to give the dog back?”
“How do I know it’s your dog?”
Her eyebrows practically hit her hairline before her eyes narrow, and her gaze slices through the air between us. Holding up the red leash and collar, she says, “Obviously, it’s my dog.”
“What’s its name?”
“Are you really doing this?”
“If it were your dog, wouldn’t you want me to ask a few questions before handing it over to any crazy person who tried to steal it?”
Her head tilts, annoyance pursing her lips to the side. “It is my dog. And his name is Rascal.”
Looking down at the dog, I grin. The name is fitting, for sure. “Hi, Rascal.”
Little dog slobber coats my chin, so I angle him away from me. His back paws scratch against my side, giving him leverage to lunge forward. The woman adds, “See? Now may I have the dog?”
“I’m not sure that’s proof it’s your dog since he seems to like me just as much. I don’t want to give Rascal to any old person.”
“Old?” Of course, that’s all she got from it.
With a chuckle, I hand her the dog. “I think that’s my cue to exit.” I rub the top of the little fuzzball’s head. He’s kind of cute, I guess. “See ya, Rascal.”
As soon as I move my hand, she slides the collar over his head and then kisses his nose. With a know-it-all grin on her face, she turns back to me. “Thanks.” Her eyes go wide. “Oh shit.”
“What?”
She holds the dog away from her body and then sets him down quickly. Standing back up, she says, “I’m so sorry. I can pay for the dry cleaning.”
“Why?” I ask dumbly but then catch on quickly. Looking down, I see the smear across my shirt. “Shit. Guess it’s me who stinks.” Grabbing a clean spot, I pull the shirt away from my body. “I was heading to the office.”
Reaching forward, she ghosts her hand in front of me as if that will help. “I’m so sorry.”
Annoyed, I look between her and the dog, both wearing similar worried expressions. Exhaling heavily, I then say, “I need to go.”
“I really am sorry. It’s such a nice white shirt. Hopefully, it will come out. I’m sure it will. I have a great dry cleaner if you need one. What am I talking about? We’re in Manhattan. Everyone in Manhattan has a great dry cleaner. It’s basically a requirement, like having a favorite coffee shop, deli, and takeout place.”
Her rambling about all the things I have back in LA is a bad reminder of what I’m missing here. A dry cleaner is just another thing I need to figure out and, by looking at the stain, quickly.
Her unease has me feeling the same, so I turn to leave. Caressing my arm, she says, “Wait. Let me pay for the cleaning.”
My gaze meets hers again, where she keeps every emotion in the forefront. I don’t need her sympathy, though. Standing here awkwardly, Rascal staring at me from beside her feet, I add, “I got it.”
“I feel terrible, though.” She steps closer again. “I have a trick for getting ryegrass and fescue out. It might work for the poop.”
“What’s fescue?”
“Technically, it’s turf type tall fescue and perennial ryegrass.” My staring at her doesn’t deter her from continuing. “The grass. You have stains. Make a paste with a few drops of hydrogen peroxide and baking soda. Let it sit for at least thirty minutes. Rinse in cool water, and then wash with your normal detergent. That works for me when I get plant stains.”
Disbelief has me wondering if I should run or take notes. “Does that happen often?”
“Not anymore.” She sighs in defeat. “Anyway, it’s a lot of work. A good dry cleaner will make it look brand new.”
There is no way I’m getting this shirt dry-cleaned. It’s going right down the garbage shoot. “Don’t worry about it.” My tone is harsher than I intend, and just to prove I’m in a complete asshole mood, I shoot Rascal a glare. The small dog causes me to grin, lessening my bad mood. It�
��s really hard to be mad around him, even if he did just cost me a few hundred bucks. “What kind of dog is that?”
“He’s a papillon. Sweet as can be and usually really clean.” Looking around, she says, “People are supposed to pick up their dog’s poop. It’s frustrating when they don’t.” It’s not until that moment that I realize she’s still touching my arm. When I glance at her fingers, she’s quick to pull them back.
As if the smell is getting to her, she wiggles her nose in disgust and takes a few steps back. “I didn’t bring enough money to cover the cost, but I can send—”
“It’s okay. I can cover the cleaning. As for the smell, I don’t think I’m so lucky.”
“Sorry about that.” The apology drapes her expression, pulling it down.
Well, shit. “Look, don’t worry about it. I’m glad you got your dog back.”
“Yeah, me too,” she replies, shyness creeping in, deepening the pink on her cheeks. Looking down, she smiles at the dog, who seems content to sit by her side all day long if asked.
I should leave because I’m already late for work, and “my mom made me go to the park at 9:17” isn’t a valid excuse—Wait, what time is it? I check my watch, but when my eyes deceive me, I ask, “Do you have the time?”
