A Player for Christmas: Book 4 The Last Play Series

by Hart, Taylor

  Nails scraped his hand as she tried to retrieve what he’d taken. “Hey!”

  Altering his stance, he held the phone out of reach. “I said hold on.” Apparently, she wasn’t really going to kill him, so that was a relief.

  Relentless was what he would call her antics for getting the phone back. “Give me my phone!”

  It wasn’t that he thought she was dangerous or that she wasn’t owed an explanation, but the aggressive way she reached for her phone made him want to keep it. He easily faked right and dodged left.

  She fell fast. She’d clearly planned on the weight of his body to ram against but ended up landing on the floor instead.

  It struck him that he was acting like a teenager. She clearly knew his uncle and was just trying to protect his property. “I’m sorry,” he said it quickly, but sincerely. He reached a hand out to help her up.

  The woman scowled at his hand and stood by herself. She sucked in a long gulp of air, plucking her phone out of his hand. “You better tell me who you are and what you want.” Her eyes were on fire. He couldn’t help thinking it matched her hair.

  He let out a breath and held back a laugh. “I’m the owner.”

  The words hung in the air, and she studied him for a second, examining him the way he would examine a new play that coach had added to the playbook. Intensely. Carefully.

  “You’re Jim’s nephew?” It wasn’t as much a statement as something that came out of her mouth with as much mystifying power as he felt. She looked him up and down, this time her eyes going into slits. “The great Roman Young.”

  This time, he did laugh. “Guess that description’s accurate.” He couldn’t say he didn’t like the way ‘great’ sounded in front of his name.

  Without warning she laughed, hard and without humor. She shook her head and picked up the shotgun, putting it behind the kitchen door. “Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.”

  He was confused. “What?”

  She tsked her tongue. “Of course you don’t want me to call the police with the media coverage you’ve had lately.” She shuffled to the same cupboard he’d searched earlier and whipped it open, pulling out a box of matches. “Do you know how many things need to get done around here? How many times I’ve had to run over here to keep the riffraff out at night and check stuff? Do you have any idea how much needs to be done before people can stay here, and we’re supposed to be opening in two months?” She shook her head and held up the box of matches. Her expression shifted from anger to exasperation. “Seriously, why didn’t you start a fire? It’s cold in here.”

  He ran his hand over the stubble on his face. Before he could move to help, she had already walked into the main room and was making noise. He followed and watched as she expertly built a fire, trying to blow off her little rant about his selfishness. People never understood him. “I couldn’t find a switch or matches.” The belated reply to her belittling observation about the fire sounded lame, even to him.

  She whipped her head back. The red curls and her green eyes looked enchanting backlit by the flame. She grinned, and, at that point, he knew she was every bit as bewitching as he’d first thought, but not at all helpless. “The power’s out, genius. Oh, and don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you beat up on a girl.”

  Awkward. After all, what was she? He cocked his head and sized her up. Probably five foot eight, definitely slight of frame. Underneath that snowsuit he couldn’t imagine her being too big. Without thinking, he checked her left hand. Checked the finger that would matter. For some reason, he was disappointed that a band encircled it. “Sorry.” He meant it.

  She laughed, and this time it was rich and wonderful. He told himself to stop even thinking about her laugh.

  “Jim’s nephew.” She shook her head. “Wow. I mean, I knew you owned the place, but I … Jim said you weren’t the kind that would come. He said I’d probably have to communicate via email.” She grimaced and moved for a small closet off of the main doors. “Well, I have to go.” She tugged out a sleeping bag. “Power’s off. Here’s a sleeping bag. You’ll have to sleep on the floor in front of the fire tonight if you want to keep warm.” She tossed it at his feet and then paused.

  He couldn’t believe this. “What do you mean? Won’t the power come back on soon?”

  She took off toward the kitchen, waving him back with her. “Uh—don’t hold your breath.” She walked through the swivel kitchen door and he followed. She picked up a piece of paper off the table and shoved it at his chest, taking a match and lighting another lantern. “Good thing you’re here, here’s a list of all the stuff that needs to be fixed. You saved me having to email it to you.” She moved to the kitchen door and threw back a grin. “I’ll see you in the morning if you survive the night.”

  He couldn’t decide if he liked her or not. He rushed to the kitchen door and threw the door wide. “Hey, isn’t there a hotel or something?”

  She moved for a snowmobile, but turned back. “Maybe you should have come to the funeral and you could have met someone who might be willing to help you out.” Her cat-like eyes flashed wide.

  He jerked back, unprepared for the direct emotional hit.

  She slung her leg up and onto a snowmobile. “You are in a bed and breakfast.”

  He moved out onto the deck, ticked off, their eyes locked.

  She grinned and the rip roar of the snowmobile sounded into the air. She winked at him and Roman knew it was meant to taunt him.

  It worked. Anger flared inside him and he cursed. Turning back into the house, he shut the kitchen door, locked it and huffed back to the living room. Staring at the fire, he pushed open the sleeping bag, thinking that this sleeping bag was probably the same one he’d used all those years ago when his uncle had taken him camping. He rustled in his bag and found his phone charger, taking care to plug in the phone and hoping the power might come back on so it could get a charge.

  He laid back on the sleeping bag, staring at the fire and shook his head. “Well, Uncle Jim, I’m here.” He blinked. “But you’re not here to tell me one of your ghost stories.” His mind flashed, again, to the red head and the way she’d winked at him. He did not like her he decided.

  Getting up, he got into the bag and begrudgingly tugged it up into place around his head. He forced himself to take in deep breaths and try to relax. He would get some sleep and then meet with the attorney tomorrow and figure out how to get this place sold. Then he would get as far away from the Alaskan Inn as he could get.

  Thanks for your interest in Last Play. If you’d like to keep reading, click HERE!

  I have also included another first chapter by one of my favorite authors, Lucy McConnell. The Professional Bride, part of Billionaire Marriage Brokers Book Three. Check it out!

  The Professional Bride, Chapter 1

  “I can’t believe you’re actually going to see him.”

  Rym switched the phone from one ear to the other so he could open the door to his poor excuse for a car. “What am I supposed to do? It’s his dying wish.” Those were the attorney’s exact words: dying wish. They must have classes in law school on the proper way to apply guilt, because the moment Rym hung up the phone he’d headed toward the door, convinced his grandpa could pass away at any moment without family by his side. Rym’s shiver had little to do with the cold air of Park City, Utah, and more to do with the idea of anyone leaving this earth feeling unloved and unwanted.

  Mom huffed into the phone. “I don’t care if he’s hanging off a cliff and you’re the only one who could save him—he’s not worth the time. He wasn’t there for your dad when he needed him most; why should you be there for him now?”

  Rym paused before answering. Grandpa Mike had disowned Rym’s father when he was seventeen. Rym suspected it was Grandpa’s attempt at tough love; perhaps a last-ditch effort to frighten him into straightening out his life. Unfortunately, the effort had the opposite effect and Rym’s dad refused to change his ways or seek to reconcile with his father. Because of this rift, Rym h
adn’t seen his grandpa until the day he applied to be a busser at Grandpa’s ski resort. Grandpa had pulled him aside and told Rym he would always have a place at Iron Mountain. Rym had been shocked at the desperation in Grandpa’s eyes and managed to stutter out a thank-you.

  There weren’t invitations to Thanksgiving dinner or a Memorial Day breakfast. At least Rym never thought Grandpa had made the effort. However, the invitations could have come, and Rym doubted his parents would have accepted. No matter what had gone on between his dad and grandpa, Grandpa Mike had always sent Rym the latest ski gear for Christmas and a wad of cash for his birthday. Cash he’d had to hide from his dad, or it ended up in a bartender’s till.

  Unlike his mother, Rym had separated his relationship with his grandpa from his father’s relationship with the man. They weren’t close by any means, but Grandpa had, if not Rym’s love, his respect. Rym understood that his mom needed to say her piece, and he hoped she understood that Rym needed to follow his conscience. “I’m going to see what he has to say.” He turned the key and his car chugged to life.

  There was a sigh. “Call me when you’re done.”

  Rym ended the call and let out a sigh that sounded much like the one his mom had just expelled. Most of his mother’s bitterness should have been directed at Rym’s dad, dead now for thirteen years. It was strange how the years had erased the bad memories in his mother’s mind. She never spoke of going to the local bars to drag her husband home or of sending Rym in her place when she just couldn’t face the shame.

  Turning left off Park Avenue—giving the snow plow on the other side of the road plenty of room—Rym tried to put thoughts of his dad aside and concentrate on his grandpa. The change in direction was just as jarring as the plow’s blade grating across the asphalt as it cleared the road.

  Rym would need a clear head to face this visit. As far as he knew, his grandpa was in good health. The attorney’s call had been like a lightning bolt on a clear day. Grandpa couldn’t die. He was a pillar in the community, in their church, and in Rym’s life. Rym had believed Grandpa would always be there. Like the mountains, Grandpa was larger than life and yet impersonal. He couldn’t imagine being the only living male Hoagland—it felt wrong and, despite his thirty-two years upon this earth, Rym still felt like the baby of the family.

  The iron gate to Grandpa Mike’s closed community swung open as Rym approached. There was a small building standing sentry, and beyond that the road split. If the lawyer was right—and Rym decided to give him the benefit of the doubt—Grandpa didn’t have time for Rym to drive aimlessly through the twisting mountainside development. From where he sat in his car, he could make out a few wisps of smoke and a dark roof here and there, but whoever planned the Moose Crest Community had taken extra pains to ensure that the multimillion-dollar homes didn’t interfere with the natural landscape—at least from the view of the road. The owners, most likely Hollywood types, New York tycoons, and politicians, probably liked the anonymity of living in a mass of trees and shrubs protected by a ten-foot gate.

  Rym stopped at the guard station.

  The guard, dressed in a navy-blue uniform with shiny brass buttons, cringed at the squeal his brakes made.

  Rym ran his hand along his three-day beard. He’d worked the last couple of days at a diner and hadn’t bothered to shave. “Hi.” Rym smiled, trying to put the man at ease. “Keeping warm?”

  The guard paused for a moment. His discerning eye considered Rym’s unshaven appearance and clunker car. If Rym had pulled up looking this shaggy but driving a Benz, there would be no second look. Normally the delay wouldn’t bother Rym, but today he had an urgent appointment.

  “I’m doing fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Rym picked up his phone and consulted the lawyer’s text. “I’m looking for 1906 Moose Crest Road.”

  The guard took his time finding a clipboard in a stack of papers and consulting the top sheet. He ran his finger along the column, smearing the writing. When he stopped, his head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Your name, please, sir?”

  Sir? The lawyer must have called to pave the way. “Rym Hoagland.”

  The guard stepped closer, and his voice took on a hurried tone. “I’m sorry for the delay, Mr. Hoagland. Okay. What you want to do is veer right and then go left at every chance you get. 1906 is at the top of the hill. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks ...” Rym glanced at the man’s nametag. “… Sven. I appreciate your help.”

  Sven nodded. “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Hoagland. Life just isn’t fair.”

  Rym shook his head. Did everyone know but him? “No, it’s not. Thank you.”

  Climbing the mountain, Rym realized he was on the backside of one of his favorite ski runs. The homes faced the street he was on, with their backs toward the ski lifts and hills. He knew these huge windows, hot tubs, and patios well. Each house was positioned to allow the occupants to look out over the groomed trails. It made sense that his grandpa would own a home on top of his ski resort. Rym had probably skied past his grandpa’s house a thousand times and not even known it.

  Pulling into the circular drive, Rym noted the steam rising off the stamped concrete. Radiant heating removed the need for a plow in the winter. The front door was banked by rough wooden beams as big around as full-grown pine trees, and the exterior of the house was covered with native stone that fulfilled the building ordinances that kept Park City looking like an old-time miner’s settlement. However, the home was so huge it looked more like a resort hotel than a miner’s cabin.

  Rym climbed out of the car and headed for the front door. He gave a knock and then stepped back, unsure what to expect.

  A nurse in purple scrubs answered with a polite smile. “Hello. Rym?”

  Rym nodded.

  “I’m Karen.” She waved him in and shut the door. “He’s expecting you. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”

  Rym touched Karen’s arm to stop her from leaving the entryway. “What’s wrong with him?”

  The tense lines around Karen’s eyes softened with compassion. “Colon cancer.”

  Rym dropped his hand. “How long has he known?”

  Karen looked over her shoulder, and Rym wondered if he’d asked a question that violated patient confidentiality and if she’d give up the information.

  “Less than a month. He hasn’t had much time to get things in order. It’s been fast.”

  Reeling back, Rym blurted, “I … I had no idea.” From the sound of things, Karen had been there from the moment of diagnosis—and where had Rym been? Going through life like normal, like he wasn’t about to lose his anchor. Because that’s what grandpa was for him. No matter how unstable his life at home, he always believed Grandpa would have taken him in. Grandpa was his fallback, his safety net. Though Rym worked like a dog to make it on his own, knowing his Grandpa was there had given him courage.

  Karen nodded. “It took him a week to come to terms with it, and by then he was taking a lot of medications for the pain. When he was awake, he worried about you. He’s been trying to—well, he can tell you.”

  Rym turned away and scrubbed at his cheeks. A month? He groped for the wall to steady himself. How had Grandpa handled it? Rym didn’t know what he’d do if the doctors gave him that kind of news. Things were happening fast for Rym; he couldn’t imagine how Grandpa must have felt.

  “Ready?” asked Karen.

  “Yes.” Rym’s desire to be at Grandpa’s bedside quadrupled.

  Karen’s strides were long and quick, as if she sensed Rym’s unease.

  They hurried through several rooms and what appeared to be an enclosed bridge of some sort before entering a living room with a large hospital bed in the middle. Grandpa’s previously broad shoulders took up a dishearteningly small part of the bed. He was situated to one side instead of in the middle. Karen left Rym’s side with a light, reassuring touch on the arm. She checked Grandpa’s IV bag and then some monitor with constantly changing numbers.

 
Two men in grey suits sat on the couch typing away on their laptops and ignoring the medical personnel bustling about the room. They had the coffee table covered in organized stacks of papers.

  Rym assumed the man in a white lab coat was a doctor. They exchanged a nod, and then the doc ushered everyone, including the suits, out of the room.

  Karen leaned close to Grandpa. “Mr. Hoagland ...” She paused until Grandpa’s eyes fluttered open. “You have a visitor.”

  Grandpa’s gaze traveled the long way around the room before landing upon Rym, who was shocked to see such clarity in the eyes of a man who had wilted like the wildflowers in October. Hearing Grandpa was dying was one thing. Seeing it with own eyes left no doubt and removed all hope. Grandpa would soon leave this life and join his beloved wife. A weight settled on Rym’s chest and he took shallow breaths.

  Grandpa Mike pushed a button to raise the bed, his hand shaking with the effort. Karen didn’t move to accomplish the task for him. Despite the sorrow in his heart, Rym smiled at Grandpa’s stubbornness. Not even death could take some things.

  “You came.” Grandpa’s eyes sparkled.

  That twinkle was worth one hundred trips up the mountain to visit. Rym was suddenly aware of the heavy peace in the room, as if the veil between this world and heaven were thinning.

  Grandpa Mike held out a hand, and Rym stepped forward to take it. Instead of shaking hands, Grandpa pulled Rym closer and held on. There was no awkwardness, no emotional distance between them. At times, Rym had been angry that Grandpa had turned his dad out, but at this moment, all was forgiven.

  Rym sat on the bed and cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?” he asked. It was such a stupid question, but there wasn’t much else to talk about.

  “Like crap—but they say that’s normal when you’re about to die.”

  Rym’s jaw dropped at Grandpa’s blunt statement. Then he harrumphed. Take that, death. You may take my Grandpa, but he will live on.

  Grandpa chuckled. “There’s no point in dancing around the issue. I don’t have time to shoot the bull. So, you’re here and I have stuff to say. Are you ready to listen?”