Sinner (Shelter Harbor #1)

by Aubrey Irons

  The fresh manicure, the new-looking haircut and blowout, the clothes and the heels that look like they just came off the shelf – not the sales rack - at some high-end store an hour ago. She’s in her, ‘I look good, and I don’t need him anyways,’ phase, and I’ve known Sam’s attorneys here at the firm long enough to have seen this a hundred times before.

  The D-word.

  This girl has divorcée written all over her. Definitely some rich housewife finalizing her papers; probably making sure she gets the ski retreat home here in Colorado as part of her end of the deal.

  But no ring is good.

  Finalizing her divorce is good.

  Looking that damn put together is very good.

  In the waiting room, I sit up a little straighter in my chair, shoulders back as I adjust my tie. She’s a nice distraction from my mood - a little ray of sunshine piercing through the rumbling storm clouds of my day.

  And I could use a little sunshine right now, what with Sam lying unconscious in that hospital bed.

  Sam Horn, my mentor, and the one who took me in and under his wing, even back when I was a brand new, green-around-the-edges receiver right out of college with stars in his eyes. Sam who took me in and straightened me out. Sam who was the only family I had when my whole world shattered with the crash, and Sam who put me at the head of his boardroom table when it was clear I wasn’t ever going to play ball again. Sam who I refer to as family - as Uncle - despite our lack of any actual blood relations.

  It’s not as though I never thought about this day - albeit, not in exactly the same terms and circumstances. But I never expected to have his team just given to me. Hell, the man’s given me enough. A shot at the pros back when I played, and a shot at redemption when my whole life came crashing down.

  Yeah, he’s given me enough.

  But then, just like me, Sam has no family. Just like he’s an “uncle” who I’m not really related to, I’m a “nephew” he shares no real blood with. It’s also not like strokes and medically induced comas are something you plan for. But wills are, and it’d have been nice to know about even a part of this before it all went down. It’d be nice to have known that in the event of something like this, ownership and managerial responsibilities of the Rattlesnakes would be passed down to me.

  But in the meantime, the sweet distraction sitting with her back to me and one smooth, creamy leg crossed high over the other one is enough to lighten my mood.

  The hand perched by her cheek - the one without a ring - slips back into her hair, fingers twirling around a tendril as Robert talks to her with his hand like he always does. I grin to myself, imagining the doldrums of a paint-by-numbers conversation going on behind that glass.

  Yes, you’ll be receiving an obscene amount of money from a man who broke his vows who I’m sure you married for money anyways. No, you definitely don’t ever have to work again. Yes, the Jackson Hole Ski condo and the pied a terre in New York City are included in your settlement.

  I roll my eyes, watching this real housewife of LA, or New York, or wherever she’s from twirl her hair around her finger as Robert talks her ear off.

  Why, yes, that handsome man sitting behind you in the waiting area is single and available. No, I’m sure he’s free tonight to tear your panties off and fuck you like you’ve been dying to be fucked ever since you married a man three times your age who lives at the office anyways.

  My own little personal fantasy tangent gets knocked aside when Robert suddenly looks past the girl and right at me through the windows of the conference room. He smiles that cheesy smile of his and raises a hand in a beckoning motion.

  I wrinkle my brow, raising one skeptical brow until he nods eagerly and beckons again.

  Interesting.

  I glance at my Rolex as I stand. I’m definitely still five minutes early to our appointment, and fantasy daydreams aside, I can’t actually for the life of me imagine why Robert would be inviting me into the conference room with his cute little sable-haired divorcée.

  “Robert, if I’m interrupting, I can wait until-”

  And that’s when she turns.

  That’s when those big, gorgeous eyes - green, like mine - and those full, pouty lips turn and open wide in shock as we lock gazes.

  I blink twice, staring at her and not quite believing what I’m seeing despite the fact that she really is sitting there right in front of me.

  Bizarrely, my first thought is to wonder how I didn’t know that she was going through a divorce, before I mentally admonish myself for still being looped into that made-up assumption. No, she’s clearly not here to talk alimony settlement with Robert, but that begs the bigger question.

  What the hell is Serena Roth doing here?

  “Landon,” Robert stands, oblivious to the deadlocked look between the two of us.

  “This is Serena R-”

  “Roth, I’m aware.”

  I can feel my pulse roaring in my ears, my heart thudding inside my chest. One look at her and I’m right back to that night back in Houston, on the roof of my hotel. One beat of her pulse beneath that golden skin in the hollow of her neck, and I’m remembering every fucking detail of the way she gasped - of the way she ran her fingertips down my back as her body trembled for me.

  She blinks, and almost subconsciously, the tip of her soft tongue darts out to wet her parted, bee-stung lips.

  And I am right back to that night from four weeks ago.

  Fuck, what is she doing here? What is Serena Roth, of the Houston Bulls doing at a conference between me and Sam Horn’s attorney concerning the future of the Denver Rattlesnakes?

  Robert shatters the moment as he claps his hands together. “Ah, wonderful! I wasn’t aware the two of you knew each other!”

  “We’ve met.”

  We’ve met.

  It’s such an asinine thing to say, and I can tell it’s received just as well as it’s given by the sour look on her face.

  “What are you doing here?” she spits out.

  I frown, her immediate sour reaction rubbing me the wrong way.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I growl back, crossing my arms across my chest.

  “I-” she scowls at me, narrowing her eyes at me like she’s accusing me of something before she turns back to Robert.

  “What am I doing here, exactly?”

  Robert smiles. “As I was saying, do you know Mr. Horn personally?”

  I could laugh.

  “No, she doesn’t,” I spit out. She whirls back to me, and for one brief and rare second, I have a momentary doubt as I lock eyes with her again.

  “You don’t, do you?”

  “No!”

  Didn’t think so.

  Robert’s going on and on, but I’m not even hearing him as I stare at Serena. That is, until he mentions something about “non-disclosure”, and my mouth opens before I can stop it.

  “Damn straight,” I mutter.

  What’s going on with Sam - what I gather Robert is about to tell her - is none of her goddamn concern. Right now, the board, the attorneys, and I are the only ones who know about the accident, and three and a half weeks before the season opener, you can be damn sure that’s the way it’s going to stay. Hell, the damn team doesn’t know - I’m sure as hell not letting an employee of a rival team out of this office with that information without a serious threat of court action.

  “Five days ago, Sam Horn had a stroke. He’s currently in a medically induced coma, and per the terms of his estate, we have some things to go over with you concerning his will.”

  Wait, what?

  Serena shakes her head, her long dark hair tossing in waves from side to side. “I already told you, I don’t know-”

  “I’m afraid that’s irrelevant, Ms. Roth.” Robert sighs. “As I mentioned, he apparently knows you.”

  I step forward, shaking my head. “What the hell does this have to do with her?”

  “Landon, this has to do with both of you, actually.”

 
; It’s the scent of her shampoo that I remember. And being this close to her, our shoulders almost touching on this side of the table opposite Robert, it’s creating a war of sorts inside of me. On one side, there’s the need to protect what’s mine. One side of me sees her for exactly what she is: the enemy. An employee of a rival team who’s somehow snuck or charmed her way into this meeting to sabotage or cut us where we’re weak.

  But then there’s the other side. There’s the side that smells that scent of her hair, and feels the heat of the bare skin of her shoulder a mere two inches away from my body, and instantly remembers the way she felt when I claimed her. It’s the side of me that sends the blood roaring directly to my cock as I’m forcibly reminded of the way she smelled, and of the way she tasted.

  Of the way she came.

  Two primal urges locked in a deadlocked battle inside.

  I hear words like “non-responsiveness” and “estate”, but I already know what’s been going on with Sam.

  “Two individuals listed in his will. That would be you, Landon, as well as Ms. Roth here.”

  The memory of that night shatters at Robert’s words, and I suddenly see clearly.

  It’s like a horrible realization as I realize with perfect clarity where this is going, even if I can’t for the life of me fathom it.

  “Until such a time when he can be brought to responsive consciousness, full control of Samuel Horn’s wealth and assets lies with the two of you. And that does include his ownership and majority stakeholder share in the Rattlesnakes, of course.”

  Of course.

  Of course, it means my career, my boardroom, and Sam’s entire legacy now belong to-

  “I’m sorry, what exactly does that mea-”

  “It means you own half my fucking team.”

  The words drop like lead from my mouth. She turns back to me, and I hold those big green eyes of her with my own.

  “It means we’re fucking teammates now.”

  Chapter Three

  Serena

  Four Weeks Ago:

  At long last, the beer bottle on the sticky bar top in front of me is naked. It’s taken four grungy rock songs on the old jukebox in the corner, yesterday’s manicure ruined on three nails, and I probably couldn’t even count how many sidelong glances from strangers to do it, but there it is. The just about empty beer is finally bare, the label peeled in shreds and tatters on the cocktail napkin beneath it.

  I have no idea why I do this, but it seems to be my go-to move for scowling, pensive moments in bars like this.

  What I should be pissed about is the Tinder date that’s just stood me up at the new Japanese restaurant down the street. Tinder. I got stood up by a dating app whose entire purpose is basically a “sure thing.” And just to rub a little salt in that wound, it’s my first time using it.

  I wish I could accurately convey how classic this is for me.

  But truth be told, I couldn’t really give less of a shit about “Jared” standing me up for sushi. It’s the backstory that’s got me here, shredding beer labels and I’m sure raising serial killer alarm bells with every person who has the misfortune of seeing it. It’s the story behind me even trying out trendy dating apps in the first place.

  No, it’s not Jared, whose interests apparently include a mind-bending mix of “radical anti-capitalism”, “dope BBQ food”, and “chilling with my bros.”

  Honestly, the day I get upset about missing that date is the day you can take me out to pasture and leave me there.

  Besides a mild annoyance of his lack of basic social graces in standing people up, I couldn’t actually care less about Jared.

  It’s David, of course. Specifically, posts David makes on Facebook of him, the girl he cheated on me with, and their fucking baby with the tagline “second time’s the charm #blessed.”

  Shoot me. Actually shoot me.

  I don’t know what possess me to ever bother looking him up and scrolling down through his posts which always seem to include pictures of the two of them looking like the world’s happiest fucking couple and the three of them looking like the happiest fucking family. But I do.

  Frequently.

  Because apparently this is me at twenty-seven. Single, buried in student loans, stood up by douchebags, and peeling the labels off beer bottles in dive bars while Guns N’ Roses rattles over the stereo system.

  If I could strike “Facebook stalking my ex-fiancé” off the list, it’d probably be a step in the right direction.

  At least I love dive bars like this. I might be way more than slightly overdressed, seeing as the dress code at Noru is a tad different than this place, but I’ve decided I don’t care.

  No one else seems to either, so at least there’s that.

  I finally kill the last semi-warm sips from the bottle, and I’m just about to nod at the bartender for another when the door across the horseshoe shaped bar top opens.

  And he walks in.

  Gorgeous and blonde in that Abercrombie way, his gaze steely as he scans the room before stepping inside. And if I thought I looked out of place in here, he takes the cake with that dark grey suit, that perfect hair, those model good looks.

  And I know him.

  Not really, but we’ve met, briefly, earlier in the day back at work.

  Landon Reece.

  He works for the Denver Rattlesnakes or something, and he came by our offices at the Bulls stadium earlier in the day to speak to my friend London about something business related.

  Actually, last time I heard, she was out to dinner with him right now.

  His hand comes up, a silver, heavy looking watch glinting on his wrist in the low neon lights. He pushes his fingers through his hair as he exhales, the marble-carved hollows of his cheeks shadowing as he blows air through his perfectly formed lips.

  He looks like a fucking magazine ad - like he’s been photoshopped or something, standing there looking absolutely gorgeous.

  The hand drops, and those eyes of his narrow in the dim light as he starts to move towards the bar.

  I duck my head, dropping my eyes back to my beer.

  I don’t know who this guy is, really, but I do know he plays for our rival team. Our rival team who my best friend London’s just stolen a star quarterback from for our team, I might add.

  I pick at one errant, offending bit of label still clinging to the neck of my beer before I chance another look.

  And our eyes lock.

  Facing me, across the weird horseshoe shaped bar, past the bartender, past the low light glinting off the shelves of liquor bottles, he’s looking right at me. He smiles curiously, a glass of something brown halfway to his lips.

  His grin widens as recognition spreads over his face.

  And then he’s moving, stalking towards me around the curved edge of the bar, neatly dodging two guys in leather jackets slamming each other on the back, until suddenly, he’s right there in front of me.

  “It’s Serena, right?”

  I nod, sucking on my teeth for a second as my eyes flit across his face. “Landon, from Denver, right?”

  “That’s me, Landon from Denver. It’s always a great ice-breaker. None of that boring ‘where are you from’ crap.”

  I grin in spite of the corniness.

  “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but, uh…” he raises a brow as he nods his squared, chiseled jaw at the bare bottle and the little serial killer pile of label next to it.

  I grin back, shrugging. “Kinda psycho, huh?”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “You sure about that?”

  He shrugs, moving closer and leaning against the bar top next to me. “Depends. Do you have a plastic-wrapped room somewhere and a collection of victims’ blood samples?”

  I nod contemplatively. “No, but I do turn into a werewolf at midnight.” I shrug. “Sorry.”

  Landon flashes a grin at me. “Guess we’ve got a little time then.”

  He turns to the bartender, seemingly effortlessly pulling h
is attention away from everyone else waiting for a drink.

  “Could we have another victim- I mean IPA over here, and one more of these?” he adds, tapping his glass.

  Okay, he’s smooth. He’s very smooth.

  He turns back, but this time, I’m studying him a little closer.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be out at dinner with my friend right now?”

  He grins and holds his hands up. “Not ‘out to dinner’ out to dinner. Just a business thing, actually.” He holds my eyes with his, and it’s then that I see that they’re green, like mine.

  The bartender slides our drinks in front of us. Landon passes me my beer, finishes his drink, and then reaches for his fresh one. He brings the glass of whiskey to his lips and takes a slow drink, before dropping it from his mouth and shrugging.

  “And in any case, your friend bailed.”

  I laugh and raise my beer. “Well, cheers to being stood up then.”

  “You too?”

  I make a face. “Tinder date, and yes.”

  He snorts and clinks his glass to mine.

  “Tinder, huh?”

  I roll my eyes. “My first time using it. My first date from a stupid phone app, and I get ditched. Nice, huh?”

  “Fucking technology.”

  I laugh. “I’ll drink to that.”

  I tilt the bottle back and take a swig, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the door to the place open again.

  Oh you’re kidding me.

  It’s Jared. Radical anti-capitalism, dope-BBQ loving, bro-chilling, Tinder-date-ditching Jared. Jared who also immediately notices me, freezes for a second, and then grins as he gives me a double thumbs up.

  Seriously?

  I groan, and Landon looks up, following my gaze to see Jared stumbling and pushing his way through the crowd towards us.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Tinder date, actually,” I sigh.

  Landon snorts a laugh, just as Jared reaches us.

  “What up, Selene?”

  “It’s Serena.”

  Jared whips his head around and glares at Landon. “Who the fuck are you?”