SINKER
Alpha Billionaire Romance
By
Colleen Charles
Table of Contents
SINKER
Foreword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
BONUS BOOK - WASTED LOVE
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
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Foreword
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Chapter One
Brenna
He’s gone and done it again.
Pig.
I sighed, letting my fingers rest against the keyboard. I’d only been working on my latest piece for about an hour, but it felt like I’d been writing for days. My eyes were tired, and my head ached.
This is what I get for coming in on a Friday afternoon, I thought as I pushed a hand through my unruly tangles of chestnut hair. I should have just played hooky to refresh myself and given up on straining my brain until next week.
I pursed my lips as I leaned forward and stared at the screen. Was it too much considering my well-known hard-on for the guy? Part of me worried about crossing a line but a bigger part of me didn’t give a rat’s ass. Once a douche, always a douche. And since I was the only one who seemed to see through his sparkling playboy persona to the black hole gaping underneath, I felt it was my duty to call him out. What I’d written stood out in bold, glaring black letters:
FRANKLY MY DEAR, RHETT BRADSHAW DOESN’T GIVE A DAMN
The twenty-nine-year-old star Yankees pitcher was briefly detained by police following an explosive fight at Dorrian’s Red Hand, a quiet bar on the Upper East Side. According to eyewitness accounts, Bradshaw, a native of New Jersey, showed off his famous temper after nearly draining Dorrian’s entire supply of Woodford Reserve Double Oak Kentucky Bourbon.
I blinked. I couldn’t believe that I’d written fewer than sixty words of copy. I had a huge deadline coming up on Monday, and if I didn’t hustle, I probably wouldn’t make it. My editor, Nina, didn’t tolerate laziness from anyone. Normally, I had no problem delivering on time, but there was something about Rhett that really made me hate my job. But my job paid my bills, and Nina kept asking me to cover him because hit pieces sold magazines, meaning that in some twisted fucked up way, Rhett Bradshaw bought my groceries.
Gah!
If it was any comfort, I knew he probably hated me just as much. I’d already published an article on him last week, and I knew it hadn’t gone over well – I’d made him look like a real jerk. Not that making him look bad was difficult. He did that all on his own. I just reported the facts.
Ever since going to ball games with my dad as a kid, I’d loved watching sports. And I loved my job as a sports writer for Sport Taste, a reputable publication that blended juicy but verifiable gossip with interviews and statistics. It wasn’t like me to drag my feet on a short assignment, but Rhett always wedged a wrench in the assembly line of my creativity. You’d think he would care more about his Sotheby insured hands than to engage in random fisticuffs.
A hotter than hell thorn in my side. Ever since he’d started playing for the Yankees, writing about baseball had become a chore. Rhett wasn’t really all that different from your typical ballplayer, but there was something about him that made my blood boil.
Cockiness. An ego the width of the Grand Canyon. I’d love to buy him for what he was worth and sell him for what he thought he was worth so I could retire from the grind and start work on the next great American novel. He didn’t even have to open his mouth. All it took was a glimpse of his arrogant smirk and twinkling blue eyes to make me clench my hands into fists and pray for my knuckles to meet his perfect, chiseled jaw.
Rhett played for the Yankees after a trade three years ago, each season getting better and better. He’d made the all-star team five years running and last year, the league MVP. The star of the entire MLB, and he’d let you know it. His visage graced billboards, jerseys, and the naughty fantasies of every woman with a pulse in Manhattan. It was impossible to be outside in New York City for more than five minutes without seeing his smiling, smug mug plastered on a subway ad or on a passing bus, larger than life.
I’d actually been late to the office three days ago because a crowd of idiotic schoolgirls on the subway had been giggling and gawking at his photo, blocking the entrance doors. I was convinced that when women were around Rhett, they just didn’t think. It was like the female brain suddenly ceased all operation with the blond-haired, blue-eyed star anywhere in the vicinity.
But he had zero effect on me. Nada. It took more than a pretty face and a six pack to turn my head. Sure, he was good looking. Add a personality and some intelligence to the equation, and maybe he’d have something that any self-respecting woman would want.
At twenty-seven with laser career focus, the antics of horny baseball players weren’t amusing to me. Grow the fuck up. Plenty of Yankees players acted like little boys, far worse than the Giants or even the Islanders. It was almost part of their charm. But Rhett Bradshaw popped the top right off the bottle of shenanigans. Just thinking about him exhausted me. I didn’t have enough energy to deal with assholes, especially not assholes who spent every second off the field sticking a bottle between their lips and a female mouth around their cock.
That was how much he disgusted me.
The ticking of the wall clock mocked me, and I still hadn’t written another word. What more was there to say? Douche gets in fight, douche causes damage, the police let douche go with a wink and a slap on his sculpted ass because he’s a famous athlete. I bit my lip. Maybe it would help if I left the office for a little bit. Maybe I needed to get a little…inspiration.
With a sigh, I slammed my laptop closed and slipped it into my favorite Kate Spade tote. I didn’t make six figures writing for Sport Taste, but I made enough to eke out a satisfying existence in one of the world’s most expensive cities. I’d been living
in the same rent-controlled apartment in Flatbush, Brooklyn for over two years, and I had a great circle of girlfriends. Sometimes, I even went on a date or two. Lately, though, I’d been having a big dry spell. I wasn’t sure if it was because I had a lower tolerance for bullshit, or if the men of New York were vanishing around me. Loneliness sucked, and it seeped in to envelop a woman like London fog.
Still, maybe being alone was better than having a string of horrible first dates. I cringed, thinking about the last date I’d gone on. I met the guy on Match, and we’d hit it off perfectly online. We’d emailed for nearly a week before meeting up at New York Beer Company, one of my favorite bars. I’d been so confident that this guy, Patrick, would turn out to be boyfriend material.
As soon as I saw him in person, I’d gotten that sinking feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. Women’s intuition. And after enduring an hour of condescending questions like, “Do you really know a lot about sports, or do you work at Sport Taste to get laid?” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. My job was important to me, and I didn’t care for the constant insinuation by men that I’d taken it for some ulterior motive. But the sad commentary continued from random guys and twats like Rhett Bradshaw, making the frequent calls from headhunters at traditional publications look more and more appealing.
Walking quickly through the office, I slammed my hand against the elevator button and watched as it lit up. The “Friday feeling” electricity reverberated through the office – I could hear snatches of music from my coworker’s desk. I grinned, abandoning my plans and walked over to Riley’s cubicle instead.
“Hey,” Riley said. She grinned when she saw me, then raised her arms over her head and stretched her willowy body like a cat. “What’s up, buttercup?”
I rolled my eyes. “I really regret telling you about that nickname,” I said, failing to lace my tone with the right amount of annoyance. Riley was my mentee, and I just couldn’t stay mad at her with her effervescent personality. I’d taken her under my wing and was showing her the ropes. “I was thinking about going over to Yankee Stadium, catching pre-game practice, maybe writing outside for a couple of hours. Beautiful weather,” I added, raising my eyebrows. It was true – spring had finally arrived in New York City. With spring training over, the city was geared up for another unforgettable season of baseball with their men in pinstripes and the Yankees had been doing well.
“I’m sure. I don’t know if I can go, though,” she said, glancing at her computer screen. “I told Nina I’d finish this article before the end of the day.”
“Nina left for the weekend,” I said, raising my eyebrows at her. “Come on.”
“You’re such a bad influence,” Riley groaned. “I’m not you, superstar writer Brenna Sinclair. Revered and wanted by one and all.”
I blushed under the force of the compliment. “Yeah, right.” I didn’t want to admit it, but Riley’s words rang true. I knew that my editor, Nina, loved me. And while I hadn’t personally hired Riley, I’d seen that fire deep within her when she first started. I thought of her as my protégé – she had an obvious talent for getting a story – but she was still a little rough around the edges. Luckily, I had a nose for journalism and an emery board.
“Well, if you think I won’t get in trouble.”
“Can you finish at home later?”
Riley nodded, her brown eyes taking on a mischievous glint. “Definitely.”
“Then come on,” I said. “Let’s go. I’ve gotten some of my juiciest bits from the players during practice this time of the year. Before they get tired and…jaded. Besides, we’re just a few weeks into the season and, they’re still hopped up on joy for the game, and their lips start flapping.”
Thirty minutes later, Riley and I climbed out of the backseat of a cab and approached Yankee Stadium, our press tags swinging from bejeweled pink lanyards around our necks. One of the things I loved most about the Yankees was that they still kicked it old school and hadn’t prostrated at the feet of corporate greed. No. Yankee Stadium loomed before us. Not Target Field or Arm & Hammer Park.
The bright sun blinded my eyes, and I felt a wave of perspiration break out on my forehead as we trudged forward in our business casual wear. Had I planned ahead, I would have shoved some shorts and a tank in my tote. The warm and muggy late March air swirled around me, cloaking me in dewy moisture. If it felt like this already, I could just about imagine how oppressive August would be.
“God, it’s roasting already,” Riley said. She unbuttoned her cardigan and stuffed it into her faux-leather tote. Underneath, she wore a black tube top over jeans. I was only a couple of years older than Riley, and I’d just recently mastered the art of having two separate wardrobes – one for work, one for play. Back when I first moved to New York, I had to pull the same tricks as Riley – wearing my club clothes covered with fussy sweaters and jackets for work.
“Yeah, thanks global warming according to Al Gore,” I said, rolling my eyes. Following Riley’s lead, I pulled off my blazer and rolled it into a tidy bundle before tucking it inside my tote. As we walked closer to the stadium entrance, I twisted my long, thick hair off the nape of my neck and secured it with an elastic.
“You have any sunscreen? The tender skin of my neck is always the first to burn.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. We’ll find a spot in the shade.”
“Oh, look,” Riley crowed. “They’re here!” She pointed across the field. I silently growled when I saw the Yankees players milling around the dugout, clad in pre-game practice uniforms.
I wanted to watch batting and fielding practice and not have to deal with him for a change.
“God, look at Rhett,” Riley said in an admiring tone. I glanced over. Sure enough, he stood just apart from the rest of the guys, long, lanky body leaning against a post. His blond hair was pushed back from his forehead as he spun his baseball cap around in the air. His practice uniform was just tight enough for me to make out the distinct shape of his muscular thighs.
I groaned. “What a peacock,” I snapped. “He thinks he’s the shit.”
“He is,” Riley snickered. “Well, everyone else seems to think so.” She scampered alongside me, tilting her face up to the sun and squinting. “Remember what happened when they beat the Mets?”
I stifled the urge to groan again. “Yes,” I snapped. “Unfortunately.”
“I dunno. I think it’s kind of funny.” Riley giggled, transforming into a little girl. “I mean, the only man I’d take my panties off for would be Prince Harry, but to each their own.”
“It’s a step back for feminism,” I continued in my bitchy tone, anxious to defend the sisterhood and reform all women who acted like ninnies for this asshat. “Women flashing their tits at games, throwing their underwear down on the field? All because of that fucking jerk!” I’d raised my voice so high in my passion, a wayward pigeon took flight just to get away from me. I pointed a self-righteous finger at Rhett. At that exact moment, Rhett’s golden head swiveled in my direction. We locked eyes, staring at each other coldly.
Fuck off, the bitch in my head screamed.
Rhett waved his hand in a lazy wave, then winked. He grinned before turning around and loping across the field to rejoin his teammates.
“God, the nerve of him,” I hissed under my breath. “He knows I despise him. I bet he can’t even fathom a woman not wanting to lay down and spread her legs.”
“What?” Riley frowned, her face a mask of confusion. “He just waved.”
“He winked,” I growled. “It’s like he knows I was just talking about him.”
Riley lifted a shoulder. “Well, he probably does because you were.” We made our way across the diamond and into the area sectioned off for the press.
I scowled. “Come on. It’s not like I’m the first reporter who ever wrote a nasty piece about a player. And it’s not like I care. I really don’t.” I could feel myself getting hot under the collar, and I didn’t care. Something about Rhett Bradshaw always
got me worked up.
“Well, you’re starting to sound a lot like you do care,” Riley said, casting a sidelong glance in my direction. She eyed me. When she saw my menacing expression, her smile faded.
“I definitely do not care one whit about Rhett Bradshaw,” I repeated, trying to convince myself.
Riley and I made our way over to the end of the aisle, then sat down in the hard plastic chairs. Even though my indignation simmered, determination to enjoy the beautiful day while hunting my next story soothed a little bit of the bite. I loved being at Yankee Stadium in the first month of baseball season when hope and anticipation kissed the air. I’d become used to the warmth of the sun, and I pulled out a pair of oversized sunglasses from my tote, holding a pen in my mouth as I groped for a notepad.
“Still, he’s just a guy. That’s how guys are,” Riley said. For a moment, she sounded much wiser than her twenty-three years. “They like women falling all over them. Makes them feel all puffed up. Doesn’t matter if it’s boobs or panties. Even negative attention is good as far as they’re concerned.”
“Men are so easy,” I said. I flipped my notepad open and tapped the pen against the page. “I think I’m going to nickname him Wrench.”
“Huh?” Riley shot me a questioning glance.
“He’s only good at tightening up loose women.”
“Look, I think Rhett’s going to pitch,” Riley squealed, ignoring my jibe. She dug her fingers into my arm. “It looks like he’s watching you, Brenna.”
Because he hates me as much as I hate him. He’s daring me.
I sighed. “Just my luck,” I grumbled. When I looked up, I saw the truth of Riley’s words – Rhett could have bored a hole through my forehead with his hypnotic gaze. He winked again, and an odd, warm feeling came over me, almost like honey spreading through my veins, which seriously pissed me off further.
“It’s not the worst thing in the world,” Riley whispered. “To have someone like that staring at you, I mean.”
Ignoring her, I glared straight at Rhett. “If he wants to unnerve me, he’ll have to try a lot harder than that,” I said, clutching the pen in my hand. “He’s just a dumb jock. I bet he doesn’t even know anything about how to please a real, flesh and blood woman who isn’t an athlete worshipping automaton.”
Sinker: Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 1
