Black Roses (A Mitchell Sisters Novel)

by Samantha Christy

  black roses

  samantha christy

  Saint Augustine, FL 32092

  Copyright © 2016 by Samantha Christy

  All rights reserved, including the rights to reproduce this book or any portions thereof in any form whatsoever

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  ISBN-13: 978-1530601578

  ISBN-10: 1530601576

  For my mom and dad.

  I will never be too old to need parents.

  Thanks for doing such a great job being mine.

  Books by Samantha Christy

  Be My Reason

  Abstract Love

  Finding Mikayla

  Purple Orchids (The Mitchell Sisters Book One)

  White Lilies (The Mitchell Sisters Book Two)

  Black Roses (The Mitchell Sisters Book Three)

  table of contents

  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

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  epilogue

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  black roses

  chapter one

  piper

  I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I turn up the already blaring music in my ears, hoping it will drown out the sound of the plane engines catapulting me closer to the one place I don’t want to go.

  Home.

  Can I even call it that anymore after all this time? What is home anyway? According to Google, it’s ‘the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.’

  So by definition, I’m homeless. A wanderer. A gypsy.

  And that’s exactly how I like it.

  Why did I make that stupid promise to Skylar last year? To come back for her wedding; plan it even. What the hell was I thinking?

  I re-read the conversation Charlie and I had during my London layover.

  Charlie: You okay?

  I smile, thinking how it hadn’t even been three hours since I left her at the airport in Barcelona. She flew there with me from Istanbul. She was going to shack up with a guy we met there earlier this year. I begged her to come with me, even though I knew she wouldn’t.

  She hates home even more than I do.

  Me: Yeah. Wish you were with me.

  Charlie: You know I can’t go back.

  Me: I know. I still wish you were with me.

  Charlie: I am in spirit. We’ll talk every day—every hour if that’s what you need.

  Me: Gotta go. They’re calling my flight. Love you.

  Charlie: I love you, too. You can do this, Piper. I know you can. Six weeks will fly by.

  Six weeks. The words bounce around in my head like a pinball. I know I’ve gone back before. But it was a day here and a day there—manageable mostly by large quantities of alcohol, something I tend to stay away from normally. Baylor’s wedding was the last time I dared to cross the Atlantic. But six whole weeks back home? Away from Charlie. Away from my comfortable life. Away from the possibility of—

  I startle when someone touches my shoulder. I look up to see the flight attendant handing me my drink. I turn the music down so I can hear her.

  “Would you like some pretzels with this?” The statuesque brunette with a pasted-on smile hands me a tiny bottle of Jack and a plastic glass filled with ice and Coke.

  Ignoring her question, I stare at the glass as she places it on the tray table in front of me. I reach for it clumsily, toppling it over the side of the tray knowing it will probably stain my new white shoes. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I lean over and pick up the glass as she pulls a towel from her apron, looking slightly irritated, but still managing to keep the fake smile on her face.

  “No problem.” She wipes up my tray. “This happens all the time. I’ll just run and get you another.”

  “Maybe you should just bring me the can this time.” I shrug and smile sheepishly. “Less likely to spill.”

  “Of course.” She hands a couple bottles of water to the people sitting next to me.

  A few minutes later, she returns with a can of Coke and glass of ice, placing them carefully on my tray. She raises a brow as if to say ‘you’ll be more careful this time, right?’

  “Thanks.” A sigh of relief exits my lungs when I hear the sweet ‘phsst’ sound of the can opening. I then break the seal on the tiny bottle and proceed to pour them both over the ice. I catch the flight attendant before she’s out of earshot. “When you have a chance, I’d like another,” I say, waving the empty bottle of Jack in the air.

  She nods as she walks away. I turn the music up again and wait for the liquor to calm my nerves.

  ~ ~ ~

  Four hours and three drinks later, the plane makes its descent into JFK. The whiskey has dulled my anxiety, making me brave enough to collect my things and be herded into the airport along with the hundreds of other travelers; people who are happy to be returning home or going on vacation; people who are complete strangers to me. People whose faces are unfamiliar, yet I wonder if I know any of them. Or if maybe they know me.

  My eyes catch those of a man. He appraises me seductively from head to toe, causing bile to rise in my throat. I quicken my steps, rudely bypassing many of the other people heading to customs. I look back over my shoulder to see that his attention has turned to another pretty face and I take a breath. Maybe I didn’t have enough liquor after all.

  As I stand and wait for the carousel to start delivering suitcases, I peruse the crowd gathering beyond customs. I see women jumping into the arms of men. Children being scooped up and plastered with kisses. Businessmen and women scurrying to car-rental booths, and sign-carrying limo drivers waiting on their assigned fares.

  I don’t, however, see my big sister.

  I quickly send Baylor a text telling her I’m waiting on my luggage. No doubt, she’s running late as usual.

  Once I have my bag, I rest against a pole, stretching my legs while I await my ride. A few other people have done the same thing, most of them pulling out their phones, oblivious to the world. Not me. I’m a people-watcher. I like to know what’s going on around me.

  It makes my stomach turn when I watch some of the men come through customs. They stare at beautiful women, undressing them with their eyes. Ogling their breasts and asses. Even following them to try and arrange a hookup or a date. Whenever one of them looks in my direction, I give them my look. My look that says ‘fuck off.’ The look I’ve perfected over the years.

  I check th
e time and text Baylor again, contemplating getting a cab to take me to Mom and Dad’s on Long Island. Baylor invited me to stay at her house in Maple Creek, which also happens to be the house we grew up in. My other big sister, Skylar, offered me a room at her and Griffin’s townhouse in the city. But both of my sisters have new babies. Not exactly my idea of a fun vacation. Not that any of this will be fun. More like six weeks of torture.

  God, I wish Charlie were here. She gets me. I think she’s the only one who does.

  I look across the arrivals terminal and see a guy who’s people-watching like me. He’s leaning casually on the wall, a foot pressed up against it behind him. He’s wearing a ball cap that’s covering what I think is blonde hair, but it’s not pulled low enough to hide his recklessly handsome features. He’s very tall, crick-in-your-neck tall. His chiseled good looks lean towards rugged and unruly, and the broad chest beneath his crossed muscular arms exemplifies power and strength. The short beard on his face is so light, it’s easy to miss if you don’t look closely.

  Why am I looking closely?

  Unlike a lot of other men, he’s not ogling women. He’s simply regarding each person he sees as if he’s trying to figure out their story—why are they here and where are they going?

  I see a woman with super-model looks walk by him. I watch intently as they make brief eye contact. He acknowledges her with a lift of his chin and then moves his attention to the next person who walks by. I don’t miss the fact that the model turns her head and gives a longing look to the people-watching stranger. I snicker inwardly. I’ll bet she’s used to a lot more attention than he gave her.

  A moment later, he springs off the wall and sprints over to a crying child. I gather from the boy’s hysterical demeanor that he’s lost his parents. The stranger gets down on his knees and within seconds, has the boy calm—smiling even. Shortly after, a woman runs up and scoops the child into her arms. It looks like she thanks the man as the boy whispers in her ear. She gets something out of her bag and the man scribbles on it. He gives it to the boy, and I’m not exactly sure why, but the boy is very excited about his mom getting this dude’s phone number for a hookup. The boy and the stranger high-five before he walks away.

  Then something peculiar happens.

  He looks at me. He looks at me and my knees go weak. They actually almost fail to hold me up. My heart thunders and my breath catches. My skin heats up and the hair on my arms stands on end. Good God—why am I having this reaction to a total stranger? Why am I having this reaction period? In all of my twenty-one, almost twenty-two years, this has never happened. I sit down on the nearest bench, wondering if maybe I picked up a flu bug on the plane.

  I mean, he could be an axe-murderer. An axe-murderer who hangs around airports and gives his number to single mothers of scared little boys. Maybe he’s a pedophile who sits around looking for kids—that’s why he doesn’t pay much attention to women.

  For some inexplicable reason, I can’t pull my eyes away. He doesn’t look at my boobs. His eyes don’t even stray from my face. He tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to figure out my story as he’d done with all the others. Then a slow, smug smile full of masculine arrogance creeps up his face.

  I avert my eyes and send an all-caps text to Baylor asking where the hell she is. The tension of the flight and the toxins from the alcohol are getting to me. My head hurts. I reach up and free my hair from its constraints in the hair tie. I rub my temples and stretch my neck. Then I hear it.

  His voice. The voice that slices into my skin like a knife through butter, permeating my entire being against every ounce of my will.

  “Piper, right?”

  Despite the smooth yet rugged sexiness of his voice, I start to panic. Oh, God. Who is he? How does he know me and what the hell does he want?

  I can’t speak. Along with my wits, I try to gather my things as I contemplate running. But with my luggage, it’s not really an option. He must think I’m crazy.

  He briefly removes his cap, running his fingers through his hair before putting it back on. “I’m your ride.”

  chapter two

  mason

  She’s gorgeous. It runs in the family, of course, and she’s a carbon copy of Baylor with the exception of her intense green eyes. They are the color of sparkling blades of grass in the sunlight just after the rain. But Piper has an exotic beauty that the others don’t have. Maybe it comes from her travels abroad. Maybe it’s her unusual hair. I normally don’t give a second look to women. Not ever. But right after I recognized her; when she reached up to pull the band from her hair and it fell down around her shoulders, my goddamn heart stopped. The tips of her honey-brown hair look like they’ve been dipped in black ink, framing her heart-shaped face that surely belongs on the cover of a magazine. Her wavy hair falls just below her collarbone and looks slightly longer in the front than in the back. Before I walked over to talk to her I had to step back. Compose myself. Take a breath. Much like I do right after the huddle and before the snap of the football.

  “My ride?” Her face is pale and haunted. She looks at me like I’m the Grim Reaper. Her doe eyes assess me and I can almost see the questions racing around in her head. She pulls her shoulder-bag close against her body and looks behind me. “How do I know you’re my ride and not some psycho killer?”

  I surmise from her reaction that Baylor didn’t tell her I was picking her up. I offer my hand in greeting. “I’m Mason, Griffin’s friend. Baylor sent me to get you.”

  She regards my outstretched hand as if it might burn her. Her phone chirps and she glances down at it, reads the screen, then rolls her eyes. My guess is Baylor has just texted her. “Best man, huh?” she asks, looking slightly more amenable as she finally shakes my hand.

  Her small hand is soft and a little damp. She’s nervous. I wonder if I made her that way or if it was flying that did it. I can’t help but notice how well her hand fits into mine. For a brief second, I wonder if she minds the calluses on my palms and then I remind myself that I really don’t care. “And you’re the maid of honor. Guess that means I’ll be walking you down the aisle,” I joke.

  “Whatever.” She pulls her hand away and I immediately mourn the loss.

  There’s only one other person whose touch has ever made me feel this way. I shake off the notion and reach for her suitcase. “Let me help you with that.”

  She stands up and her slender, graceful fingers intercept the handle before I can reach it. “I don’t need your help.” She walks away, pulling the large bag behind her.

  I feel like a loser as I catch up to her. We must be a sight. This petite creature lugs a heavy suitcase behind her while her companion, who towers over her and outweighs her by a good hundred pounds, walks by her side. “Okaaaaaay. How about a drink?” I point to a sports bar tucked away in the corner of the arrivals area.

  She stops walking and looks up at me in horror. “A drink? I don’t even know you. Why would I want to do that?”

  I hold my hands up in surrender. “I just figured after your long flight you might want to unwind a little. Anyway, you’re about to get into a car with me. A drink seems kind of benign compared to that, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t really have a choice about the ride, now do I? But I’m still not having a drink with you. I did enough unwinding on the plane.” She turns her back to me and walks away as I follow the movement of her curve-hugging jeans.

  “Okay, then. You’re not only a bitch, but a drunk,” I mumble under my breath.

  She spins around. I guess she has better hearing than I anticipated. I half expect her to throw her bag at me, or at the very least, slap me. “Yes, I am,” she says. “And that’s why you don’t want to know me. Now—Mason, was it—where are you parked?”

  We walk in complete silence to my car. The entire time I complain inwardly about how I was the only one without anything better to do on a Friday afternoon than fetch Ms. Bitchy from the airport.

  Not that I’m unhappy with
the way I’m spending the off-season. I could be running around doing endorsements, like a lot of the other players. Even as a backup quarterback, I had several offers to choose from. But that’s not me. I like my quiet life. My private life. My uncomplicated life.

  I look over at Piper. Why do I get the feeling this woman is anything but uncomplicated?

  When we reach my car, I pop the trunk and stand back, watching in amusement as she loads her heavy bag into it. I would offer to help, but shit, she’d probably bite my head off.

  She makes no comment about the car. It’s nice. Very nice. It’s the only extravagant purchase I’ve made since going pro. And even though I bought it because I love it, not as some kind of chick-magnet, women usually fawn all over it.

  I head around to the passenger side of the car in an attempt to open the door for her, but she beats me there and lets herself in. I roll my eyes at her and keep my thoughts to myself. Slipping behind the wheel, I back out of my parking space and proceed to the exit ramp. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Piper wringing her hands and rolling her shoulders. I see the nonstop tapping of her foot on the floor mat. She must be nervous about being home after so long. I try to ease the tension.

  “Your family owns three great restaurants. How come you didn’t go into the business?” I raise my brow with my question as I momentarily take my eyes off the road and stare at her.

  She doesn’t break her gaze from whatever is so interesting outside her window. “Neither did Baylor,” she says flatly.

  “Okay, I’ll give you that. But why backpack around the world?”

  She leans against the headrest, arching her neck into it. Her hair falls behind her and my attention is drawn to a small sparkle on the left side of her nose. It’s a piercing. A tiny diamond so small you can barely see it. “I don’t backpack,” she says. “I have a suitcase. A damn heavy one.”