Swing

by Adriana Locke

  “I’m just seeing if this picture will look good here.”

  “Where the hell is Linc?”

  “Right here,” he bellows, coming down the hallway. I look over my shoulder as I climb down and he takes my breath away. Bare-chested and in a pair of low hanging jeans with rips in both knees. He’s spattered with white paint and is holding a screwdriver in one hand and a bottle of squirt cheese in the other. “What are you doing?” he asks, taking in the situation. “You didn’t climb that ladder, did you?”

  “Will you two stop it?” I laugh. “I’m just seeing if this is the right place for this.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to wait on me?”

  “I’m excited, all right?”

  “I am too. I’ve never hung my own fucking pictures in my house before, but that doesn’t mean you can be stupid.” He gives me a warning glance. The same one I see Graham giving me from the side.

  I throw my hands in the air, sitting the picture on the floor, and head to my drink in my pink mug sitting by the stairs. Sitting on the bottom step, I watch the two brothers talk.

  We’ve been in Savannah for two weeks. Our little house is bright and airy and overlooks a big field that quiets my soul. It’s so different from anywhere I’ve ever lived. It’s perfect. It feels like home. It’s loud and messy and the Landry’s are in and out. It’s amazing.

  “Mallory starts tomorrow?” Lincoln asks Graham.

  “Yeah.” He sticks one hand in a pocket of his jeans and looks at me. “I don’t know why you just won’t work for me. You’re unemployed and all.”

  “She’s not working for you,” Lincoln barks, making Graham and I laugh.

  “Who’s Mallory?” I ask.

  “A girl Sienna went to school with. The fact I’m trusting Sienna’s judgement is not lost on me, but I really am at my wit’s end. I’ve gone through three temps. One couldn’t handle the workload, so they sent another to help, and she was worse than the first. The second came in, gave me a lecture that I need to switch to decaf at noon, and I sent her home.” He rubs his hands down his face. “The applications are horrible. Awful. Is there anyone out there that has a brain?”

  I shrug. “Maybe this will work.”

  He shrugs too. “I need it to. I’m getting behind, working twenty-hour days. I need help.”

  “Want me to come in?” Lincoln asks with a wink.

  “I don’t need to fix any more of your fuck-ups.”

  Standing, I take a spot next to Lincoln. Resting my head on his shoulder, I smile at Graham. “Thank you for helping us get relocated.”

  “It was just a few calls. And I didn’t even call about the coaching job. When the college heard Lincoln was retiring, they called me. It really happened on its own. No big deal.”

  “It is to me,” I say. “Your family has been incredible about this whole thing—Lincoln’s retirement, our moving here, starting the children’s charity. I still can’t believe it.”

  “It’s the way it’s supposed to be,” Lincoln says. “When things go the way they’re meant to, they just line up. This is where we’re meant to be. It’s obvious.”

  Graham watches us both and tries to hide a laugh. I still haven’t figured him out all the way, but I like him. I just don’t know what makes him tick.

  “I’ll leave you two alone. You coming to the Farm for Sunday dinner?” he asks as he opens the door.

  “We’ll be there,” Lincoln tells him.

  They whisper back and forth, and I’m curious, but don’t push. It’s something I’m still learning, the dynamics between siblings.

  “I’ll see you later,” Graham says with a little wave and then disappears.

  Lincoln stalks across the floor to me, stopping right in front of me. “Want to come inspect my work?”

  “I’d like to inspect you,” I tease.

  He takes my hand and leads me down the hall and into our bedroom. Boxes are still stacked everywhere and our bed is a mess because we can’t stay out of it. It’s perfect.

  He sets the screwdriver on the floor and stands, looking at me wickedly. He holds up a can of squirt cheese.

  “What are you doing?” I laugh.

  “You like this stuff?”

  “No. It’s fake cheese, Landry.”

  “I never knew this existed until yesterday when Huxley threw it in the cart at the store.” He squirts some into his mouth and grins. “See? It’s great.”

  “Your abs are great,” I say, running my finger down the bumps lining his stomach. They tighten as I stroke them.

  “Want to lick cheese off them?”

  “No,” I laugh.

  “Come on. You know you want to. It’s okay.”

  “Cheese isn’t sexy, Landry.”

  “This isn’t technically cheese. It’s fake cheese.”

  “Same thing.”

  He backs me up until my knees hit the back of the bed and I collapse on the mattress. “Fine,” he says, reaching down and pulling his Wrecked tour t-shirt up. “But I like it and can eat all I want now that I’m not training for baseball.”

  “Don’t get anything on this,” I gasp. “Stone Lockhart touched this. Breathed on it. Maybe his sweat touched it.”

  “I’ve washed it a thousand times, Dani. Don’t get all sentimental.”

  “Let’s not risk it. He’s so gorgeous. I might just live in this t-shirt forever.”

  “First, you’re going to grow out of it soon. Second, what about my Arrows jerseys? Don’t you want to get all sentimental about those?”

  I sigh and flutter my eyelashes. “When I saw him live in Nashville, I swear to you Stone looked right at me. Right at me, Landry.”

  “You and your damned rock stars.”

  Before I know it, I’m in a fit of giggles as he sprays a line of fake cheese down my stomach. He bends down and his tongue strokes my skin from just under my swollen breasts to right above my navel. He pauses, looking at me and I at him. We exchange a sweet smile and he presses a kiss to my belly.

  “One down. Nine to go,” he whispers.

  “Let’s get through the first one before we go counting more,” I giggle.

  “You’re the one that wanted ten kids. I’m just giving you what you want. And,” he says, his fingers working against the button of my jeans, “I can’t keep my fucking hands off you.”

  I lift my hips so he can slide them down. Once they’re on the floor, he hovers over me.

  “Whatcha doing, Landry?”

  “Gearing up to hit a homerun.”

  And he does.

  The End

  Switch, Graham Landry’s book, will be coming in 2017.

  Add it to your Goodreads shelf HERE

  USA TODAY AND AMAZON TOP 10 Bestselling author Adriana Locke lives and breathes books. After years of slightly obsessive relationships with the flawed bad boys created by other authors, Adriana has created her own.

  She resides in the Midwest with her husband, sons, and two dogs. She spends a large amount of time playing with her kids, drinking coffee, and cooking. You can find her outside if the weather’s nice and there’s always a piece of candy in her pocket.

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  Continue on for an excerpt from Wherever It Leads,

  also by Adriana Locke.

  Fenton

  "TELL HIM I GO
T HIS message yesterday and I don't need him to blow me. But thank him for the offer."

  Grabbing the nearest shopping cart and sliding it in front of me, I toggle the phone against my shoulder. It nearly slides off my rigid muscles, a mix of workout fatigue and work stress setting up shop across my back.

  Duke sighs through the phone, not even pretending to hide his frustration. "Fenton, that's not true," he says, exasperation thick in his voice. "He didn't ask to blow you."

  "Obviously it's not fucking true. I just want to hear him have to deny it."

  "You know what? Just forget I called. I'll come up with a response myself."

  "That's probably the best idea you've had yet."

  Duke sighs again, louder this time. I'm sure I've been an asshole to deal with since I hired him, but I gave him plenty of warning what he was getting into. This entire situation, the one he was hired to deal with, has been a complete clusterfuck from the start. There's nothing more vexing than being able to fix a problem and having your hands tied behind your back while being needled that the problem exists. I know it exists. I'm keenly aware and no one wants it fixed more than me.

  "I'll just tell them the status hasn't changed."

  "I could've taken care of this," I bite out.

  "I know. I know."

  "And they wouldn't let me."

  "I. Know."

  "I know you know. Try to impart some of that knowledge to them. I'm playing by their rules right now, but I’m starting to lose patience with their—”

  "Fenton, you have to play by their rules. Otherwise—"

  "I'm heading into the store," I interrupt. "The service is going to get shitty."

  "Talk soon," Duke says, ready to end the conversation anyway, and the line clicks off. I shove my phone into the pocket of my black athletic pants. My jaw pulses, the buzz from this morning's workout now vanished.

  Ignoring the eyes of an uptight man perusing the apples, I skirt my cart left to avoid interaction. I have no idea why I chose today of all days to do my own grocery shopping. I could’ve waited three damn days until my housekeeper gets back from vacation.

  Steering clear of the apples and the negative energy rolling off the shopper, I head towards the bananas. I need to find the optimism I had five minutes ago before Duke called from the office and ruined my Saturday morning.

  The bananas are organic and perfectly ripe, so I pluck a bunch off the podium. I start to push away, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A ruffle of unease scatters through my subconscious. I pause mid-step and glance around the store. People mill about, minding their own business, nothing out of the ordinary. I start to push away again when I spy the offender. A black piece of plastic peeks out from behind a bundle of bananas, the overhead light ricocheting off it and catching my eye.

  I reach behind the produce and pull out a black cell phone. Turning it over in my hand, it looks no worse for wear. I press the round button on the bottom and the screen lights up.

  Staring back at me are two gorgeous girls, probably a couple of years younger than me. Mid-twenties, I’d say. The dark-headed one is flashing a peace sign in a barely there white bikini. She's hot as fuck. But it's the blonde that draws my attention. She sits crossed-legged in shorts and a tank top on the beach, her hair falling around her narrow shoulders. Her body is covered, her stance demure, but there's something striking about her that I can't pinpoint. I almost can't look away. Her blue-green eyes taunt me, tease me with a look that’s downright beguiling. The touches of vulnerability hidden behind her confidence intrigue me, make me want to hear her voice and know what she’s thinking.

  Laughing at my ridiculousness despite the heat rolling in my blood, I skim the store again. No one seems to be searching for the phone.

  I glance back down and my gaze goes immediately to the blonde. The curve of her hip has my thumb gliding over the screen.

  I should turn the phone in to management. It's the logical, responsible thing to do.

  My feet don't move.

  Losing your phone in the bananas doesn't exactly shout responsibility.

  Taking a deep breath, I ponder my options. I can turn it in to Lost and Found and hope that they actually give it to her if she comes looking. Or . . . I could try to get in touch with her myself.

  Keep telling yourself you're playing the Good Samaritan.

  Leaning against the produce display, I do a quick analysis. The odds of her finding it at the Help Desk aren't great. Maybe fifty-fifty. Some bagger boy will probably see the lock screen and take it to the bathroom and jerk off. The odds of that are phenomenal. The odds of me breaking the passcode aren't great either, but if possible, would greatly increase her chances of getting it back.

  And the chance for me to see those eyes in person.

  I type in 0000.

  “Try again” flashes on the screen.

  1234.

  “Try again.”

  Steering the cart with my elbows towards the customer service desk, I run through possible passwords before I commit to my final try. I have one more chance before it locks me out for good and I have no choice but to turn it over to Bagger Boy and his bathroom break.

  I go for 1111, another overused password.

  It makes a clicking sound and the lock screen opens. The phone toggles in my hands, my jaw dropping in disbelief. It worked. The home screen is filled with apps over shiny gold wallpaper, waiting to be explored.

  Should I or shouldn't I?

  My thumb glances over the photo album and I see the first photo.

  I definitely should.

  AVAILABLE NOW!

  “STAY,” HE SUGGESTED IN A tone so sinfully rich it made her head swim.

  “Can’t.” Hope bobbled on one foot, slipping the other into her leather crisscross Louboutin black pump. A smile tipped the curve of her mouth, catching Antonio’s reflection in the full-length mirror. He lay naked, sprawled out across the bed looking rumpled and warm, watching with wide-eyed interest as she bent to fasten the tiny buckle at her ankle.

  “Rimani Qui?” Antonio repeated the request in Italian, the pull of his accent intoxicating and powerful. His light-grey eyes, full of playful offerings, gleamed in the early morning sunshine pushing through the window.

  An involuntary laugh escaped her parted lips, attempting to conceal the hint of regret riddling her voice. “I’ve already extended my trip. My boss might think I’m taking a vacation on her dime if I stay any longer.”

  It took every ounce of composure to keep her wits about her. Out of all the lovers Hope encountered during her travels, Antonio was always the hardest to leave.

  Antonio Giovanni was the epitome of all men that women dreamed of. Tall, dark, and handsome with an accent sexy enough to leave a trail of women swooning in his wake. The man wore charisma like a fine silk suit . . . flawless and molded to perfection in all the right places, leaving just enough concealed to make you wonder what lay hidden beneath the faultless exterior.

  “Si, I think you need some rest and relaxing. Come back to bed, bella.”

  Drawing a long breath through her nose, she envisioned a week-long Tuscan rendezvous curled up beside him, under him, on top of him. Hope’s lashes dusted shut at the delicious image. Tempting.

  “I really have to go or I’ll be late for my meeting with Tracy. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of your sister-in-law.”

  Taking hold of the extended handle of her suitcase, she started for the door. Antonio rolled to his back. Reaching an arm above his head, he caught her around the hip, halting her rush. A low laugh simmered in her chest at his tenacity.

  “You have plenty of time. Tracy said she’d be in her office between nine and ten.” Antonio slipped a strong hand beneath the hem of her indigo wrap dress. His thumb played mindlessly along her bare thigh, coaxing a shiver up her spine. “And it’s only eight thirty. Let me take care of you before you go.”

  “I have to be there at nine, otherwise I’ll be cutting it close to make
my departure on time, and I can’t miss my flight again.” Her voice diminished, feeling his long, strong fingers curl around the back of her leg, pulling her close, until her knees rested against the silk bedding. The subtle aches in her inner thighs, sweet and electrifying, brought reminders of the night before.

  Digging a heel into the mattress, Antonio inched his body further across the king-sized bed until his head dropped over the edge. The stark white sheet purposely arranged low on his hips, exposing the dark, trimmed hair at his groin. Heaven lay just beneath the silky sheets.

  A small, wistful sigh of appreciation floated from her lips, taking in his lean body and sculpted abs. He looked nothing short of breathtakingly exquisite.

  “Si’. I’d hate to make you miss your flight again.”

  He didn’t sound one bit remorseful.

  “Liar,” she teased, barely able to hear her own voice over the pulse hammering in her ears. “I think you’re trying to torture me.”

  “Si, I could torture you all day. Stay,” he murmured, taking a gentle bite of her outer thigh.

  She smiled down at him, running her fingers through his thick, dark hair. If she didn’t leave in the next sixty seconds, she’d be straddling his face in sixty-one. A tousled mass of golden brown curls fell over her shoulder as she hinged at the waist, placing a long kiss goodbye to the edge of his scruffy jaw.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured. Pushing the loose tresses from her face, he twisted, brushing his lips to hers. Taking her mouth, he deepened the kiss, their tongues dancing in a smooth, masterful art of seduction. The provocative pressure, demanding yet playful, drew a low groan from her throat.

  “Ciao,” she whispered contritely in his ear.

  “Email me the next time you’ll be in Italy. Ciao, bella.”

  Hope smiled, brushing the tip of her nose to his. Her upside-down stare connected with his, soaking up the last few glimpses of silvery grey before walking out the door.

  Driving along the beautiful, unspoiled Tuscan countryside, Hope appreciated the gorgeous view of Antonio’s family’s estate. Two castles, drenched in the color of muted saffron, separated by acre upon acre of lush grapevines following every rise and dip of the landscape.