From the Start (5 page)

“One bestseller of a sports memoir could rewrite your reputation and jump-start your future, Colton. You need this.”

Ian paused, his forceful stretch of silence driving his point home. “I emailed you details on a couple other writers. We have to nail this thing—I’m talking book drafted in a month or two. They’ve already pushed the release date back twice. They’re not going to do it again. Choose a writer. I want a name by Monday. Otherwise I’ll pick for you.”

Colton closed his eyes against the sunlight, clawing humidity slithering over his skin. “Fine.” He’d review the information. Probably on the plane trip to Iowa. Yes, sometime between stepping outside and Ian’s ultimatum, he’d made the decision—he’d go with Logan.

He had to. Because something told him if he didn’t, he’d find himself in another bar tonight. And on the couch again tomorrow. Same headache, same blurred thoughts.

That Christmas Eve memory further away than ever.

And the gnawing question impossible to ignore—who was Colton Greene anymore without football?

The shimmer of a full moon shone like a beacon’s gaze over the rolling landscape, heavy Iowa wind rustling through cornfields crowded with lanky stalks that bent and rose in waves. Kate turned her Focus onto the gravel lane that led to Dad’s acreage, nighttime painting a blueish tint over the rustic wood exterior of the house just now coming into view.

Home.

She hadn’t planned to make the drive today. When she’d talked to Dad and Raegan on the phone this morning during her breaks at the Willis, they’d both insisted she hold off. Especially since she’d already been planning to come home for the Labor Day festival in a few days—which might not be happening anymore.

But as she’d worked in the closet-sized office, handing out tickets to the elevator she’d never bothered to ride herself, she hadn’t been able to shake the anxiety of the night before, of those few tense hours waiting to hear if everyone back home was okay. The three hundred and seventy-five miles between Chicago and Maple Valley somehow gaped wider and wider with each hour that passed.

A treacherous storm had endangered her family and pummeled the community that’d never stopped feeling like home.

And she wasn’t there.

By the time she punched out, she’d made the decision: She’d pack her car, hit I-80, and make the seven-hour drive during what was left of today.

Of course, today had slid into tomorrow about an hour ago—which meant she’d be arriving to a slumbering household. She pulled into the driveway and parked by the basketball hoop standing guard at the edge of the cement. Always her brothers’ first stop whenever they happened to be home at the same time. Their cousin Seth usually joined in, too. He’d lived with Dad and Raegan for over a year now.

Drawn shades and closed blinds blocked all the front windows of the house—all but one. Her window, second floor, curtains pulled aside, as if the house slept with one eye open. Kate grinned as she stepped from her car, warm breeze skittering over her bare arms. She made quick work of unloading her suitcase, entering through the door she knew she’d find unlocked at the side of the garage, hunting around for the house key Dad usually kept hidden behind a decorative wood
Welcome Home
knickknack on top of the fuse box.

She slid the key into the doorknob, a trill of delight vibrating through her even as travel weariness chipped away at the last of her energy. There was just something about this place . . . and
the uncanny way it untangled knotty emotions before she’d even entered the house.

An apple-cinnamon scent wrapped around her as soon as she stepped inside, as familiar as the lineup of shoes in the entryway. She lugged her suitcase up the split foyer’s few steps, careful not to bang it against the wall, and treaded into the living room.

She didn’t have to turn on any lights to know the spacious room probably looked much the same as it had last Christmas—minus the ornament-laden tree. Brown leather couch with throw pillows in earthy shades, fireplace mantel packed with family photos, a smattering of books and magazines splayed across the coffee table. The living room opened into a dining room, where tall patio doors peeked out on the moonlit backyard.

Thump.

Kate froze at the sound coming from upstairs. Who had she woken? Her fingers tightened around her suitcase handle as she waited.

Silence.

She let out her breath and padded toward the stairway, up the steps, then down the hallway leading to her bedroom. She stopped off at the bathroom—brushed her teeth, traded her contacts for glasses, and debated whether to dig around in her suitcase for pajamas. She was already wearing comfy cotton shorts and a T-shirt. Close enough.

Within minutes, she stood in front of her bedroom door and turned the knob—slowly. Pushed the door open—slowly. No creaking.
My room. My bed . . .
her luxurious, full-of-pillows, antique king-sized canopy bed. The one she’d have in her townhouse now if it wasn’t way too big.

She abandoned her suitcase just inside the bedroom door and walked to the bed. She couldn’t see much—only shadows in the dark.

Did it smell different in here? Sort of . . . musky? Masculine?

Huh.
Maybe Dad was trying out a new air freshener.

She slipped off her glasses and laid them on the bedside table. Inched back the covers, lowered onto the mattress, pulled up her feet . . . stretched, rolled . . .

Hit a wall. A warm . . . muscled . . .
moving
wall.

The sound of springs bouncing joined her breathless gasp as the man—
WHAT?—
flew from the bed. The sudden movement and her own panic ended with her snarled in sheets and then thudding to the floor, too shocked to even squeal.

“What . . . in . . . the world?”

Yes, definitely a man’s voice. And not Dad’s. Or Seth’s.

She kicked free of the sheet that’d come off the bed with her, shoved her hair from her face, and looked up. A man’s form stood frozen on the other side of the room.

He was in my bed. He was in my
bed and he’s not wearing a shirt. He was
in my bed and he’s not wearing a shirt and now he’s coming over here . . .

She scrambled backward and bumped into the bedside table, knocking her glasses to the floor. She grabbed and fit them in place, then jumped to her feet.

“Are you hurt? Did you hit your head or anything when you fell?” He rounded the bed. “Are you going to scream?”

Like she could play twenty questions when her heart was Fred Astaire–ing it up inside her chest.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight?

She slapped at the light switch on the wall, but instead of the light turning on, the ceiling fan hummed to life. The man in the bed must’ve heard her huff of frustration, though, because he reached for the lamp on the bedside stand, dim light pushing against the dark.

And then he was standing in front of her, all six-foot-who-
knew of him. Gym shorts. Sandy hair tousling under the fan’s whirring. Eyes so ridiculously blue-green the Pacific might as well give up. The faintest scar carved into the corner of one eyebrow, however, probably expelled him from flawless territory.

“Uh . . . hi?” Sleepy confusion huddled in his voice.

Her heartbeat finally began to steady. “Who are you and what do you want?”

The man’s sheepish discomfort shifted into an almost-smirk—great, add dimples to the list—and he brushed a pillow feather from his shorts. “Who am I and what do I want? Did I wake up in a poorly scripted detective show?” He raked his fingers through his hair.

“You’re not my dad. Or my sister. Or my cousin—”

“Astute.”

She folded her arms now. “So who are you?”

“Colton Greene.” He said it as if it explained everything.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Actually, now that she thought about it, maybe it did sound at least a little familiar. Did he live in Maple Valley? Was he some friend of Seth’s? A visitor she’d heard Dad talk about?

He tipped his head to one side. Shrugged. “Well, anyway, I’m a guest. Not an intruder or anything.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Uh . . . because I was asleep.” He drawled his words. “I’m not wearing a shirt. What kind of thief comes in half-dressed and goes to bed instead of, like, making off with the china and silver?”

“I don’t know. Could be your MO.”

He mimicked her folded-arms pose. “All right, you nailed it. They call me the Narcoleptic Burglar.” He did droll amazingly well. “Now whatcha gonna do?”

Was sinking into the floor an option? “Listen, you . . .”
You what?
Come on, she was a
writer
. Shouldn’t the whole sentence-forming thing work better than this?

He cocked one eyebrow, waiting, his amusement so obvious it was practically a third person in this little exchange.

But that’s when her bedroom door flung open and Raegan spilled into the room. And Logan.

Wait . . . Logan?

“Kate!” Raegan flung herself at Kate for a hug. “We heard a thump and voices and . . .” She stepped back, eyes widening. “You met Colton.”

Colton stepped forward. “Oh, she skipped the meeting part and went straight to getting into bed with—”

He clamped his lips together when Kate threw him a glare. Which she promptly turned on Raegan when her sister let out a snort. And then on to Logan. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in LA?”

Logan pulled her into a hug. “Nice to see you, too, sis.”

“You could’ve told me you were coming home.” Despite the annoyance in her voice, she hugged her brother.

“Thought it’d be fun to surprise you when you came home for the festival.” Logan glanced at Colton. “Sorry we gave Colton your bedroom, but this is the only one in the house with a king-sized bed. Guess you got a bigger surprise than planned.”

Bigger indeed. The man was the size of a lumberjack. Or a linebacker. Or . . .

Her mind hitched on that last thought. Linebacker. Football.

Ohhhh. Colton. Greene.

It wasn’t Dad she’d heard say the name. It was Breydan. All those times when he talked to her about football. Showed her the bobbleheads of his favorite players that lined the windowsill in his bedroom.

Somewhere in the recesses of her obviously not so quick-on-
the-draw brain she’d known Logan had a football player friend. But apparently putting two and two together took extra skills in the muddle of a post-seven-hour drive.

Colton Greene. The NFL quarterback. The one in the headlines.

In her bedroom.

“So now do you believe I’m not a burglar?” He lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile she might’ve called half-cute if she wasn’t wholly mortified.

Raegan laced her arm through Kate’s. “C’mon, let’s go wake up Seth and have a late-night snack. We’ve got a tub of cookie dough in the freezer.”

They were nearly out the door when Colton’s voice sounded behind them. “Welcome home, Kate.”

Welcome home, indeed.

3

A
ll right, Charlie, what we’re doing right now, it’s between you and me and good ol’ Aunt Jemima here. That’s it.”

The sound of a man’s deep voice stopped Kate in her tracks, just shy of turning the corner that led into Dad’s kitchen. The rich aroma of coffee had been enough to lull her from sleep and lure her down the hallway. But in her just-woken-up state, she had somehow forgotten that it wasn’t just family staying in the house.

It all came flooding back now. The football player. Logan and Charlie. And the incident that newly topped her list of most embarrassing moments. Crawling into bed with Colton Greene. What were the chances anyone in her family would ever let her live that one down?

Colton’s voice carried to her now. “ . . . can’t tell your dad since he’s such a health nut. So this stays a secret.”

What stays a secret?

Kate inched forward, carpet tickling her bare feet, and peeked around the corner. Adorable three-year-old Charlotte stood at the island counter on a chair. Though Logan’s adopted daughter didn’t resemble the Walker clan—not with those reddish Shirley Temple curls and green eyes—that didn’t alter her rank as family darling.