Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) by Colleen Masters Read Free Book Online Page B

boardwalk is pretty residential, and
so quiet this time of year that I can enjoy a cup of coffee on the porch
without being hit on by a bunch of drunken frat boys. I make it a rule to get
hit on by as few bros in my life as possible, thanks. It must be at least 50
degrees, I decide as I sip my morning cup of joe—unheard of for February in New
Jersey.
    Still,
I’m not complaining. I even ventured to bring my yoga mat out here with me this
morning. I could use a nice, good stretch before beginning my day in earnest.
Today will be my first on the job with The Empire. I need to be ready for
anything that comes my way. Taking one last big sip of coffee, I set down my
mug and step onto my yoga mat, bringing my hands together over my heart.
    Yoga
was a wonderful discovery for me after my soccer injury. Unable to run for
extended periods, I found solace in being able to get in touch with my body in
this new way. Actually, I find that I’m more in touch and in control of myself
than ever, thanks in part to my yoga practice. It also probably has something
to do with finally admitting that I was living a lie, staying hitched to my
emotionally manipulative ex while secretly hating everything about my life. I
try and be as honest with myself as possible these days, about what I need,
what I want, what I think. I’ve worked so hard to listen to myself, it would be
a shame to lose touch now.
    I
breathe in deeply and start moving through my sun salutations, though the sun
has yet to crest over the billowing clouds rolling over the horizon. I let my thoughts
and worries drift away as they come up—this is as important a part of yoga as
the asanas, or poses, themselves. I breathe out my parents’ continued disappointment
in me. I breathe out the sexist nonsense my new boss keeps hurling my way. I
breathe out my jitters about sharing space with Maddox Walcott once again.
Soon, I’m feeling so energized about the day ahead that I stand up from my mat,
step down off the front porch, and make my way across the boardwalk, toward the
sea.
    I
wrap my hands around the boardwalk railing, watching the waves roll in off the
ocean. The sky is lightening with every passing moment, and in this moment it
feels like anything is possible. An honest-to-god smile breaks across my face,
and I lift my arms up to the sky, closing my eyes as I let the salty air
cascade over me.
    “You
waitin’ for
someone to round out your Titanic fantasy?” someone calls to me from down the
boardwalk, “Cause I sure wouldn’t mind getting behind you.”
    My
arms turn to lead as I drop them to my sides, feeling my entire body going
stock still. That voice is still seared into my memory—I’d know it anywhere.
Should I ignore him, or confront him? I knew we’d have to come face-to-face
sooner or later, but I was hoping it would be in a professional setting, surrounded
by other people. Buffers. But now, it’s just the two of us, out on the
boardwalk at the break of day. Alone. I’ve only been alone with this man once
before, and we know how that worked out.
    At least check to make sure it’s actually him before
you freak out, I urge myself.
    Inch
by inch, I pivot toward the rich, gravelly voice. Tendrils of fog snake across
the boardwalk, yet to be burned off by the sun. All along the shoreline, sleepy
beach houses and hotels have yet to stir for the day. But the broad, balanced
form emerging from the fog, advancing toward me with utter confidence, is awake
and raring to go. And even though I knew it was Maddox from the second I heard
him speak, the sight of him still hits me like a punch to the gut. He was a
handsome young man when I last saw him in the flesh, but since then he has
hardened. Evolved. In his late 20’s, there’s nothing pretty about Maddox
Walcott, now. Just pure, distilled masculinity.
    He
grins as I turn toward him, his face flushed with the exertion of his run. He’s
clad in some high quality winter gear, though it’s barely necessary on a