From the author of the USA Today bestselling A Little Too Far series, the first in an edgy new contemporary romance series that follows a family on the run...
As the oldest son of a Chicago crime lord, Robert Delgado always knew how dangerous life could be. With his mother dead and his father in prison, he’s taking charge of his family’s safety—putting himself and his siblings in witness protection to hide out in a backwater Florida town.
Fourth grade teacher Adri Wilson is worried about the new boy in her class. Sherm is quiet and evasive, especially when he’s around his even cagier older brother. Adri can’t help her attraction to Rob, or the urge to help them both in whatever way she can.
But the Delgados have enemies on two sides of the mob—their father’s former crew and the rival family he helped take down. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds them. And if Rob isn’t careful, Adri could end up in the crossfire...
EXCERPT
Chapter
2
Adri
“Is
this straight?” Dad asks, peering in the mirror across from the front door and messing
with the badge on the breast pocket of his blue shirt.
There
is almost no crime on our little island because Dad is legendary for taking
down drug rings and poachers, but when it comes to the little things, like
pinning his badge on straight, he still needs help.
That’s
why I’m here.
When
Mom died last spring, I came back from Jacksonville so I could live at home and
help Dad. He and Mom were high school sweethearts and married not long after
graduation.He’s always been taken care of. I don’t want him to be alone.
I
move to where he is and turn him, unpinning the badge and straightening it. I
smooth his salt and pepper hair off his forehead and stretch up on my toes to
kiss the smooth patch of cheek above the line of his beard. “I seriously doubt
they’re going to send the Chief of Police home for a dress code infraction.”
“We’ll
see,” he chuckles, giving my blond ponytail a gentle tug. “You ready for your
first day influencing the youth of Port St. Mary?”
I
was over the moon when I got the call three days ago that Mrs. Martin had had
surgery and they needed a long-term sub for her class. Not that I’m happy they
hacked out her gallbladder or anything, but her loss is my gain, so to speak.
I
come from a long line of educators. Mom was my first grade teacher. Both of her
sisters, her father, and her grandfather taught as well. You could say it’s in
my DNA. I resisted it for a while, thought I wanted to go into finance, but by
my junior year at Clemson I had to finally admit to myself teaching was what I
really wanted to do. I changed my major to Education and finished my credential
just before Mom died.
Since
her death, it’s felt even more urgent to me to teach—like maybe following in
her footsteps will somehow keep her spirit alive. But Port St. Mary and the
surrounding communities are small, and teaching jobs are pretty scarce. I was
afraid I was going to have to try elsewhere come fall. This was a prayer
answered…which makes me a little afraid I might have had something to do with
poor Mrs. Martin’s gallbladder flaring up. And now it’s starting to feel like
one of those “be careful what you wish for” scenarios.
I
rub my sweaty palms down my slacks. “What happens if they hate me?”
Dad
wraps me in his arms and squeezes me in a bear hug, crushing the air out of my
lungs. “They’re going to love you, punkin. Your mom would be so proud of you
right now,” he says, a catch in his voice. “I hope you know that.”
I
swallow back the lump in my throat and look up at him. I can’t even remember
the last time he’s brought her up out of the blue like this. “I know, Dad, but
thanks for saying so.” He lets me go and I shoulder my messenger bag. “Time to
face the music.”
We
step out the back door to where my old electric blue Chevy Lumina is parked in
the driveway, next to Dad’s only slightly less conspicuous cruiser. Dad watches
as I slide in and turn the key. The engine chugs but doesn’t turn over.
I
blow out a breath and pop the hood. By the time I grab the monkey wrench on the
floor of the passenger side and get out of the car, Dad already has the hood
propped up and is looking over the engine compartment.
“Don’t
mess with Frank, Dad.” I point my finger in a circle at the guts of my poor Frankencar.
Me and my best friend Chuck rebuilt most of the insides from junkyard parts
when we took auto shop our senior year in high school. “It’s a delicate
balance.”
He
grins and steps back, his hands in the air. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I
will always love Frank—he was my first—but I know I need a new car. Dad’s
offered me Mom’s T-Bird, but I’m twenty-three. I’m supposed to be responsible
for myself at this point. And besides, I’d rather he sold Mom’s car and put the
money towards his retirement. Even though Port St. Mary is pretty sleepy most
of the time, everyday he goes to work, I worry.
I
reach between the radiator and the engine and give the alternator a sharp rap
with the wrench, then slip back into the driver’s seat. When I turn the key,
Frank chugs twice, same as always, then rumbles to life.
Dad
ducks into the cruiser and gives me a little salute as I pull out.
Port
St. Mary Elementary is only about two miles from home. It takes a grand total
of eight minutes to drive there. Technically, it’s a one-room schoolhouse. The
tiny twelve-space parking lot butts up against an octagonal building, which, in
fact, is just one big room inside. In the exact center of the building are the
bathrooms and storage closets, and from there, folding accordion partitions
section off each wedge of the octagon. Each wedge is a grade level, kinder
through sixth, and a multipurpose room. To the right of the parking lot is a
doublewide “portable” that houses the school offices and small staff room.
Behind that, children are already gathering in the playground, which is really
just a weed-infested lot with a slide and jungle gym that has been there since
before I started kindergarten here.
When
I walk around the octagon to the door marked with a big yellow four and step
inside, it’s like deja vu all over again. Mrs. Martin (she told me to call her
Pam when we talked on the phone about the lesson plan yesterday, but I can’t
bring myself to) has had the same posters on the walls since the dawn of time.
The presidential chart ends with Reagan. She had already been teaching fourth
grade in this same classroom for, like, twenty years when I had her.
I
move to her desk, to the right of the door, and set my bag on it. And that’s
when I see the note from Principal Richmond.
A
new student.
I
brush my palms down my slacks again, a fresh jolt of nerves twisting my insides
into knots. I was already going to be way over my head with a classroom full of
nine-year-olds fresh off Christmas vacation and all sugared up on candy canes.
I
look over the instructions. Sherman William Davidson needs his reading
comprehension assessment, writing and grammar evaluation, and his math skills
worksheet completed by the end of the week.
I
blow a wisp of hair off my forehead and unpack my toothpaste and toothbrush, my
journal, and a few of my favorite colored pens into Mrs. Martin’s desk, careful
not to displace her things too much. I’m just pulling the assessments for the
new kid from the file cabinet when the classroom door opens. I hear Principal
Richmond’s gravel voice before I turn around. “…and his classroom is here. We
just got word a few days ago that our regular fourth grade teacher is out on
medical leave, but Sherman will be in good hands with Ms. Wilson. She’s a very
capable substitute.”
I
take a deep breath as I turn and hope he’s not lying.
I
substituted five times during fall semester. For the most part, everything went
great until I subbed for Mrs. Yetz’s eighth grade class the week before winter
break. Somehow, what started out as a math lab on probability devolved into a
liar’s dice tournament, complete with money changing hands.I wasn’t sure they’d
call me back after that.
But
when I see Principal Richmond waddle his round frame through the door, I straighten
the scarf I tied over my favorite teal sweater and try to look as confident in
what he said as he does.
“Ms.
Wilson,” he says, waving me over. “This is your new student, Sherman.”
Sherman
is a wiry little thing with unruly brown hair and clothes that hang off him a
little. He looks as if he’d vanish into himself if given the chance.
“He
goes by Sherm,” the man standing next to him says.
I
look up into some of the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen. Heavy dark brows
curve over irises the color of honey with burgundy flecks through them. Thick
brown waves are loose around a strong face with angled cheekbones,and a square
jaw covered in two-day stubble. Set in flawless olive skin are lips so firm and
redthey make me forget the frown that’s turning them down slightly at the
corners.He’s just so…gorgeous, like something out of a magazine or a movie. And
he’s tall—well over six feet of broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips under
his blue button-down shirt. The tails are loose over pressed jeans that fit him
just so. Everything about him is tailored and cultured and nothing like any of
the year-rounders who live on this bumpkin island. But it’s not just the way he
looks. A blend of confidence and something else I can’t identify but makes him
feel a little intimidating wafts off him with the spicy cologne I keep catching
hints of. He’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever met, even at Clemson.
I
feel my jaw dangling and snap it closed, pulling myself together long enough to
extend an arm. “I’m Adri.”
Principal
Richmond clears his throat, and when I flick a glance his direction, I know my
ogling didn’t go unnoticed. His brow is deeply furrowed and his frown curves so
low it makes him look like one of those marionettes, where their chin is a
whole different piece of wood than the rest of their face.
My
eyes bulge and I shift my outstretched hand to Sherm. “I mean, Miss Wilson.
Welcome to Port St. Mary, Sherm.”
The
boy just looks at me with sad eyes the color of his…father’s?
My
gaze gravitates back to the guy towering over me. Could he be Sherm’s dad? He
looks way too young to have a nine-year-old. He also looks all business.
There’s nothing soft or nurturing in his cold, sharp gaze as it flicks around
the classroom, silently assessing.
“What’s
on the other side of those partitions?” he asks Principal Richmond.
“The
third and fifth grade classrooms,” he answers.
The
guy’s eyes continue to scan the room. “He’ll spend all day in here?”
The
principal nods. “Except when he’s on the playground.”
“Is
there security on campus?”
Principal
Richmond looks momentarily perplexed, rubbing his round stomach as if he’s
thinking with it. “Not as such. We have yard monitors during recess and lunch,
and the teachers are responsible for the children when they’re here in class.”
“What
about lunch?”
“He
can bring his own lunch, or buy a bag lunch from Nutritional Services for three
dollars. Either way, if it’s nice weather, the children eat outside at the
picnic tables. On rainy days, we open the partitions and they eat inside as a
group.”
The
guy reaches into his pocket, but Principal Richmond holds up his hand to stop
him when he comes out with a thick wad of cash. “We don’t allow students to
carry money on campus. When we’re done here, I’ll take you to the office and have
you purchase a scan card for Nutritional Services.”
The
guy nods, then moves to the door and jiggles the knob. “The exterior doors are
left unlocked?”
“During
school hours, yes.” Principal Richmond answers, moving to my desk and shuffling
through the papers I pulled for Sherm.
The
guy’s full lips narrow into a tight line and he scowls at the door. He spins
and starts toward the door in the back of the room, leaving no stone unturned.
I
wipe my hands down my slacks again and decide just to ask. “So, you’re Sherm’s
father?”
His
feet stall on the chipped linoleum and he seems to finally notice I exist.
“Brother,” he answers, and that one word seems to carry the weight of the world
with it as it falls from his mouth.
His
eyes make a slow sweep of my face, and as they trail down my neck, the front of
my sweater, over my hips and down my legs, I’m frozen in place, paralyzed by
the intensity of his gaze.
Principal
Richmond shoves some papers in my face, breaking the spell. “You still have
fifteen minutes until the bell. Maybe you can get Sherman started on these.”
“Um…”
I grab the papers out of his hand as Big Brother blinks, some of the thickest
lashes I’ve ever seen hiding those incredible eyes. “Yeah. We’ll do that...”
Principal
Richmond guides Big Brother to the door. “Let’s get out of their way and let
them get started. I’m sure Sherman will have a positive experience here.
Children his age tend to adjust quickly,” he’s saying as the door swings closed
behind them.
Lisa Desrochers is the USA Today bestselling author of A LITTLE TOO FAR, courtesy of HarperCollins. Look for the companions, A LITTLE TOO MUCH (11/12/13), and A LITTLE TOO HOT (1/21/14), and also her Personal Demons trilogy (Macmillan).
Lisa lives in northern California with her husband, two very busy daughters, and Shini the tarantula. When she's not writing, she's reading, and she adores stories that take her to new places, and then take her by surprise. Find her online at www.lisadwrites.com, on Twitter at @LisaDez, and on Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/LisaDesrochersAuthor .
Heather Lyons writes epic, heartfelt love stories and has always had a thing for words. In addition to writing, she’s also been an archaeologist and a teacher. She and her husband and children live in sunny Southern California and are currently working their way through every cupcakery she can find.
