1. Emmett

1

EMMETT

It was early September, and a professional football player was about to ruin my life.

I didn't know that, of course. Not yet.

The cocky, bad-boy, pain in my ass new star wide receiver of the Denver Ferals team wasn't on my radar. I drove into the Jade Brewery parking lot and shut the door to the Porsche with a satisfying quiet click . It was a quiet afternoon, and a breeze blew through, shuddering the leaves and pine needles of the Aspens and Spruce.

For the first time in months, there was a promising chill in the air.

There.

It was there. The first hint of fall.

Everything is in its right place, and I'm in control.

Leaves were edging toward the gold that would soon fill the mountains, and I was about to be locked into the most promising brand deal of my entire career.

Aimed like a steel arrow right at a bullseye.

And all I had to do was make it happen. To get what I wanted. What I'd known for years that I deserved.

I smoothed out the front of my custom Zegna suit. I'd had it made with subtle lines of crimson on black, to match the red of my favorite car.

Jade Brewery wasn't exactly the kind of place where I needed to be dressed up. All of small-town Jade River, up here in the mountains, was populated by more people in T-shirts and hiking athleticwear than anything approaching fancy. Even down the mountain in Denver—hell, all of Colorado —wasn't the kind of place where tailored suits or Italian leather shoes were necessary.

But it was like my armor. Fine fabrics, custom tailoring. I could do anything if I was suited up—I'd once negotiated a client into a deal that ended up making us both millions in this suit, and I was about to do it again.

I caught sight of a couple holding hands, walking into the front doors of the brewery, and bitter regret hit my throat.

Everything was in its right place, sure.

But I was still alone, single for the second autumn in a row.

Had it really been that long since Sam had left? He'd been my whole world, and then one morning he'd been gone. And God, I craved a man's touch.

Hell, who am I kidding? I craved watching my cock disappear inside of someone. I craved sweat, and skin on skin, and nights that blurred into mornings, delirious and spent and covered in bite marks that I wore like a badge of honor. I craved something physical.

I needed that surrender.

The breeze ripped through the air again, stronger and chillier at the back of my neck as a grey band of clouds crossed through the sky.

Onward and forward , Dad would have said.

No time for broken hearts and touch-starved desperation when there was business to be done.

I swung open one of the front doors of the brewery, heading inside with my head high. I'd long since decided that I was going to enter any business meeting with the same level of respect. Today it was a meeting with construction guys in a bar, but it may as well have been a meeting with a queen at a castle—I gave everyone my full presence and attention. Just like my father had, too.

"Emmett!" I heard from the side of the brewery as I walked under the awning and swung open the wooden front doors. I spotted Shawn and Nathan, the brother duo behind Fixer Brothers Construction, sitting at one of the bigger leather booths near the edge of the bar.

I gave them a wave as I walked over. Something intoxicating was filling the air, and it wasn't just vaporized alcohol coming over from all of the giant metal brewing tanks at the side of the room.

"This whole place smells like beer, apple, and cloves," I said as I approached. "Allspice, maybe? It's like I just walked into fall heaven."

Shawn held up a pitcher of amber-colored beer on the table in front of him. "Harlan is testing out batches of this year's fall ale as we speak. We've got a sneak-peek sample pitcher here."

"Lucky us," I said, sliding into the opposite side of the booth. "Shawn, did you see the announcement for the new Preston Gildon book? Fifth in the series?"

Shawn's eyebrows lifted. "A new Gildon book? Holy shit, we've been waiting almost six years to continue the series. That's awesome."

"Announced yesterday," I said with a nod as Nathan poured me a golden, foamy pint of the fall ale. "Should be out by Christmas. Can't wait. And Nathan, I bet your daughter is excited for that bubble tea shop opening up down the street."

Nathan held up a hand. "Oh, she's mentioned it about six times a day, every day. I don't know why teenagers are bubble tea obsessed, but I guess I'll find out once that place opens."

"You'll love it," I said. "Your daughter's onto something."

That was another thing Dad had taught me: there was always something to connect with people about. I could have as many Porsches, Ferraris, and custom suits as I wanted, but if I couldn't find common ground with my clients, I'd be useless. I always found something to talk about with anyone, and something to like even in people who seemed completely different from me.

Getting along with people was my biggest pride.

"So," Shawn said. "The Racks deal."

I felt a slight smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "The Racks deal," I repeated.

This was the whole reason I was meeting with Fixer Brothers Construction today: to discuss the massive brand deal we had in the works with Racks, the most prominent home goods store in the country. The Fixer Brothers TV show had just gotten renewed for another three upcoming seasons, right after I'd started working with them, and through working with me and Lux Marketing, they were set to expand their empire into selling crafted home goods.

Good, great, and excellent .

Some people in my firm called me a marketing bloodhound, but in reality, when I worked with companies to take their brand into the stratosphere, I felt more like I was playing chess.

If chess was… thrilling .

If chess could make me feel like I had 180-proof moonshine flooding through my veins.

I was hungry for it. If this brand deal worked out with Fixer Brothers and Racks home stores, I was on track to my spot as a partner in Lux Marketing. What I'd been on track to achieve for the last ten years, finally coming to fruition.

So close I could fucking taste it.

Shawn shifted on the booth awkwardly, looking up at me. He rubbed at a small scuff in the wood on the tabletop, and I could tell was a little doubtful about the Racks deal.

"What's on your mind, Shawn?" I asked gently.

He took a breath. "Well, I was thinking about it all week."

"And what did you think?"

"Well… do you really see us in Racks stores? Doesn't it seem like a stretch?" Shawn finally asked. "I know other home renovation shows have branched into selling home decor, but we're… not exactly at the Fixer Upper level of fame."

I nodded. I'd encountered this before—people didn't always believe they were worthy of more success, but I was here to let them know they were more than deserving of it.

"Shawn," I told him, "The Fixer Brothers can be at that level of fame or more by the end of the next two years, and I'm certain of that."

I was met with dubious looks from both him and Nathan.

"You're too kind to us, Emmett," Nathan said. "But we've only had our renovation show for a few seasons. You think people want to buy wall decorations and pillows and paint colors with our brand name on it?"

"I think they'd buy a lot more than that," I said. "Some of the market research and data work we've done shows that people love your personalities on the TV show most—"

Nathan nodded. "As expected."

I held up a finger. "But the second most popular thing is the style of decor in all of your renovations. Indoor and outdoor things, including small furniture and lighting and everything in between. People constantly search for it online. There's true potential in that, I promise."

Shawn nodded, pulling in a long breath. "Well, cheers to that. If you believe in us, I'm willing to give it a shot. Just don't want to disappoint you if Racks Superstores don't go ahead with us."

"I'm going to work my ass off to make sure they do," I reassured him.

We all held up our pint glasses, clinking them together before taking a sip. I hummed involuntarily when the fall ale hit my tongue.

"Good, isn't it?" Shawn said.

"That might be one of the best beers I've ever tasted," I said.

It wasn't a lie. The beer had the slightest hint of apple and clove in it, just enough to evoke everything autumn without overpowering the yeast and hops.

"You like it?" Harlan, the burly, lumberjack-looking head brewer called out from across the room.

"You're an artist," I called back over to him, holding up the beer glass.

Harlan came over to our table, dipping low and dropping his voice. "The secret ingredient? Just a little bit of allspice."

I gave Harlan a high-five. "Called it. I knew it was allspice."

"Cheers to that, too," Shawn said, and we all clinked our glasses again as Harlan walked off, chuckling.

"I like your ambition, Emmett," Shawn continued. "But I know we're still the underdogs. The last major Racks brand deal was with Taylor Swift. Now, I think we're cute enough and all, but we ain't Taylor, in fame levels or anything else."

I gave him a nod. "Well, once we get you this brand deal, you'll have Taylor herself calling you up to ask for invites to your parties."

Nathan and Shawn laughed, but I was only slightly kidding. I always strove to make magic happen for my clients.

"Well, we're ready for the meeting next week," Shawn said.

Nathan gave me a wicked grin. "And we do have one more thing up our sleeves."

"Oh yeah?" I asked.

He nodded. "I think you're going to be excited for our next renovation client for the TV show."

I lifted an eyebrow. "I'm intrigued. Tell me more."

"Well, as you know, we already have an amount of football fans who love our show," Nathan said.

"Right," I said. "Because of Kace."

Kace Tomlin was a star player on the Denver Ferals football team. He'd been featured as a past renovation client on the Fixer Brothers show, but he had also been dating Nathan ever since, and made frequent appearances on the show. The two of them were lovebirds, and the fans ate it up. Marketing-wise, Kace Tomlin was one of the silver bullets in my portfolio for taking the Fixer Brothers to the next level. He was beloved, and the most famous client they'd ever had.

"Our next renovation client," Nathan said, with excitement in his eyes, "is the hottest new addition to the Denver Ferals team. Storm Rosling."

My chest tightened immediately.

No.

He couldn't be serious.

No, no, no.

I gripped the cold glass of beer in my hand, shifting on the leather booth. Shawn and Nathan stared at me, smiling expectantly, waiting for me to react.

"You… you're kidding, right?" I asked, a tendril of worry curling its way around my ribcage.

"Nope. Isn't that awesome?" Nathan said. "Storm needs his mansion renovated, and it'll be a huge project. Amazing for both of us, right?"

They had to be joking.

Storm Rosling.

The Storm Rosling, who had certainly been making headlines, but for all the wrong reasons.

The same Storm Rosling who was a total marketing liability— not the squeaky-clean celebrity pro football player type that we needed to secure a deal with Racks superstores.

I took another sip of beer, trying to stem the tide of swear words that threatened to pour out of my mouth right now.

Keep calm , I told myself. If I had negative feelings around marketing clients, I tried my best to never, ever let it show.

"We'll have to talk about Storm Rosling later," I said, forcing myself to maintain a neutral composure. "I do have to jet home soon for a Zoom meeting, and I want to iron out a few more details for Racks Superstores right now."

"Don't worry, we will. But I'm so excited that Storm might be on the show," Nathan said. "My daughter said that everyone at her high school is following Storm on social media. He's big with high schoolers, college kids, adults…"

And for all the wrong reasons , I thought, polishing off the rest of my beer.

The rest of the meeting was a blur.

I remained calm on the outside, like I always did, but my mind was racing. The guys were making a big mistake if they were even considering taking on Storm Rosling.

A mistake that I could hopefully talk them out of, in the coming days.

I quickly texted Landry, my closest colleague and friend, who was working with me on the Fixer Brothers marketing project.

Emmett Waycott : Meeting's done. We need to talk about the Fixer Brothers' potential next client, though.

Landry "Lucky" Lucock : Sounds promising. Or maybe ominous. Can't wait.

Emmett Waycott : We might have our work cut out for us. Buckle up.

Twenty minutes later, I was back in the Porsche, pushing the pedal down too far as I zipped back down the curving forest roads toward my home. When I made it back and took the car up the long driveway, I saw a little flash of motion beyond the gate to the side of the yard.

"Oh, Fluffball, are you back again ?" I said as I pulled the Porsche into the garage next to my Ferrari.

I hopped out and skirted around toward the back yard, leaves crunching under my shoes.

I found the same adorable, teacup black-and-white dog that had been turning up in my yard at random times every day. It was my new neighbor's dog, and no matter how many times I put her back through the tiny hole she had dug beneath our fence, she always managed to dig through again.

Pepper was inside, wagging her tail and looking out one of the tall back windows toward the little ball of fluff. Pepper was my Husky, about ten times bigger than this little mop dog, but both of them acted sweet around each other, I'd discovered. I pulled open the door and Pepper bounded out, panting at the little dog.

"You've got to stay in your own yard, little one," I told the tiny dog. She got into a playful stance with Pepper and I let the two of them romp around for a little while before guiding the little one back through her newly dug hole under the fence.

The neighbor had only recently moved in, and with my schedule, I hadn't gotten a chance to introduce myself. It was about item number six thousand on my long list of things to do.

I took a moment to settle onto one of my lounge chairs outside by the pool. The sun had just dipped below the ridge of pine trees. I had six minutes before my Zoom meeting began, and then I'd be heading back out down the mountain toward Denver for a wrap-up dinner with Landry and my last big client.

I had a moment to pull out my phone. I searched Google for Storm Rosling's name, my chest tightening as I braced myself for what I might see.

" Fuck me," I muttered, frowning at my phone.

The first headline said it all.

Police Called to the Scene at Denver Pub: Storm Rosling Removed From the Premises.

The headline was from last night. I'd seen plenty of others like it in the past, and Storm's reputation as a loose cannon seemed to be increasing with his level of fame, not going away.

I clicked on the link to his Instagram page and a whole host of photos and videos popped up—all of which were marketing nightmares, too.

My eyes scanned the most recent photo.

Storm Rosling was attractive, without a doubt.

Very attractive.

I'd always gravitated toward slender guys in suits, guys who were more reserved, who probably had gone to Harvard or Yale, and who were more like… well, more like me .

Storm was not that.

He looked every bit like a football player. His most recent Instagram photo was of him shirtless by a swanky pool at a resort, surrounded by women who looked like models. The man must have been six foot one of pure muscle, and his hair was dark and longer on top but cut neatly on the sides. He had a few tattoos across his back, but from the front, it was all clean skin. Judging by the comments, a lot of his female fans were "thirsty" for him and loved the combination of his grey-blue eyes with his dark hair.

Stormy Eyes , they called him. Usually with a lot of sweat-drop and heart-eyes emojis next to it.

It felt like Storm was smiling out at me, even from the small pictures. His smile always had a hint of mischief behind it, which was right in line with all the wild shit he had done in the public eye.

Storm Rosling called people out publicly. He got in verbal fights with anyone who talked badly about one of his friends or teammates. He threw parties that got noise complaints, again and again. There had been multiple times that he nearly got thrown out of the pro football league, but he was so popular—and so good at what he did—that he'd always skirted by.

I scrolled down to another photo and zoomed in.

Guilt pooled in me as my cock started to harden. I didn't like the guy, but he was pure eye candy.

One of his recent videos was of him, alone, lying down onto soft grass and very obviously trying to showcase his abs.

He pointed the camera down as he stroked a hand over his chest and down to his stomach, letting the frame stop just above the thick elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs. He then panned the camera up again to his face—lightly smiling, with that mischievous smile—and ran a hand through the shaggy top of his hair.

Really, really fucking hot.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw the background of the video. It was clearly taken in a backyard, and the caption read: My shiny new home . Can't wait to start renovations.

The fence was the same as the one in my backyard.

Stained in a beautiful cherrywood color, with the same pattern of trees above it.

I backed out to his main Instagram page and scrolled a little further down, confirming my worst suspicions. There were multiple photos that had the exact same little black-and-white fluffy dog who had shown up in my yard every day this week.

Oreo's having herself a pool day , one of them was captioned, where the little dog was on a neon green inflatable pool raft on the water.

" Fuck me," I muttered out loud to no one.

Storm Rosling wasn't just my marketing nightmare.

He was my new neighbor.