Sweet Satisfaction

I looked around desperately for Blake’s mother. She was my salvation. The one chance I had of staying. She would never send away her first grandchild—never .

He laughed. “Family? You don’t even know who your parents are. You’ve been raised by some woman you think is your aunt .”

The anger rammed through my lungs .

“Oh my God .”

“Yep. So pack up. And don’t communicate with my son. It’s the only chance you have of saving any reputation you have .”

“Martha will want to know,” I pleaded .

I saw the man I had begun to despise choke back a sob. It was instinct, but I rushed to his side. Carefully, I touched his shoulder .

His angry eyes peered at me .

“We haven’t told Blake yet .”

“Told him what?” I asked .

“She’s seen two specialists. Martha has stage four …”

“Oh my God.” I clasped his arm. “I’m so sorry. I-I can’t believe it .”

He straightened his shoulder and stepped out from my touch. “So your timing couldn’t be worse. Martha needs Blake now. She needs all of us .”

“But the baby could give her something to fight for. Don’t you think that’s powerful medicine?” I knew I was begging and pleading, but I was fighting for my life and for the place this baby deserved in its own family. Every time Mr. Wyatt opened his mouth I only fell deeper into the abyss of the hopelessness he created .

“You’re nothing but a scandal. Your shame is no one’s medicine,” he snarled. “I have a dying wife. Can’t you hear me? And I have a son who has a future. You don’t belong here. I have a family to take care of.” His legs stiffened. “Now go before Blake gets back .”

He kept talking, but I couldn’t listen to anymore. My body shut down. My emotions closed in on me .

He hated me. Actually despised me. And then he threw in the part about my parents and Aunt Lindy. If he was trying to derail me, it worked .

I drove home in a fog .

I slowly climbed the stairs and packed all the clothing I had in my bag .

That night I stuffed them into the back of my Jeep and left the island for the last time .

Eight

Blake

I could still taste her on my lips. Hear her in my ears .

I turned onto the dirt drive that I had called home. The lights were off in the boat barn .

I didn’t know if they’d ever be back on. I kept my head down as I passed the double doors that led inside where my dad used to work. I never went in there anymore. Cole had tried. My uncle had tried, but I kept the doors locked .

They kept reminding me how valuable the tools and the wood were inside, but I didn’t give a shit about the price of juniper boards—nor did I care about the two boats I kept hostage in there. I kept it sealed like a tomb .

I stumbled into the house, throwing my keys onto the table. I should pack up and head back to Orlando. There was enough to do for the team. I had rookies to study. Routes to plan with my receivers. I could meet with Coach. Work on my knee. I didn’t need this shit .

I wasn’t in the mood for a trip down memory lane. And yet, I was fucking driving down it a hundred miles an hour on auto pilot. Hell .

And Sierra was a brick wall I was going to crash into head first, sending me through the windshield with no seatbelt. I slammed my fist on the table .

There was only one way to get her out of my system .