Page 1 of Take The Risk

Chapter 1

​“You should totally fuck his boss,” Alex announced from where she lay sprawled on my bed, a hot honey peach margarita in her hand.

​Unpacking clothes from a moving box, I rolled my eyes. “I’m not fucking his boss.”

​“Why not?! It’s not like Jean-Carlo is a dog. The man is gorgeous, single, aaaannnddd once he’s enslaved by your pussy, I bet you could have him fire that bastard and his walking advertisement for condoms.” Alex downed her drink, her blue eyes brightening. “Oh! You can fuck him on Jeremy’s desk and film it! Maybe ‘accidentally’ send it to Jeremy as a please-fuck-off-on-a-rusty-spike present.”

​I chuckled, my traitorous brain picturing it. Jean-Carlo, in one of his perfectly tailored suits, his belt open, fly down just enough for his cock to be out. Me, bending over, hiking up my dress… Shaking my head, I shoved the image away. “You know I’m not going to do that. And get back to work.” I pointed to the box she was supposed to have unpacked an hour ago.

​“I know,” Alex sighed dramatically, getting up. “Still, we have to find some way to get even with the man-ho and his slutty cunt.”

​“She’s pregnant, Alex,” I reminded her. It was the one reason I hadn’t gone to Jeremy’s ultraconservative company’s HR and told them their accountant was screwing another coworker, most of it happening on company time.

​“Ugh, fine.” Alex placed her hands on her hips, pouting. “I’ll figure something out.”

​The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Leave it alone, Alex.”

​Alex went to argue then stopped at the look on my face. “So what time is he-whose-nameth-we-shall-never-speak bringing Lock home?”

Jesus, why did everyone seem to shorten my child’s name all of a sudden? “Lachlan,” I corrected her, checking my watch. “And any minute now.”

​“Pshhtt,” Alex snorted. “How is Lock taking all of this?”

​I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Surprisingly well. He’s happy about the move. You know he hated the kids at his school, so he’s optimistic that he’ll meet kids ‘on his level’.” Understatement of the century.

​Alex laughed, breaking down the box she’d finished emptying. She knew my struggles with my son. The kid was crazy smart, and a smart-ass, partly thanks to his maniacal godmother. He’d had a hard time making friends in his old school. They wanted to play “little kid” games, and that just didn’t work for him. I’d given up pointing out he was the same age as those “little kids” when he was in third grade.

​“You can’t blame my godson. He clearly inherited my excellent taste in playmates. And the kids at his school were total tools.” Alex disappeared into my walk-in closet that had been a huge selling point when I’d bought this run-down Victorian manor, putting my shoes on the uneven shelves.

​Moving here had been a massive step for me. I’d been born and raised in the city, so moving to tiny Maplehurst, Georgia, population a whopping three thousand three hundred and eleven people, was an adjustment. Atlanta had been my home, but after Jeremy’s cheating and the constant strain of my family and their disapproval over my choice of career, I’d decided a fresh start was in order.

​Thanks to a flat tire, I’d ended up in this quaint town and fallen instantly in love.

​It was some kind of destiny that day. Not only had I ended up three towns away from where I was trying to go (not even GPS could save my direction-challenged self), but I’d broken down in front of this run-down, late eighteen-hundreds, Victorian manor with its dilapidated wraparound porch, lawn that was more weeds than grass, with bricks that were cracked and some missing, and a questionable smell coming from the bathrooms. It screamed “money pit” and migraine. It was perfect.

​While I waited the two hours until the only tow truck in town could come and help me (talk about a shock), I’d called the number on the “For Sale” sign. Wouldn’t you know it? The real estate agent was not only free, but she was around the corner!

​The second the creaky front door swung open, the smell of old wood, dust, and stale air hitting me, I smiled, which I’m sure freaked her out. I mean, who smiled over that? Still, she diligently walked me through the house. There was a large formal living room, a dining room, and a study. The kitchen was at the back and opened up to a massive backyard. Five bedrooms made up the upstairs, and there were four bathrooms, which was surprising in a house this old. But my favorite part was the three fireplaces: one in the living room, one in the bedroom, and one in the study. Fireplaces were hilarious given this was Georgia and it was hot as hell, but I loved the ambiance they provided.

​I offered full asking, daydreaming about what this house, Winterbourne Manor, could be, not seeing the missing floorboards, the peeling paint, the absent kitchen island counter, or all the other things that made this place a dump to anyone else.

​The real estate agent stood staring at me, mouth open, for a solid two minutes. I raised an eyebrow at her. It took a moment for her to recover, and then she told me the weirdest sale term I’d ever heard.

​Now, it was mine and, thank God, livable until I started renovating.

​Our fresh start had begun.

​“And by the way, how about we not encourage Lachlan calling his classmates ‘tools’,” I warned my friend.

​Emerging from the closet, she threw up her hands comically. “You want me to encourage him to lie?”

​Laughing at the way her eyes bugged out of her head, I answered, “Not lie. But maybe we could be a little more tactful?” Yeah, tactful and Alex were not two words that went in the same sentence. “I want him to have a decent chance of making friends here. Lachlan telling the first kid who asks him to play marbles he’s a lame tool probably won’t go over well.” Just like it didn’t go over well with the Von Zieglers. I shook the memory of Richie Von Ziegler’s parents yelling at the principal because Lachlan had made the kid cry and feel stupid out of my head. Some people were so dramatic.

​Alex huffed, blowing the lock of blond hair that had fallen across her face out of the way. “If I must… But only until we are sure the kids here aren’t tools.”

​“That’s fair,” I chuckled, ripping open another moving box.

​God, moving sucked. I hadn’t had to do it in nearly fifteen years and already was over it. Lachlan and I had decided to leave pretty much everything other than our clothes, Lachlan’s toys, books, and other “necessities,” as he called them, and a couple pieces of sentimental furniture behind with Jeremy in the Atlanta house. I couldn’t bring myself to call it my house anymore.