Power Play

Power Play
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Flirt eBook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Sophia Henry

Excerpt from
Atone
by Beth Yarnall copyright © 2016 by Beth Yarnall

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Flirt, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Flirt is a registered trademark and the Flirt colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
Atone
by Beth Yarnall. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

eBook ISBN 9781101887189

Cover design: Diane Luger

Cover photograph: CURAphotography/Shutterstock

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Rule One: There's no such thing as love at first sight.

Lust at first sight, sure, but not love. Don't get me wrong. I love love. I love love so much, I've dressed up as Cupid for Halloween. But real love takes time.

Just some unsolicited advice from Gabriella Bertucci, Queen of Having It All Figured Out, except my own life, of course. It's easy to give advice and boast lofty ideals when no one pays attention to you.

“Hey!”

I knew the voice, but I had to do a double take after looking up from the “Lions and Tigers and Red Wings, oh MI” T-shirt I'd been folding. “You got your hair cut.”

Landon Taylor ran a hand over his dark blond faux-hawk and grinned. “Yeah. It was time to lose the mop top.”

“Looks nice.” I grabbed another shirt out of the cardboard box filled with our most recent shipment of T-shirts from Totally Detroit, a local screen printer. If I held the shirt up and folded it in front of my face, Landon might not notice my annoying habit of hyperventilating whenever I talked to him.

Though Landon and his family had been clients at my family's produce stores for years, my palms still broke out in a sweat whenever he walked through the door.

“Do you guys have any more of the Tigers Legos?” Landon asked as he dug through a tiny box of toys next to the register. “My brothers are obsessed with them.”

“Yeah, I know. Your mom was in here last week and bought us out.”

“Damn.” His dark blond eyebrows knit in defeat and he turned his attention to a rack of kids' T-shirts.

“You could buy him an actual tiger,” I suggested.

“Animal or baseball player?” Landon glanced up to shoot me a wink, then resumed pushing the hangers quickly aside, obviously not impressed with our selection.

I grabbed a stuffed tiger with the state of Michigan embroidered in pink across its chest from a nearby table and threw it at Landon. “RAWWR!” It bounced off his freshly shorn head and landed on the floor.

“Geez, Gaby! You've gotta tell a guy when you throw a damn tiger at him.”

“Now I see why you play hockey,” I joked before rushing behind the register to help another customer. He couldn't retaliate while I rang up someone's purchase, but I'd have to remember to take cover after.

The Taylor family had shopped at Eastern Market, Detroit's historic, outdoor public market, religiously every Saturday morning for as long as I can recall. They always bought a bushel of apples from our stand and ate them as they wove through the aisles under the covered sheds. Once they would finish browsing, they would come back and load their old red wagon with enough produce to last the week.

That was back when Bertucci Produce was just a small, but thriving, stand in Shed One at Eastern Market. Years before my mom and dad decided they wanted to open 313 Artisans, the small store I currently run, which began as a way to feature local artists as well as my mom's own artistic creations.

This was back when Landon was just a kid strolling through the streets in one of Detroit's oldest communities, not Landon Taylor superstar defenseman for the Detroit Pilots. Detroit's next NHL-bound player.

Rule Two: Real love is between two people. If it's one-sided, it's just infatuation; a crush.

Which is why I couldn't call my feelings for Landon Taylor love. Sure, my forehead broke out in a cold sweat and my heart pumped and thumped like a rock 'n' roll drumbeat every time I watched him walk through the door. But since I didn't seem to have the same effect on him, it couldn't be love.

In defense of my hormonally charged reaction, every time I saw him now he looked like a fitness model who'd just left a photo shoot. Today, for instance, a blue Detroit Pilots Under Armor shirt skimmed the curves of his chiseled chest, and black basketball shorts swished against his muscular thighs. I even knew he had on little white ankle socks inside his gray and blue Brooks running shoes.

Because I'm that obsessed observant.

The only other times I saw him was during games, decked out in the dark teal, black, and silver hockey uniform of his Detroit Pilots. The American Hockey League (AHL) team that had relocated from Raleigh, North Carolina, to Detroit a few years ago.

I doubt Landon noticed anything about me, except that I could sling a stuffed tiger with NFL quarterback–like precision. As the only girl in my family, getting overlooked had become as regular as the sun setting in the West. My brothers would argue that I was the princess, and I may have been when I was younger, but that was far from the truth anymore. If my dad had his way—and I'm sure he will—my brothers would be the heirs to the Bertucci Produce legacy. Even though I'm the only one who'd consistently worked at the stores.

“You guys gonna win the Calder this year?” Papa's voice boomed from the other side of the store. Papa's voice always boomed, but it was exceptionally loud in a large retail space with one customer.

“Hope so, sir. This city needs another championship right about now,” Landon answered.

“You've got a lot of work to do with Varenkov and Gribov gone.” Papa wove through the narrow space between product displays to stand beside Landon.

Landon set the stuffed tiger I'd thrown at him on the counter to shake the outstretched hand Papa offered him. “Charlotte drafted Bryan Girard this summer. He's a sick left wing. So we're hoping he makes up for Varenkov. And Gribov got sent back down.”

Papa grumbled, obviously unaware of Gribov's recent demotion. “When are they calling you up?”

“Charlotte's D is pretty young, so I'm hoping I get my chance soon.” Landon moved his hand to the top of his head and rubbed it.

“Stick to your game and you'll get there.” Papa slapped Landon on the back before moving to the other side of the counter. He tapped a few keys on the register, generating the buzz of a report printing on receipt paper.

I knew exactly what report he was printing: sales, daily sales, weekly sales, sales since he'd opened this store six months ago. Daily, he poured over them in silence. The stress from a stupid piece of paper was going to kill him.

I scanned the back wall of the store, contemplating where I could hang the rest of the T-shirts that wouldn't fit on the shelf. We needed one of those torso-only mannequins to show off how the T-shirts fit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Landon move toward the door and my heart sank. He had no reason to stay any longer since we didn't have the gift he wanted, but I wanted him to linger anyway. If only I were well versed in small talk like Papa.

What if I picked up the box of T-shirts at my feet and “accidentally” fell? Would big, strong Landon Taylor run to my rescue?

Better yet: Landon could stay and use his fitness-god good looks and physique to model for our store. Instead of a weird headless, legless mannequin on display we could pop a shirt on Landon and have him walk around. If customers could see his real-life muscles expanding and contracting under the fitted T-shirt, it would cause a Call-911-this-store's-on-fire sellout of our stock.

Rule Three: If you're infatuated with someone it's super creepy to come up with ways to make him stay longer in your presence.

Super creepy, Gaby.

“See you soon, Joe! Later, Gaby!” Landon called out. He pushed the door open with one arm, while raising the other in a farewell gesture.

Papa lifted his left arm, but instead of returning Landon's wave, he clutched his right bicep. His head dropped, his chin hit his clavicle, and his shoulders slumped over the register.

“Papa?” I asked, unable to conceal the screech in my voice. “Papa?”

My heart stopped. Dropped. Imploded.

I knocked over the display table and tipped a mountain of freshly folded T-shirts onto the floor in my haste. “Papa!”

Papa lifted his head and tried to speak, but no words came out. I could hear his quick, sharp intake of breath from across the room. As I got closer, I saw the drops of perspiration beaded across his forehead like raindrops on a windshield. When I reached him, I swung my arm across his shoulders.

“I'm calling nine-one-one, Gaby.” Landon appeared next to me, cellphone already against his ear. I hadn't even noticed he'd come back in the store.

“Papa!” I whispered, not by choice. My voice had completely left me. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I held my dad. “Maybe I shouldn't touch him. Landon? Landon, what do I do?”

“I don't know. I think he's having a heart attack. I don't know. Um, Eastern Market.” Landon kept his calm as he explained the situation to the operator. “Gaby, what's the address?”

“Twenty-five-oh-eight Russell.”

“Twenty-five-oh-eight Russell,” Landon repeated. “It's a store in Eastern Market called Three-one-three Artisans. Male, probably fifties, six-foot something. I don't know, he's not overweight or anything.”

“The ambulance is on the way, Papa. Stay with me,” I whispered to my father.

Papa nodded. It was slight, but at least he was responsive.

Landon stayed on the line with the 911 operator and I held on to Papa until the ambulance arrived. The emergency technicians charged through the door wheeling an empty stretcher, and other nonmedical people followed. It made me sick to think that people were coming in just to get a glimpse of the “action.”

Strong arms pulled me away from Papa to allow the EMTs access to him. I collapsed against Landon's chest and he wrapped me in his arms. He smelled like too much cologne and stale beer, which wasn't what I'd expected.

Though staying in Landon's arms was the easy response, I wiggled free of his grasp and spun around, knowing I'd be upset with myself if I didn't watch the two EMTs lift my dad onto the stretcher.

My stomach rolled and I swayed forward. Landon gripped my arms, holding me still, strong. “Pretend it's a random customer, not your dad,” he whispered.

I nodded and attempted to analyze every action the EMTs performed with a nurse's clinical eye, rather than from a daughter's terrified perspective. The ridiculous number of situations that the medical technicians needed to be prepared and properly trained for boggled my mind. They had to know a bit of everything. The difference between life and death depended on each tech knowing exactly what to do for a heart attack, a burn victim, or a gunshot wound. The list was endless, since they could be called to any scene. They saved lives every day, and yet I'd bet they didn't make one third of what a doctor made.

“You coming with him?” The shorter, smaller tech nodded at Landon.

“I am.” I spoke up. “No, wait, the store. I—” I surveyed the store. “I can't leave.”

“I'll stay,” Landon said.

I whipped my head around to look at him. “What?”

“I'll stay. I mean, if that's okay with you. I can hold down the fort.”

Make a decision, Gaby.

I watched the EMTs glide the stretcher through the open door. I had to get going.

“Are you sure?” I asked. Wasted words. Wasted time. Time to go.

“Yes.” Landon squared his shoulders before taking both of my hands and looking me straight in the eyes. “Gabriella, go with your dad.”

“Okay.” I slumped in his grip, before finding the strength to straighten again. “I'm going to call my uncle Sal. I hope he can get here soon.”

“Just go. Everything will be fine.” Landon spun me around and guided me toward the door.

I knew Landon could handle the store. I'd be surprised if any browsers would come in, let alone customers who'd make him try to figure out the register.

Before following the EMTs to the ambulance, I remembered my purse hidden away in the cubby under the register. As I retrieved it, I fumbled for words. “Thank you, Landon. I don't even know what to say.”

“Gabriella. Go.”

I nodded and pushed through the doors.