Singe (Guardian Protection #1)

Maybe a change would do me good. New hair. New ideas. Hell, at this point, it definitely couldn’t hurt.

After I grabbed my phone from my nightstand, I settled on my bed and typed out a text to my best friend.



Me: What about a stepbrother romance?



As usual, she replied immediately.



Brianna: Are you Penelope Ward?

Me: Well, no.

Brianna: Then no.



I groaned and stared up at the ceiling. I’d been brainstorming my newest book for what felt like forever, but writer’s block was a real bitch.



Me: I hate you.

Brianna: You love me. What about a male/male? You’ve never done one of those.

Me: Yeah, well. I’m not Ella Frank, either. So, ya know.

Brianna: Wow. I didn’t realize I got cryin’ Rhion this morning.

Me: Ugh. I hate it when you rhyme.

Brianna: No, you don’t, lyin’ Rhion. Lol

Me: Hilarious.

Brianna: Okay. So, seriously. What about a stepbrother male/male romance?

Me: Nah. I’m not into anal. I could never do two guys justice.

Brianna: You get me a date with Devon or Johnson and I’ll do all the research for you.

Me: I bet you would.

Brianna: So, what are you up to today?

Me: I’m writing all the words!

Brianna: On a book you don’t even know the plot to?

Me: Yeah. That one.

Brianna: Right. Well, call me if you need a break.



I tossed my phone onto the bed and buried my face in my hands. Why was writing so stressful? Maybe because I didn’t know the first thing about love, considering that my only serious boyfriend was a fictional character. Meh. Minor details.

When my phone rang, I scooped it up fully expecting it to be Brianna with another lackluster plot attempt. However, my chin jerked to the side when I saw Katie’s name on the screen.

I answered immediately. “Is everything okay?”

“Why do you always assume something is wrong when I call?”

I uncrossed my legs and rose off the bed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because your mother is the boogeyman.”

“I prefer sorceress of evil.”

“That too. And also because, the majority of the times when you call me, it’s because something’s wrong.”

“Not always!” she defended.

She was full of shit. Katie Spencer called me approximately three times a year. Usually, once around Christmas, when her mother, my former Cinderella-style stepmother, would lose her fucking mind about not being able to afford her yearly holiday vacation to the Hamptons. She’d terrorize Katie until I’d offer her the keys to my dad’s old house. I’d never even received a thank-you for my generosity. That is if you didn’t include the missing silver I had to replace each time my stepmom left.

Then Katie would call me again when her mother would flip out over my father’s untimely death and check herself into a ridiculously expensive rehab center (read: spa), leaving Katie scrounging for a way to pay the bill. Though she did this knowing Katie would call me to cover it. Margaret Spencer was all too happy to allow her daughter to do her dirty work.

Margaret didn’t care that I was grieving as well. It must have slipped her mind that I had been only twenty-two years old when my dad had had a heart attack in the middle of my celebratory college graduation dinner. A private dinner for which he had rented out an entire restaurant for the evening. This was also the dinner where I had been forced to perform CPR until a bodyguard dragged me off his lifeless body to make way for the paramedics.

No, as far as Margaret was concerned, that was pishposh. She’d lost the love of her life. Never mind the fact that they’d gotten a divorce nearly six years before he passed away. What she’d really lost was her cash cow. Meanwhile, I was left to grieve the greatest father who had ever lived and the only parent I’d ever known.

My father, being a decent man and one who valued his time too much to spend it fighting with a woman over money, had kept Margaret—and thus Katie—in the lifestyle she had become accustomed to during the whopping three years they had been wed. It was something he’d done for all of his ex-wives—all five of them.

And lastly, Katie would always call in March, usually about three weeks before her birthday. A friendly reminder that she still existed. How else would I know where to send her gifts?

I should have hated her. But I didn’t. I’d always wanted a sister, but after my mother had died, my father had refused to date women with kids. Don’t get me wrong. He’d loved me and my brother. But he’d had no desire to raise anyone else’s child or have any more of his own. It was his one rule when it came to relationships. That is until Margaret Spencer came along. I’d never understood his pull to her, but then again, I’d never questioned it. I was just so damn excited to finally have a sister, the step part being completely inconsequential as far as I was concerned.

And, when I met Katie, I fell in love instantly. She wasn’t like her wicked witch of a mother. She was sweet, albeit a little quiet for my taste, but we got along well. Her mother never approved of me though. I played softball and rode horses. Generally any sport that involved dirt. Margaret preferred Katie to wear designer dresses while rubbing elbows with high society.

My dad, however, encouraged my creativity and athletic endeavors. He once walked out on a multimillion-dollar deal because my team had advanced in a softball tournament. And, more times than I could count, he sat in a folding chair, dressed to the nines, not three feet from a pile of horse manure. Surrounded by two thoroughly disgusted bodyguards, he watched like a proud papa as I rounded barrels, my hair whipping in the wind behind me, a huge smile on my face. They were local shows, but he cheered like I’d won the Olympics when they presented me with that red ribbon. And, more often than not, it was only a second place out of six. Not exactly a huge accomplishment—unless you were my father.

I was a daddy’s girl to the core. And I missed him. Daily.

“Look, Mom is—” Katie started.

I quickly stopped her. “I don’t have the money anymore, Katie. You know that. I haven’t written a book in over three months.”

“Oh, come on, Rhion. You could call Mr. Higgins.”

I could. But I promised I wouldn’t anymore.

Guilt seeped into my stomach as I whispered, “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Rhion,” she begged. “Her car… I mean, she—”

“No.” Closing my eyes, I sucked in a painful breath. “I told you last time I couldn’t help anymore. I just don’t have the money.”

“That’s not true and you know it. You could easily—”

I flopped back onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling. “Is this all you called for?”

She went silent. I could picture her perfectly painted red lips pursing in frustration.

“No,” she gritted out.

I smiled weakly. “Okay, then, so what’s new with you?”

“Oh, not much. Just trying to figure out how to deal with mommy dearest.”