Under Pressure (Diamond Cove Romantic Comedy)

Short Story Prequel

Blue

10 Years ago

At four-thirty a.m., Bluebell St. James wandered into the University of Tampa’s library and headed for the computers that sat at the back of the building. The bright lights glared at her as if she was the reason they had to shine so early in the morning. She wasn’t thrilled about being up at this hour either and so she glared right back.

A 64 oz vanilla cherry Pepsi gave her liquid courage to face what lay ahead. From the small group of worktables, she could watch for her classmates—if any of them showed up for their ridiculous study session—and do some quick digging on the internet that she just couldn’t get off her mind.

Aside from the one librarian at the desk, there was no one here at this time of day. Perfect for her need for privacy and sneakiness.

She slid onto the cool metal stool in the modern library, recoiling as the metal brushed over her skin like an ice cube. She wished she hadn’t chosen shorts, even though the temperature was projected to reach the hundreds today in Tampa it was only in the high sixties now and the chair was ten degrees cooler than that.

She booted up the computer, and a shiver went up her spine—this time it had nothing to do with her seat—as she went to her browser and typed in the name: Dominic Rockefeller, Chicago.

Within moments, her little brother’s face filled the screen. Her heart went from what had felt like dormant to racing in seconds, and a lump filled her throat. She swallowed it down.

Yesterday was his eighteenth birthday.

Today, he was being indicted for murder.

Her stomach roiled at the sight of Dom’s hardened expression the bloody wound across his jaw, hands cuffed behind his back, police officers guiding him into the station. Two years her junior, he still couldn’t grow a full beard and his shoulders hadn’t filled out yet. He was a kid. Every bit the kid she’d left behind when she was sixteen. She begged him to come with her. To run. He’d refused. Guilt clawed at her insides. She’d known this would happen. If he stayed, he’d become one of them.

She tried to tell herself it wasn’t her fault, but even at fourteen, he’d been stronger than her and she couldn’t drag him out of the snake pit they were born into any more than she could lift a motorcycle over her head.

She just wished she hadn’t overheard her dad and Marshall Hank Stroup talking about Dom last night. Then, maybe, the veil of false belief she’d drawn could have stayed in its flimsy place, and in her head that Dom had managed to stay out of that life.

Large footsteps plodded over granite echoed around the marble and glass-filled building, pulling Blue’s gaze from her screen. His hulking frame lumbered forward like some giant. He was larger than life even as he slumped down on a sofa in the center of the library where they were supposed to meet.

Her heart picked up speed again. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Out of the whole study group, he was the last one she would have put money on to show up. He was too popular. Too good at getting his way. Too . . . too easy on the eyes. She’d seen the way the girls in her class ogled him.

She swallowed hard. In her experience, guys like him charmed, lied, or bought their way out of homework and into the grades they wanted. He should have been the first to accept her offer to do most of the work. Yet here he was. Bluebell looked at her watch. At four-forty-five no less. Fifteen minutes early.

Blue picked up her soda and took a fortifying sip, letting the vanilla cherry flavor rush over her tongue in a burst of flavor and the carbonation burn down her throat to ground her, then she switched off her computer. Blue got to her feet, grabbed her bag and soda, and headed his way. This was her territory and he’d be gone—or fall asleep on that couch—as soon as she started talking about qualifying business leads.

He pulled papers from his backpack, neatly laying them out over the coffee table between sofas, then leaned back and stretched his long legs out in front of him as he scanned one. It gave her just a moment to take him in before he saw her.

Sean Clayton wasn’t just big, he was well over six feet and muscular . She’d never met a guy his age with muscles like that before. His dark hair was almost black, except for the red highlights in it, his skin was naturally tanned, he had caramel-colored eyes, dimples in his cheeks, and a bruiser of a jawline. Everything about his appearance spoke of Italian descent, except for the Seattle Seahawks t-shirt he wore, the khaki shorts, and the flip flops.

His hair was wet again this morning, but not from a morning shower. She’d learned last week that he either went swimming in his grandparent’s pool or the ocean every day. He looked like a model right out of a photo shoot. Given all those muscles, and striking good looks, he could probably be an underwear model if he wanted—not that she pictured him like that . . .

His gaze drew up as she got closer, and he smiled at her, putting his dimples on full display. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep herself from saying something embarrassing, or inappropriate, or both.

“Morning, Blue” he said, in a voice way too chipper for the hour. His gaze dropped to her drink and a smirk replaced his grin.

She frowned and clutched at the Styrofoam cup in her hands until she’d nearly squished it. “What are you doing here?” The words slipped out unbidden. Carefully, slowly, she lowered herself onto the couch next to him. A combination of salty sea air and clean laundry wafted about him, making her toes curl Eau de Ocean Man. He smelled so good, she mindlessly closed her eyes and breathed deep. So, he hadn’t gone swimming in a pool today.

He arched a thick, dark brow at her and she scooted back into the armrest. “Group project?” he said.

It was really more of a mastermind project, where everyone picked a career, and they helped one another brainstorm how to get their different businesses up and going.

“I just thought—” Now what was she supposed to say? That she thought he wouldn’t show up? That she thought five a.m. would be enough of a deterrent to keep him from coming. She didn’t have to.

“You thought I wouldn’t show?” His eyes glimmered with amusement.

“No!” Her voice echoed around the building. No one, and she meant no one , had ever shown up at five a.m. before. It just didn’t happen. And she was always left alone to do her school work in peace and enjoy the tiny victory she had knowing she was the only one tough enough to show up at this hour.

He chuckled. “Right.”

She dropped her bag to the sterile white granite floor with a clunk. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He snorted, leaned forward on his seat, and started sorting through his paperwork. “First, we meet at seven, then six, now five. If you keep this up, we’ll be meeting here at one a.m. by Friday.”

Bluebell took another sip of her soda—it didn’t ground her this time. Drats. So, she resorted to sarcasm. “If we meet at one, will you stop coming?”

He shook his head at her, looking more amused than anything else. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m from a military family. Weird hours are my norm.” He leaned closer to her, and she held her breath. “Look, I don’t know why you’d want to do this project on your own, but you did successfully get rid of the rest of our group. I mean, what sane twenty-something would show up at five a.m. when they’ve been all but promised the work will get done without their help?”

Busted.

He leaned back. “How that’s possible in a mastermind group, I don’t know, but you can’t exactly credit most of the group with an overabundance of brains.”

She snorted, then tried to hide it. “Soda down the wrong tube.” She hadn’t taken a sip.

That knowing smile of his returned. “But I’m not leaving,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder. Tingles shot down her spine.

She gritted her teeth. No one had ever called her out before. She didn’t think anyone had noticed. Which was part of the reason this was so unnerving. She lifted her chin. “You’re here, crazy .”

His full lips quirked up at the side, and a deep rumbling laugh sent goose bumps rising on her arms. “So are you. Guess we can share a padded cell.”

“Maybe I prefer solitary confinement, and frankly,” she signaled down his body with a swipe of her hand, “you take up a lot of room.”

He swirled a finger around in the air, indicating the empty library as a whole. “I can see that.”

“Hey, if this is solitary confinement, I’ll take it,” she said.

“Almost solitary. You’ve still got me.” He winked. “Lucky girl.”

“Is that what I am?” she teased.

His gaze zeroed in on her mouth and she quickly turned to the papers he’d laid out on the table. Ugh. Stop bantering! What was she thinking? This was one of the most popular guys in school going by the crowd she always saw around him. She should not be flirting with him. Shouldn’t be playing into this . . . whatever this was. “Seriously, why would you show up this early if you didn’t have to? Don’t you want to take advantage of that and sleep in or something?”

“Nope.” He turned in his chair. “And I do have to. This is my assignment too. I’m doing my fair share. Also, if I don’t come, I’ll fail, so . . .”

Everything in her training taught her how to disappear in the background, how to be forgettable. From the oversized t-shirt she’d knotted in the back, to her lack of makeup, to her mousy hair. Even her personality had transformed from outspoken to quiet. Well, biting her tongue was more like it, though she couldn’t say she was doing all that good of a job right now.

If anyone from her old life were to look at her, they wouldn’t recognize the dark-haired, designer-clothes-wearing, challenging beauty she used to be. Which was the point. And, frankly, no one had wanted to be around the mousy, plain-clothed, recluse she’d become—until now.

Not that he wanted to be around her, he just wanted to do his part. Which also made him one of the nicest guys she knew. Double drat.

A pencil wagged in her face, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“You okay there, Blue?” He chuckled. “You look like your brain just went on a walkabout.”

It had. She blinked. “Why do you keep calling me Blue?”

He furrowed his brow. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Bluebell. No one calls me Blue.” Except her brother who’d called her that because of the amount of blue she used to wear. It was the only reason she hadn’t said no when the agents had given her and her dad hippie names. But she didn’t have a single piece of blue in her wardrobe anymore—she stuck with browns, beiges, whites, creams, and grays. Plain. Forgettable. “Everyone calls me Bluebell or Bell.”

“I can if you want, I guess.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But Blue’s such a unique name. It suits you.”

That was what her brother had said.

“No.”

He frowned. “No, don’t call you that?”

She shook her head. “Don’t stop calling me that.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I like it.” It felt familiar, comforting, like a warm blanket—a bear hug. Her gaze dropped to Sean’s strong arms and she suddenly wondered what it’d be like to be wrapped up in those bad boys.

A wide smile covered Sean’s ridiculously handsome face, making his dimples appear and her stomach tumble. “All right . . . Blue .” He gave her knee a little tap with his pencil. “Let’s get to work. We have a lot of it now that we’re doing it for six people.”

She slouched in on herself and wrinkled her nose up. “It’s not so bad.”

This time when he glanced her way he gave her a quizzical look—like he was trying to figure something out. And she had a feeling if he kept staring, he just might. And for the first time in four years, despite all the walls she put up, she wasn’t sure she minded.