Win big, p.1

Win Big, page 1

 

Win Big
 


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Win Big


  Win Big 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 Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Jamieson

  Excerpt from For the Win copyright © 2019 by Kelly Jamieson

  All rights reserved.

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

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

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book For the Win by Kelly Jamieson. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984800183

  Cover design: Makeready Designs

  Cover illustration: © Viktor Gladkov/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Wynn Dynasty

  Chapter 1: Everly

  Chapter 2: Wyatt

  Chapter 3: Everly

  Chapter 4: Wyatt

  Chapter 5: Everly

  Chapter 6: Wyatt

  Chapter 7: Everly

  Chapter 8: Everly

  Chapter 9: Wyatt

  Chapter 10: Everly

  Chapter 11: Wyatt

  Chapter 12: Everly

  Chapter 13: Wyatt

  Chapter 14: Everly

  Chapter 15: Everly

  Chapter 16: Wyatt

  Chapter 17: Everly

  Chapter 18: Wyatt

  Chapter 19: Wyatt

  Chapter 20: Everly

  Chapter 21: Wyatt

  Chapter 22: Everly

  Chapter 23: Wyatt

  Chapter 24: Everly

  Chapter 25: Wyatt

  Epilogue: Everly

  Acknowledgments

  By Kelly Jamieson

  About the Author

  Excerpt from For the Win

  The Wynn Dynasty

  Bob Wynn, owner of the California Condors. Originally married to Grace Rogers (deceased), parent to Mark and Matthew with Grace. Parent to Everly, Asher, Harrison, and Noah with Chelsea Wynn. Grandfather to Jean Paul (JP), Théo, Jackson, and Riley.

  Chelsea Wynn (formerly Clark), married to Bob Wynn, mother of Everly, Asher, Harrison, and Noah.

  Matthew Wynn, owner of the Long Beach Golden Eagles. Son of Bob Wynn. Married to Aline Gagnon. Father of Théo and Jean Paul (JP).

  Mark Wynn, coach of the Long Beach Golden Eagles. Son of Bob Wynn. Divorced from Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Father of Jackson and Riley.

  Théo Wynn, general manager of the California Condors. Son of Matthew Wynn and Aline Gagnon. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace).

  Jean Paul (JP) Wynn, son of Matthew Wynn and Aline Gagnon. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Plays for the Long Beach Golden Eagles.

  Jackson Wynn, son of Mark Wynn and Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Plays for the Chicago Aces.

  Riley Wynn, daughter of Mark Wynn and Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Granddaughter of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Goalie coach for the San Diego Hawks, affiliate team of the Long Beach Golden Eagles.

  Everly Wynn, daughter of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Executive director of the Condors Foundation.

  Asher Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Sports reporter for Playmaker (hockey blog).

  Harrison Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Plays for the Pasadena Condors, affiliate team of the California Condors.

  Noah Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Plays for the San Diego Hawks.

  Chapter 1

  Everly

  They say that everything happens for a reason.

  But sometimes that reason is you’re drunk and make bad decisions.

  In my own defense, it was New Year’s Eve. Who doesn’t get drunk and make bad decisions on New Year’s Eve? Right?

  Not me. I never make bad decisions. Well, not anymore. Not since I was sixteen years old and broke my parents’ hearts, destroyed their trust in me, and nearly wrecked a bunch of lives. Since then, it has been my life’s goal to never disappoint them again. That means never screwing up, working hard, being perfect. Easy peasy.

  I’m lying in Wyatt Bell’s bed.

  This is totally contrary to my life’s mission, on so many levels.

  At least I’m alone, thank fuck.

  Wyatt Bell. Six feet two inches, two hundred twenty pounds of sex on skates. Plays defense for the California Condors.

  I know we made out for a while with our clothes on. It was hot as hell and I was happily oblivious to all the reasons we shouldn’t be doing that—chiefly, the fact that I hate him—as my lady parts combusted in a feverish explosion of lust. Wow.

  I nearly have to wave a hand in front of my face as scorching heat rises to my cheeks.

  A hockey player. On the team my dad owns.

  God! How stupid could I be?

  Anyway, my clothes are still on—a body con, short black dress, bra, and panties. Not like I had a lot to remove, but there’s comfort in the fact that I’m still clothed. And alone.

  Where is he?

  A headache drums at my temples and I lift my hands to rub there, closing my eyes. My mouth tastes like I licked the inside of a dumpster, and my stomach is…iffy. I think I have a hangover.

  I’m not sure because it’s been that long since I had one. I don’t get drunk enough to be hungover.

  I’m annoyed at myself.

  I crack open my eyes. Daylight brightens the edges of the window around the blinds. I have no idea what time it is, but obviously the sun is up. I lift my head, which makes it pound more, and peer at the bedside table. No clock.

  I go backward in my mind…pretty sure I brought my purse…which has my phone in it…it has to be here somewhere.

  And where is Wyatt?

  Welp. Best find out.

  I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. A sick wave washes over me, but it doesn’t last long. I think I’ll live.

  I eye the room. The open door appears to be to an en suite bathroom. Excellent.

  Feet bare, I pad across the big bedroom to the bathroom. I barely note the gorgeous stone tiles, a massive shower with multiple heads, and the big granite vanity as I take care of business. As I wash my hands, I observe my reflection. Hair standing on end, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, and…is that…whisker burn on my jaw? Dear God. I close my eyes.

  Then I draw in a deep breath and tiptoe across the bedroom to the other door. I’ve never been here before and even though this condo is in the same building as my nephew’s, where I’ve been many times, it’s a completely different layout. But I find my way to the kitchen/living area, which I now vaguely remember from last night.

  The place is empty.

  This is good. Great. I spy my purse on the coffee table and make a beeline for it. I can grab it and get the hell out of here before I have to face Wyatt.

  “Morning.”

  I jump, my feet literally leaving the floor, and whirl around at the deep, gritty voice.

  Oh sweet Jesus, he looks just as good the morning after. Hi
s dark gold hair is kind of long on top and right now it’s tousled all over. Dark gold beard stubble shadows his jaw. His eyes are hazel, and I know from seeing him close up they’re more green than brown, with gold flecks in them. I nearly whimper. “Morning,” I choke out.

  “Want some breakfast?” He stretches and the T-shirt he’s wearing rises and reveals skin between the hem and the top of the sweatpants, which are sitting so indecently low on his hips they should be illegal. Not to mention the, uh, enticing bulge at his groin, which is clearly recognizable. I swallow as I avert my gaze. “Or coffee?”

  “No! I’m good. I need to go. Uh…”

  “Yeah?” He heads to the kitchen and the Keurig on the counter, popping in a K-Cup.

  “Where did you sleep?”

  He turns and flashes a wicked smile. “You don’t remember?”

  I trudge toward him, straightening my dress. “I don’t remember much. Ugh.”

  He purses his lips and studies me. “You feel okay?”

  I drop my purse on the counter and lean my elbows there. “If by ‘okay’ you mean feeling like my brain is bleeding out my eyes, my stomach is full of battery acid, and I’m about to die in five minutes, then yes, I feel okay.”

  He bites down on the smile that tugs at his lips. “That good, huh.”

  “Okay, I’m exaggerating.”

  “Here.” He opens a cupboard and produces a small white bottle. He shakes out a gel cap and hands it to me, reaching next for a glass, which he fills with water from the fridge dispenser.

  “Thank you.” I toss the pill into my mouth and swallow it. I guzzle that delicious cold water down until the glass is empty. “God, that’s good water.”

  His lips twitch again. “Sure you don’t want coffee? Some toast might help with the battery acid.”

  I sink onto a stool and rest my head in my hands. I want to leave, but I also want to feel better. “Okay.”

  “I slept in the spare room.” He busies himself at the Keurig again, then the toaster.

  “Oh.”

  “After you passed out, I figured I’d let you sleep it off alone.”

  I gasp in outrage. “I did not pass out!”

  He gives me a look, chin down, lips pursed. “Uh-huh. Anyway, don’t worry, I didn’t take advantage of your state of inebriation.”

  “You weren’t inebriated?”

  “Yeah, I was. I admit it.” He grins. “Not as much as you, judging from your condition this morning.”

  “Ugh. I haven’t been hungover since I was a teenager. I really don’t like it.”

  “No one does. By your age, you should have learned how to pace yourself.”

  I frown.

  He slides a mug of coffee across the counter. “Do you need milk and sugar?”

  “A little milk?”

  “Sure.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton.

  I splash a tiny bit into the dark brew and stir it with the spoon he provides, then pick up the cup and sip it.

  “What do you want on your toast? I have butter, peanut butter, or…well, that’s it.”

  “Just butter.” I don’t usually eat bread, but I need something in my stomach. “Thanks.”

  While I eat mine, he makes himself toast, spreading his thickly with peanut butter.

  I don’t know what else to say to him. Last night we had plenty to say to each other…we argued about politics, hockey, and climate change, which he didn’t even take seriously! There’s something about him, a cocky confidence, that makes me want to poke holes in that self-assurance, disagree with everything that comes out of his mouth, and prove him wrong.

  One of the first times we met, we got into an argument about men being “showers” or “growers.” Wyatt was trying to tell me there was no such thing and I concluded I needed to do some research on that, which seemed to piss him off.

  I enjoy pissing him off.

  Judging from the dick print in those soft sweats, he’s a “shower.”

  I normally try to avoid conflict, but there’s something about sparring with him that makes my blood sizzle and energy flow through me.

  As for kissing him…whoa. If I thought my blood sizzled just from talking to him, making out with him had me shorting out and melting down.

  “So, looks like JP and Taylor are a thing.”

  “Yep.” I smile, my chest softening. My friend Taylor looked so happy last night, after the guy she loves showed up to apologize for being a dick to her, and did it in style. She and I were supposed to share a room at Théo and Lacey’s place, who hosted the New Year’s Eve party, so we didn’t have to drive home, but after JP arrived and he and Taylor made up, how could I not let them have the room?

  Which is how I ended up at Wyatt’s place, in need of somewhere to park my drunken ass for the night. And how we somehow ended up rolling around on his bed, desperately kissing and groping each other.

  It was hot.

  I gulp some coffee.

  “I’m happy for them,” I say, not letting on how my heart swelled with tenderness watching the scene last night. “They’re good for each other.”

  “Can she keep him out of the penalty box?”

  I lift an eyebrow.

  JP is my nephew, and don’t think that makes me old. My dad remarried and had me when he was forty-eight, right around the time the kids from his first marriage, my half brothers Mark and Matthew, were having kids. I’m twenty-seven, only a year older than JP. JP is also a hockey player, like Wyatt. JP plays for the Long Beach Golden Eagles—the enemy. Awkward, due to the fact that Matthew owns the Eagles, Mark coaches for them, another nephew and my brother play for their farm team, and my niece is the goalie coach for the farm team.

  Yep, we’re a hockey family.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s up to her,” I say, lifting my chin. “But she’s good for helping him manage his emotions, so that may be a benefit.”

  Wyatt shrugs and starts peeling an orange. “If you say so.”

  My family’s a bit messed up for a bunch of reasons, and I’m not very happy with the fact that my half brothers are currently suing my dad for allegedly stealing money from them. I’m not happy with the fact that Matthew bought the Long Beach Golden Eagles as a way to get back at my dad for allegedly stealing their money. And I’m not happy with the fact that Matthew stole Mark from us. Mark was the Condors’ coach until Matthew hired him. (I say “us” because even though I don’t actually work for the Condors, I do run the Condors Foundation.)

  I can criticize my family, but if anyone else does, I’m coming for them. “You’re just pissed because he punched you in the face at Théo’s wedding.”

  My family’s messed up, remember?

  “I was trying to help, for Chrissakes,” he says, rubbing his jaw as if it still hurts five months later. “He didn’t need to do that.” He holds up the peeled orange to me, offering it.

  I reach for it. “Thanks.” I break it apart. “I don’t think he meant to hit you,” I add begrudgingly. There was a bit of a brawl on the dance floor and Wyatt had intervened. I wasn’t a fan of Wyatt’s even then, but he didn’t deserve to get whacked in the face.

  “Yeah, I know, he told me that.” He shakes his head. “Your family is something else.”

  My defenses go on alert again. Can’t really dispute that statement, though, much as I enjoy arguing with Wyatt.

  “It’s been entertaining since Théo moved in here,” he adds.

  “Glad you find my family entertaining.” Théo is my nephew; JP’s brother. Théo is also Wyatt’s boss. Oh my God.

  He laughs. “I’m not dissing your family, hot stuff.”

  My eyes fly open. “Hot stuff?”

  He leans on the counter, opposite me. “Oh yeah. I always suspected you were hot stuff under that snooty, arrogant front.”

>   My jaw slackens. I blink. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Finally, I manage to screech, “Snooty? Arrogant?”

  He lifts one big shoulder. “You’re Princess Wynn, right?”

  My eyeballs are no longer in danger of bleeding, they’re in danger of popping out and bouncing across the counter. I jump off the stool. “Princess Wynn? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The corners of his mouth lift. “See? Hot stuff. After last night macking down on my bed, I have no doubts about that.”

  “Aaaargh!” My fingers curl into my palms. “You are…you’re arrogant, too!”

  “Good comeback.” He finishes peeling another orange. “I’m disappointed, hot stuff.”

  Heat rises inside me, and now I splay my fingers out at my sides. “You’re just a party-loving, woman-chasing…jock.”

  Oh my God. My entire family is jocks. As if that’s the best insult I can come up with.

  I blame the hangover.

  He laughs softly. “Hmm. We disagree. What a surprise, princess. How about we settle this like adults…in the bedroom.” He cocks an eyebrow, smirking.

  I suck in a fast breath and my cheeks flame. “Oh my God. Princess…” Heat boils inside me. “You…you have no idea.” I don’t finish that thought, just grab my purse and stalk away from him toward the door. Luckily my shoes are there—black stiletto heels I wore to the party last night.

  “Thanks for the breakfast,” I call over my shoulder through clenched teeth. I may hate him, but I was raised to be polite.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I jump, because he’s followed me to the door.

  “And for the Advil,” I grudgingly say. “And…a place to sleep.”

  “Next time…we’ll do more than sleep.” He leans in closer, lips curved in a sexy smile.

  God. I haven’t brushed my teeth. I probably smell like a winery and look even worse. He is not going to kiss me. Much as I might like that…because he looks amazing, and I know he tastes amazing and feels even better…“Yeah, that’s gonna happen…never.”

 
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