Page 7 of Meant for Mayhem

“Why haven’t you brought her around?” Coach’s brows furrowed so hard I knew he wasn’t buying it yet. “Does she have a name?”

Logan’s eyes got big, wondering where I was going with this.

Admitting I was lying felt like the opposite of proving to the team that I could do this, that I wasn’t crazy, so I said the one person who came to mind.

The one person who, prior to Leena, had consumed my thoughts, desperate to know more about her.

I knew next to nothing about her, and yet, I knew she was different—honest, loyal, and maybe a little unhinged.

That was exactly what I needed right now.

What I needed in a wife.

“Shannon,” I said. “Her name is Shannon Wilder.”

What the hell? Logan mouthed, eyes even wider as he gripped his forehead and leaned back in his chair.

What the hell, indeed.

2

On a normal day, I was about the last person to admit when I was wrong. It didn’t happen often—being wrong, that is—and I certainly wasn’t about to admit it. But the pop echoing down the hall as I tried to tug the too-heavy plastic tote toward the stairs made it hard to deny that, right now, I was very wrong.

Or, at least, partially wrong.

I was right that all my belongings fit into four large plastic totes, ready to pack into the car I rented for tomorrow’s move from Linwood to Denver.

What I had miscalculated, though, was how heavy those four totes would be…

The plastic screeched across the wooden floors as I tried to pull the last one closer to the stairs, protesting every inch of movement. I bent at the waist, putting my back into it, and gave a little victory cry as I made it closer to my destination.

Of course, that was when the handle broke off, sending me flying onto my ass.

And, of course, that was when Beckett Conway, my longtime family friend-ish and current employer, walked up the stairs.

“Don’t—”

“Need help with that?” Beckett’s nose twitched as he fought back a grin. “Looks a little heavy.”

I glared up at him from my seat on the floor, the yellow handle still in my palm. “Nope.”

As if taunting me, the tote gave another groan. We both watched the crack that was originally near the handle spread rapidly down the side.

Beckett pointed at it, his dark brow furrowing under his backward hat. “That looks⁠—”

“I said I’m good.” I got to my feet and brushed myself off. “And I do not want help.”

“Wanting and needing are two totally separate things. How are you getting that down the stairs?”

“Same way I got the other three down.” My voice sounded more like a grunt as I stood behind the crate and pushed instead of pulled this time. “With grit, determination, and some very colorful language.”

I shoved harder, and the tote responded by making a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying whale as it slid across the floor.

“See?” I panted. “Progress.”

“That wasn’t a progress noise.”

“But it moved.”