Sinner (Shelter Harbor #1)(101)

She makes me want to break every damn one of them.





Copyright © 2016 Aubrey Irons



Cover Design: SupahKawaii Covers

Photographer: James Critchley

Cover Model: Andrew England

Editing: Ellie McLove, Love N Books

Proofreading: Cassie Dean

Formatting: Vellum



This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The sports teams mentioned in this book are works of fiction. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.



All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.



This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.



All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and are in no way blood relations. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.





To my daughter - I am so sorry for the day you figure how to open mommy’s laptop and realize how food is put in your mouth.





Chapter One





Serena




“I bet it’s vibrators.”

I snort, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I lean into the hotel room mirror and gloss a shade of red across my lips.

“Vibrators?”

“Totally. They’re being way too mysterious about the whole thing for it to be anything legit. And honestly, better sex toys than like, drug kingpin, or trafficking guns to third world countries or something.”

“Fair point.”

I sigh as I step back and give myself a once-over in the mirror. I pull at the pantyhose under my demure skirt, smooth that down, and then reach up to push an errant lock of hair behind my ear.

“You’re futzing, aren’t you.”

“No,” I lie.

My best friend London sighs dramatically on the other end of the phone line.

“Liar. But it’s fine, I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean, it’s not everyday you travel halfway across the country to hear about your surprise inheritance from an unnamed, mysterious benefactor.”

“Mysterious benefactor slash alleged sex toy kingpin?”

London laughs. “Exactly.”

We’re making light of this because, well, what else do you do in this situation? She’s joking around, but she’s also right. It isn’t everyday you get a call out of the blue from the law offices of Standish, Lehman, and Harris out of Denver, Colorado to inform you of an impending transfer of “estate assets” from an “unnamed party” to your name.

“It could still be a Nigerian prince,” London teases over the phone. I make one more pass-over in the mirror before grabbing my bag and the hotel keycard, and slipping out the door.

“Totally. Or a bank manager from a country no one’s ever heard of who desperately needs my help in transferring millions out of a corrupt bank before the government seizes it,” I quip back, riffing on the same famous email scam London’s joking about.

“It’s all very mysterious.”

She’s right. The whole thing, from the first phone call, to the second one immediately following, promising they were completely serious after I’d hung up on the first. The first class plane ticket to Denver, the booked presidential suite at the nicest hotel in town, and the chauffeured town car waiting outside to take me to the law offices.

It is all very mysterious, and there is nothing mysterious about me.

I’m a Houston girl through and through, raised on football by my defensive coach of a dad. I live alone, I work for the Houston Bulls as the internal head of marketing - a football team owned by my friend London and her father, I drive a crappy ten-year-old Honda, and I have a laughable amount of student loans about to go to collections.

I do yoga, I watch Game of Thrones, I try to remember to water the three plants sitting in the kitchen window of my apartment.

That’s it, that’s me; nothing mysterious about it.

And yet here I am in a city I’ve never been to, getting into a chauffeured town car owned by lawyers I’ve never met, and on my way to an estate will reading from someone I don’t know.

“Okay, if it is sex toys though-”

I roll my eyes as the town car glides through the city.