Undertow: (Coastal Elite #2) Read online

  Undertow (Coastal Elite, #2)

  By Sam Mariano

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Undertow (Coastal Elite, #2) Copyright © 2022 by Sam Mariano

  ISBN: 9798358220164

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Thank you for not being a pirate!

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bonus scene

  Also by SAM MARIANO

  Dedication

  For Melissa,

  Thank you for all you do.

  I appreciate you. ♥

  Chapter One

  Gemma

  Eyes straight ahead. Just pretend you don’t see him.

  It’s not unusual for my shoulders and spine to be straight when I’m driving. I’ve been dancing since I was four years old, so I know the importance of good posture.

  Unfortunately, good posture isn’t the reason for my straight spine as I drive down the road I live on. Tension is. I can feel it building in my shoulders and gathered in my upper back as I get closer to my driveway.

  A place that once brought me feelings of peace and contentment has been tarnished with inky dread. I used to love coming home from work. Now it’s like this every time.

  A shame, too, since it’s such a pretty drive.

  The road I live on is lined with similar-looking homes—monuments that the people living inside have fulfilled the elusive American dream.

  I’ll admit the houses in the neighborhood are very nice.

  The people? Not so much.

  Especially Brent Hartley and his awful wife, Lisa. If their garage door is even open when I’m driving home, I tense up. Right now, Brent is standing at the edge of his driveway in black shorts and a white T-shirt, a navy blue baseball cap covering most of his short dark hair.

  I don’t turn my head to let on that I even notice him as I pass, but I can feel his gaze shift in my direction.

  Ignoring him even harder, I drive past the next house, then turn left into my own driveway.

  My house is a little different from the rest, but it’s still a lovely home, and I was so proud to move into it with my daughter. I could never afford a home like the rest on this street. I shouldn’t even be able to afford to live near them, but I purchased this empty lot in the coastal town of Baymont, California, many years ago when my daughter was just three years old. I bought it when her father and I were still together, and I had dreams of us being a typical, happy family. Back before I knew what a disappointment he would turn out to be.

  The dream home never happened, not while I was with him. Not soon after, either.

  At times, I was tempted to sell this plot of land. I desperately needed the money, and I almost caved when the developer that bought up all the land around it offered me close to double what it was worth.

  At first, I couldn’t understand why he wanted my little plot of land so badly, but then these big, beautiful homes started going up all around it, and I realized the truth. My little plot was a pimple on the face of this lovely, upper-class neighborhood. They wanted to pop me so I’d go away and they could build another beautiful, expensive house.

  I didn’t sell, though.

  When he realized I wouldn’t sell, he made me a different offer: they would build me a home just like the others on this street—a stripped-down model, of course—and they would sell it to me at cost so I could afford it. It wouldn’t have the interior upgrades and higher-end finishes, but even a base model of a Darington home was more than I could ever dream of.

  For years, I’d owned this lot, and finally, I would have a dream home to put on it.

  It seemed like a dream come true. I couldn’t wait to live in this beautiful, family-friendly neighborhood. It’s a safe place, a cul-de-sac, the absolute ideal. My daughter could make friends with the other kids in the neighborhood and go to an amazing school. It would be a great place for us to live.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  When Brent Hartley and Jayden Todd came walking up my driveway the first time they caught me on my lot, they seemed welcoming, if a little sexist. They wanted to know when my husband would be around since they hadn’t seen him yet. When I explained I didn’t have a husband, thought bubbles seemed to hang in the air over their heads with a burning question: Then how did you buy a house?

  All by my little ole self.

  I didn’t say that, of course, because I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.

  The developer had asked me not to tell any of the neighbors about the deal he gave me on the house. He didn’t want anyone to get jealous or feel ripped off, and I wouldn’t want them to feel that way, either. If it mattered enough to him to have a uniform neighborhood that he was willing to build me such a beautiful home at such a reduced price, I could certainly repay the favor by keeping my mouth shut.

  I smiled and explained to my new neighbors that I was a single mother of a teenage daughter, and we couldn’t wait to move in. We had been renting before, so this was our first home. I didn’t explain how I could afford it, and although I could tell they wanted to, they didn’t come out and ask.

  They didn’t seem thrilled for us, but I shrugged it off and went about my day.

  It turned out that Jayden lived directly across the street from me. He enjoyed eyeing up my lawn as if he didn’t appreciate my leisurely lawn-mowing schedule—or maybe it was that I did it myself. Everyone else on our street has services that come to take care of things like that for them, but not me. I have gardening gloves and a little metal trowel for stubborn weeds, and a mower that I drag out when I need to trim the lawn.

  Other than his snobbish behavior, Jayden wasn’t much of a problem.

  The next time I saw Brent, though, he made it a point to tell me about a buddy of his who wanted to move into the neighborhood, but unfortunately, all the homes had sold. I nodded sympathetically, a bit impatient for him to leave so I could get back to my herb garden. Then he sprang his reason for stopping by and told me if I ever wanted to sell, I should let him know so he could let his buddy know.

  I had no idea why he thought I would want to sell. I let him see my confusion and told him no, my daughter and I were perfectly happy where we were and had no plans to move.

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  I thought it was incredibly rude and didn’t even know what to say.

  Shortly afterward, I found out from one of the less awful neighbors that Brent’s wife had been looking into things, and she found the public record of my purchase—for substantially less than anyone else on this street had paid for their home. She started telling everyone I must have slept with the—married—developer to explain why I got a deal, and she didn’t. Inexplicably, despite there being no proof and no reason to believe such a thing, everyone seemed to buy it. I could tell by the snide, sideways looks I started getting.

  Since then, the Hartleys, in particular, have been relentless in trying to get me to leave. First, it was their friend who wanted to buy in, then it was Brent’s brother and sister-in-law. They don’t care who replaces me. They just want me out.

  It’s bullying, plain and simple. They’re the type of people who were obviously popular in high school and didn’t get the memo that we’ve all grown up. Once they decided they wanted me out, that was what was going to happen, and they would terrorize me until they got their way.

  They probably figured I would give in easily because I’m soft-spoken and mild-mannered, because I garden and bake, and I teach dance for a living.

  It’s nothing new, unfortunately. People have underestimated me my whole life.

  But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere. No matter how juvenile they are and no matter how miserable they make me. I scrimped and saved every penny I could to buy this home, even at a reduced rate, and I could never afford a nicer, safer place for my daughter and me to live.

  Their latest attempts to run me out have been crude and childish. They smashed cheese slices on the side of the house and hurled little green eco-friendly bags of dog poop on my front porch so I would step in it on my way out of the house. The last time I went outside to mow, I had to wear rubber gloves because dozens of open condoms littered my lawn. They weren’t used, thank God, but I couldn’t mow the lawn until I’d cleaned them all up.

  I have a Ring doorbell for security, but everyone on this street does, so they also know the limited visual range and how best to stay out of the way of the camera.

  I’m so fed up with their nonsense that I would press charges if I could catch them on camera.

/>   I know they’re sitting back and laughing while I’m wasting my time cleaning up after them, but I don’t find it a bit funny. Not only are they being mean for no real reason, but they’re also eating up time I could be spending with my daughter that I have to spend dealing with their crap instead.

  I hit the garage door opener and watch to make sure it rises as I ease down my driveway. Once it’s all the way up, I pull in next to my teenage daughter’s car and turn off the engine.

  I gather my purse and my drinks—coffee and a bottle of water, because why choose?—and push my door open to climb out of the car.

  “Hey, neighbor.”

  Dread slithers through me and coils around my tummy. I hold back a sigh and turn to see Brent Hartley standing in the mouth of my open garage like a Cerberus guarding the gates of hell.

  There’s no escape, he seems to say.

  But he’s wrong. This is my house, not his, and he’s not allowed to be here if I say so.

  “Hello, Brent,” I say guardedly, pivoting in the tight space between the cars so I can close my door.

  He invites himself in, crossing the threshold and walking toward me. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is. I really can’t talk right now, though. I have to get inside. My daughter’s waiting for me to start dinner.”

  “Oh, yeah? What are you ladies having tonight?”

  I turn and look pointedly toward the garage door. “I really don’t have time to chat.”

  “Come on, now. There’s no reason to be rude.” Ignoring my obvious desire for him to leave, he continues to move closer, his gaze locked on me. “Hey, you know that buddy I was telling you about a long time ago that wanted to move into the neighborhood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, things with wife number two didn’t work out, and she got the house they ended up moving into. That’s how it always works, isn’t it?” he says with a smirk that feels vaguely icky.

  “I suppose so,” I murmur, turning to glance longingly at the garage door leading into my home.

  “Anyway, he and wife number three are tying the knot in Aruba next month, and when they get back, they’re looking to move into a house. He asked if anything was open in the neighborhood.”

  “I believe the Burnhams a street over were looking to sell,” I tell him.

  “Already sold.”

  “How unfortunate. Well, maybe by the time he gets to wife number four, something will be for sale.” I flash him a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  Rather than leave, he moves forward and plants a hand on the wall to block me from continuing toward the door. “It must be a lot of work keeping up this whole house on your own.” His hard gaze meets mine as he leans closer. “Scary, too. You never know what kind of things can happen to a woman living alone.”

  I try to back away but only bump into the shelving unit along the wall. “I don’t live alone.”

  “Right,” he says with a subtle nod. “Two women living alone.”

  His words and tone fill me with such unease that I lose my manners completely. “Get out of my garage and off my property.”

  “There’s no reason to be rude,” he says. “Just being neighborly. Since yours is the only house in the neighborhood without a pool, tell your daughter she can put on a little bikini and swing by my place anytime.”

  Fury ignites in my veins. “I said get off my property.”

  “Now, Gemma,” he says, deliberately condescending, as he grabs my wrist and pushes me back against the shelving unit. “There’s no reason to be hysterical.”

  Just then, the door swings open, and my daughter, Parker, pokes her head out. “Mom?”

  My instinct is to tell her to go back into the house, but when Brent’s lewd stare turns in her direction, I lose my ability to speak. Fear rushes through me, knocking out my muscles and turning my arms and legs to jelly.

  Even though I’m certain he’s only doing this in his latest bid to run me out, it doesn’t matter.

  You don’t fuck with my daughter.

  “Get out,” I growl.

  Surprise flits across his features as his gaze shifts back to mine. “Don’t worry, I was just leaving.” He releases my arm and takes a step back, but my legs still feel as sturdy as Jell-O.

  “Remember what I said,” he calls as he backs away. “If you change your mind about staying, my buddy will give you a fair price.”

  Parker stays in the doorway, watching until he’s gone.

  Finally, her gaze shifts to me, protectiveness etching lines of concern across her pretty face. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

  “I have had it,” I say, each word measured carefully. “I am done with the bullying from these overgrown children. I am done. I have every right to be here, and they have no right to treat me this way.”

  “Agreed,” she says. “But without any evidence to prove they’re behind all this crap, I don’t know what we can do.”

  I nod slowly. “Well, I’m going to find out.” I look over at Parker. “You go to school with a bunch of rich kids. Surely, some have parents who are lawyers. Who is the best lawyer you can think of? The meanest, most aggressive, most successful lawyer around. If one of your classmates got into trouble and their rich mommies and daddies could call anyone to defend them, who would they call?”

  “That’s easy,” Parker says without hesitation. “Satan’s dad. Hayden Atwater.”

  I nod once. “Then I’m going to see Hayden Atwater.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. There’s no way we can afford him,” Parker tells me, but it’s too late. I’m already heading back to the car. “Wait, you’re going now? You can’t go now! Even if we could afford him, you’d need an appointment. You need—Mom, stop. Come inside. Let’s think about this first.”

  “I’m tired of waiting and thinking. It’s time for doing. It’s time to stop this nonsense once and for all.” I get in the car, shut the door, and start the engine. Thankfully, the car is still reasonably cool since I had the air-conditioning on the whole way home, but my skin is hot with anger, so I turn it up a couple of notches.

  I glance up to see Parker wide-eyed and waving her arms to get my attention. I check the rearview mirror to make sure Brent didn’t come back and I’m about to run him over—what a pity that would be—and when I see no one there, I begin to back out.

  A text from Parker flashes across my phone screen, but I swipe it away so I can locate the address and phone number of Hayden Atwater’s law office. By the time I’m at the end of my road, I have his secretary on the phone checking with him to see if he can take an emergency appointment right away.

  Much to my relief, the man says he’ll see me.

  There have been many times over the years our children have gone to school together that I’ve nearly worked myself up to storming into Hayden Atwater’s world and demanding he fix the bully problem in my life.

  I just always thought the bully in question would be his asshole son, not my grown-ass neighbor.

  Chapter Two

  Hayden

  I was just about to leave for the day when Sonya told me an angry woman on the phone was demanding to see me right away.

  To be honest, I don’t have many angry women demanding anything of me. In order for that to happen, you generally need to have relationships with women, and I stick to casual encounters. Unless we work together—in which case there will be no romance—I am a one-episode guest star, and I have no interest in reappearing in anyone’s life.

  I’m not sure what I visualized when I was preparing to meet the angry woman in question, but it was decidedly not the doe-eyed redhead who jingles as she storms gracefully into my office wearing the garb of a belly dancer.

  It takes a lot to surprise me, but I’m so stunned at the sight of her, I sit behind my desk with my jaw hanging open.

  She stops just inside my office, the sheer gauzy fabric of her purple skirt an endless wave as she moves. It stops and stills when she does. I’m tempted to tell her to keep moving, but while she’s standing there, I let my gaze move up over her toned belly to the beaded purple bra encasing her lovely tits.

  She looks a bit like a genie.