Page 3 of Delay of Game

I pull back, wincing at the wet spots I left on his jeans and t-shirt.

“Sorry,” I say, avoiding eye contact.

Robbie spins me around and places his hands on my shoulders. At first I think he’s going to yell at me for getting his friend wet, but then I see the concern in his eyes.

“Al, what happened? Why are you wet and shivering?”

“Michael tipped me over in the kayak,” I say, and it comes out more petulant than I want to sound.

“Michael, what the hell? She could catch a cold,” Robbie yells back at our brother, maneuvering me around the stranger and into the cabin. He leads me to the hallway, where he grabs me two fluffy towels before running into the bathroom and turning the shower to the hottest setting.

I bite back my smile. Robbie, always the caretaker.

“You know, I’m not a kid anymore. I can run my own shower.”

“You’ll always be my baby sister,” he says, placing a kiss on my forehead and heading to the back deck, leaving me to my hot shower.

The window in the bathroom is open, and the last thing I hear before closing it is, “Sorry about that, man. I can get you a dry shirt to change into.”

“No worries, I’m okay,” the handsome stranger replies.

When I’m done, I take my time getting ready, applying some makeup and drying my hair straight before heading out to the fire pit and properly meeting Robbie’s new friend.

“Hi, I’m Alice,” I say and offer my hand to him. The breeze ruffles my blond hair and a small strand falls in my eyes.

“Jordan,” he says, tracing every feature of my face. His hand is slightly cold in mine, and I rub my thumb over the back of it. His eyelids flutter as he looks down and I swear I see a hint of pink appear on his cheeks.

“Welcome to the team,” Robbie says as Alex hands Jordan a drink.

I instantly miss his touch when he lets go, but there’s this warm feeling that takes root in my chest and spreads through my body until I no longer feel the breeze.

Welcome, indeed.

PART 1

ALMOST

CHAPTER 1

Nine Years Ago

Jordan

The Elliots rentedout an entire winery in Traverse City for the wedding this weekend. They wanted the best for their oldest son Michael and for my sister Tangela, so that’s what they got. The ceremony area is set up on a hill in the back, and it’s overlooking the hundreds of rows of grapes, some ripe for picking. The wood structure where the ceremony is supposed to take place is decorated with wildflowers in various shades of pink, orange, red, and purples. All of Tangela’s favorites are neatly woven in through sparkling string lights.

I look away from the window and towards Tangela. She looks incredible in her long-sleeved laced dress and pinned up hair. But most importantly, she looks happy. Our gazes meet, and she gives me a smile that brightens up her whole face. And then it drops as my mom arrives to fuss over her veil.

Oh boy.Time to intervene.

I pick up my pace and get there just in time to hear, “Honey, are you sure about this? Say the word and I’ll get you out of here, you don’t have to marry the white boy.”

I roll my eyes at my mother’s antics and put my hands on her shoulders, spinning her towards me instead.

“Mom, we’ve talked about this. No unsolicited advice, please.”

Our mom can be a handful sometimes and constantly gets in our personal lives. We’ve had multiple conversations with her over the years, letting her know when she crosses the line. Like just now. She scowls at me, and her tanned face shows off the wrinkles she’s acquired over the years. “Don’t get me started on you. Why didn’t you bring a date to your sister's wedding?” she says.

Tangela sighs and shakes her head, but before she can intervene, the wedding planner lets us know that guests have started to arrive.

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