Becoming His

His Series, Book One

Books by Mariah Dietz

His Series

Becoming His

Losing Her
(coming March 1, 2015)

For my boys, who remind me every day that anything is possible,

and everything should be tried.

T
hump, thump. Thump, thump.
My quiet strides are the only sounds I can hear aside from the music pouring softly through my ear buds. Along with the exertion of my muscles, it helps to make me feel nearly euphoric. Some people meditate to find peace and tranquility, me— I run.

Rounding the corner, I take a deep breath of the already warm morning air and my eyes focus on a growing shadow. Slowing my pace, I look up and see a guy in his early twenties, standing around six feet, with sandy blond hair sticking out in an organized disarray. He’s fairly muscular in black mesh shorts and a bright green cut-off T-shirt. After a quick glance, it’s obvious he works out a decent amount … that or he’s a juicer. It’s always a viable possibility here in Southern California, even in the small town my parents live in.

His mouth moves as I come to a stop, careful to maintain a ten-foot gap between us before I pull an ear bud free.

“Sorry?” I ask, noticing his raised eyebrows over eyes which are the very definition of hazel with dark blue edges that lighten to green and darken to a soft amber.

The small smile on his lips spreads. “I said you must be Ace.” My head tilts slightly as I give him a once-over, trying to recall if I know him. I’ve been gone all year for college, but I returned home nearly every weekend and don’t recognize this guy.

“Must be?” I silently wish I’d brought my family’s Newfoundland, Zeus, with me—not that he’d do anything more than possibly lick him to death. Still, his one hundred and seventy-five pounds usually serves as a pretty good deterrent to most.

The guy’s smile grows even wider, making a small, jagged scar that runs through the edge of his bottom lip and stops midway to his chin more prominent. He doesn’t exactly scream axe murderer, but I’m guessing that most don’t. He takes a step closer and my eyes quickly flit around the empty park surrounding us as my fingers roll my freed ear bud.

“Sorry, my name’s Jameson, Jameson West …” he says, obviously sensing my unease. “Sharon told me about you girls. You’re a Bosse, right? She told me you’re one of five.” Round, surprised eyes await my confirmation.

I stare at him, waiting for what always comes when someone learns that I have four sisters—the same trademark comments and questions. Had they been trying for a son? No. Do you girls fight all the time? Not really. Do you all look alike? We don’t, other than having our mother’s blond hair and being built fairly similarly.

The questions don’t come. Instead, awkwardness taints the air between us as I wonder how he knows Sharon.

“She said you’re all blond,” he adds, breaking the silence and lifting a hand to his own hair, as if he’s translating the words for me. “That’s what gave you away.”

Sharon’s our next door neighbor and my mom’s best friend. She and her three sons have lived beside us for nearly ten years now. She also works at Saint Andrews with my father where they’re both thoracic surgeons. Sharon specializes with lungs, and my father, the heart. My dad, who’s worked with her on multiple occasions over the years, built a solid professional relationship, but my mom and Sharon didn’t really become friends until the last couple of years when her youngest son Max moved away.

They started a book club and began playing Bunco with a group of women, which evolved into spending most of their free time together with a bottle of wine … or two, accompanied by lots of giggling and gossiping. The reality that we never really outgrow this behavior both relieves and concerns me greatly.

My eyebrows rise, wondering just how much Sharon told him about me. “At least
half
of Southern California is blond.”

His smile turns playful, “Mr. Janes also told me you’d be down here when I left this morning. Told me I should watch out for you because it’s not safe to be running alone.” He turns his head, making a point of looking around the empty field.

Does he know all my neighbors?

“I’m Max’s friend.” He takes another step, bridging what’s becoming a very small gap between us, and extends his hand to me.

“Nice to meet you.” His hand is rough with calluses extending from his fingers that touch the back of my hand. “Are you visiting Sharon alone?”

His eyes widen. “No,” he answers automatically. His ivory cheeks color with a faint blush as he shakes his head but keeps his smile in place. “No. I transferred down here
with
Max. We’re here for the summer until school starts.”

This surprises me. True, it’s my first full day back home after visiting my grandparents with my dad and sister in France for the past two weeks, but I’m shocked my mom didn’t mention Max returning. It isn’t like her at all.

“I met your mom yesterday. She mentioned you and your sister … Kylie?” His forehead creases as he offers her name, lacking confidence.

“Kendall.”

Jameson’s lips quirk in an apologetic grin as he nods. “Kendall, that’s right. She said you two would be able to show us around.” The brightness of his eyes tells me he’s teasing, but I’m certain his words hold truth. My mother is a southern debutante, born and raised in the great state of Texas—a nationality in of itself in her book. Being hospitable and polite is ingrained so deeply in her, she isn’t always aware of boundaries.

“Yeah, absolutely. We’d be happy to help in any way we can.” It’s also ingrained in us girls.
Thanks,
Mom
.

He motions to the track with a nod. “Can I join you?”

“Sure,” I reply on instinct, even though I do mind. Running is something I prefer to do alone, or with Zeus.

I don’t bother turning my music back on as we begin at a slow jog. After a few laps, our pace increases, and the air is filled with the sound of our heavy breaths and feet echoing off the synthetic rubber.

Coming up on my house, I break free from our steady jog through the neighborhood. “I’ll see you around,” I huff. Generally I walk home as my cool down period, but space is easily filled with talking when you walk, so I ensured the absence of conversation by pushing harder, making us both winded.

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon, Ace!”

T
he sun seeping through my shades reveals my older sister Kendall sprawled across my bed, fast asleep. Even at twenty-one she has a strong aversion to being alone for any length of time, so although she wasn’t here when I left a little over an hour ago, I’m not surprised to find her wrapped in my blankets.

I take a fast shower and dress before climbing in beside her and quickly finding sleep.

T
he familiar murmur of voices floating up the stairs clears the rest of my sleep. Kendall’s disappeared and the sun casts long shadows in my room from the one window I keep uncovered, mocking me for sleeping most of the day away.

I peel myself from the warmth of my bed and head toward the epicenter of voices. It’s Sunday, which means it’s family night at my parents’ house—a weekly tradition we rarely miss.

“Oh, you brought macaroons home. Daddy, I love you too!” I hear my sister Savannah sigh as I round the corner and see her engrossed with the large white box etched with elegant French script.

“Those are the chocolate hazelnut ones.” I point to the back corner of the box to indicate her favorite.

“Oh, Ace!” Savannah’s bright blue eyes shine with tears as she stands up and wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. Pregnancy hormones have increased my second to oldest sister’s constant need for affection. “I’m so bummed I didn’t get to go with you guys! I want to hear all about it!” She pulls back and eyes that match our mother’s and sisters’ slowly scrutinize my face before lifting to my brown ones, concluding her brief assessment. I smile in assurance of whatever she seems to be seeking and run a hand across her belly.

“Babe, you’ve been to France how many times? Do you really think anything’s changed?” I look up to catch her husband, Caulder, approaching us with my other brother-in-law Kyle.

Kyle’s eyes widen as he nearly stumbles to break his stride and separates himself from Caulder, knowing from his own pregnancy experience that his question isn’t going to be well received.

Savannah’s eyes focus on Caulder in an icy glare. “I still want to hear about it, my family’s there.”

Caulder seems to realize his error as his brown eyes turn somber. “I’m sorry, babe, you’re right … and in a couple years when baby Alex is big enough, we’ll all go,” he says, placing a hand on Savannah’s six-month bump.

“More like Alexandra,” I tease, selecting a pink macaroon from the box.

“It’s a boy. He likes good music, riding in my truck, and he goes crazy when he hears motorcycles,” Caulder insists.

“Uh oh. Alexandra’s going to be into bad boys. You better be prepared,” I sing, winning a smile from Savannah and a scowl from Caulder.

“Y’all really should just find out, I’m tired of buying yellow.” My mom adds from where she and my dad are preparing things for dinner.

“I think Ace is right. I think it’s a girl,” Savannah says, looking down at her growing stomach in adoration.

I grin, gazing up at Caulder with a gloating expression that he returns with an eye roll. Caulder’s the newest member of our family. He and Savannah celebrated their second wedding anniversary just last month. He grew up with a sister himself; however there are days I can tell that having a single sister in no way prepared him for our estrogen-filled house.

Kendall had a difficult time understanding our older sister’s draw to Caulder initially. Savannah’s always been very sweet and soft spoken, with a strong draw to children that led her to teaching kindergarten. Caulder’s very serious, to the point of being almost stiff and awkward at times. However, I’d known from the moment I met Caulder that he and Savannah would be perfect for one another. They’re like yin and yang: Where she sees possibility, he sees risk; where she leans toward new ventures, he gravitates toward familiarity. But neither stifles the other; they balance each other.