No Better Man

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It seems impossible to express the depth of my gratitude for everyone who has walked this journey with me, but I’ll do my best.

First, there are countless people who have helped make this writing dream a reality. To my editor, Megha Parekh, I am still amazed you chose my story. Thank you for your brilliant vision and your incredibly hard work on my behalf. I have learned so much from you! Thank you to the whole team at Forever for being the absolute best at what they do. To my agent, Sue Brower, and the entire team at the Natasha Kern Literary Agency, thank you for your guidance and unwavering support.

While writing this book I had so many questions about the foreclosure process. A big thanks to Matt Metcalf of
Simply Denver, Real Estate Made Simple
for answering every question and explaining things I didn’t understand.

I am incredibly blessed to have a close, supportive family. Thank you to my husband, Will, for being whatever I need at any given moment: a friend, a drill sergeant, a motivational speaker, a laundry expert. I can honestly say this story never would’ve seen the light of day without your faithful persistence. To my sweet boys, AJ and Kaleb, thank you for teaching me how to love deeper than I ever thought possible. To my parents, Phil and Emy Remley, thank you for making me believe that nothing was out of my reach. To my sister, Erin Romero, and my sis-in-law, Traci Remley, thanks for being just as excited about this as I am. And, of course, thank you Kyle Remley, my little bro, for always making me laugh. A very special thank you to Keith and Wanda Richardson and the Guhlke family for accepting this quirky writer into your hearts and making me feel like I belong. Without your support, this wouldn’t have been possible.

During these past few months of deadlines and an intense writing schedule, I was reminded that I also have the best friends a girl could ask for. To Melissa Anderson and Erica Meikle, what can I possibly say? You two get me. Your friendship means the world to me. Jenna LaFleur, I am so grateful for your energy, creativity, and friendship. I’ll forever treasure our visionary coffee dates. Thank you Elaine Clampitt for putting wind back in my sails at a time when I didn’t know which way to go. I’m so grateful for our conference experiences and lengthy brainstorming sessions. To my very first writing buddies, Patti Lacy, Tiffany Kinerson, and Kasey Giard, thank you for helping shape my writing journey.

To every family member and friend who has touched my life (there are way too many to list here), I hope my stories will carry on the legacy of grace, encouragement and love you have shown to me.

Above all, I am so thankful for the faith, hope, and love that give my life meaning.

S
ome girls claim the spa or a favorite mall as their happy place, but Avery loved Wrigley Field. She loved the blaring red sign,
WRIGLEY FIELD, HOME OF THE CHICAGO CUBS
. She loved the smell of popcorn and hot dogs and stale beer, the sticky crunch of the concrete beneath her feet. It was her haven, almost as familiar as her own home, which smelled like the hazelnut lattes she made every morning, for the record. Didn’t matter if the Cubbies were trailing by 12 or up by 10—every time she sat in section 14, row 4, seat 12 (right behind the home dugout), she was utterly, completely, divinely happy.

Which was why she never should’ve let her father sit next to her.

The day should have been heavenly—a shining Sunday afternoon complete with a jewel-blue sky and hints of fall crisping the air. The Cubs were up on the Yankees by three, which was a miracle in itself.

Dear Old Dad, AKA the infamous Edward King, sat next to her, dressed in a tailored gray suit, if one could imagine. His million-dollar hair was slicked back from a widow’s peak. Silver Armani shades deflected the sun. He leaned forward, hands securely fastened to his knees so his bare skin wouldn’t graze the defiled concrete rail in front of him. Really, though. Who’s afraid of a little stale beer? They were at a baseball game, for crying out loud.

“Did you have time to read the Aspen briefing?” Dad shouted over the roar of the crowd.

Ignoring the question, she glanced at Vanessa, Dad’s assistant and one of her best friends. The woman was supposed to be her buffer at the game so Dad wouldn’t pull her into some big work discussion, but at the moment, Van happened to be otherwise occupied in a nonverbal flirting contest with some hot guy sitting halfway down their row.

“Hey.” She jabbed an elbow into her friend’s ribs. “A little help here?”

“Excuse me.” Van flipped her curly black hair over her shoulder and gave her a girl-code glare for
I’m busy.

Avery rolled her eyes.
Please.
Vanessa could get any man she wanted. She had the diva look about her, dark even skin that didn’t need make-up, round innocent bedroom eyes accentuated by thick lashes, also natural, of course. She could have that man down the row eating out of her hand with a
hello
, but there was one problem. “I didn’t drag you here and sit you between my father and me so you could troll for men.” She needed her right now. “I will personally go get the guy’s phone number if you shut up my father,” she whispered.

“Avery? I asked you a question,” Dad broke in. “Have you read the briefing on Aspen?”

She raised her hand toward Vanessa.
See?
The man was relentless. How could he even
think
of work at time like this? Two more outs. They only needed two more outs and they’d be back up at bat…

“Of course I sent Avery the briefing,” Vanessa said as she waved to Mr. McDreamy eyes. “She’s looking into it.”

He leaned over to see past Vanessa. “Don told me an old ranch is about to foreclose. He sent me some pictures. It’s exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

Don Pendleton, the mayor of Aspen and an old friend of her father’s, had been trying to get King Enterprises to build a resort out there for the last ten years.

Dad went on and on about the unique location, about the natural spring on the property, yada, yada, yada. “Your mom would’ve loved it.”

That snapped her out of her baseball stupor. “I know, Dad,” she said, softening. “I was copied on the e-mail, remember? Don’t worry. I’m watching it.” Without looking over, she reached across Vanessa and gave him a consoling pat on the arm. She loved the man and everything, but nothing ruined a good baseball game like talking.

To tell him as much, she scooted to the edge of her seat and refocused on the game. One of the Yanks’ best sluggers who’d been on a hot streak since…well…forever, was up to bat.
Great.

“We have to do more than watch it, Avery.” Her father used his stern lecture tone, which had stopped working when she was eight.

But he’d never known when to quit.

“It
will
go fast. There will be multiple bids. You know what I always say—”

Crack!

He hit the ball high and long, sent it sailing straight for the right-field stands.
No!
She jumped to her feet. The outfielder—Colvin?—sprinted hard, arms pumping, head angled back and up, watching…

He leapt, arm outstretched, reaching…

She squeezed a hand over her mouth.

Smack!
The ball hit his glove. It hit his glove!

“Yes! Way to go, boys!” She fell back to her seat, heart pounding with the thrill of a close call. “Did you see that circus catch?”

Clearly Vanessa had no time to actually
watch
the game. She was too busy mouthing
call me
to her new boyfriend. “I’ll be right back.” She stood, smiling in that coy way that brought out her dimples, and sashayed over people’s feet to make a love connection.

Shaking her head, Avery pressed her fingers against her lips and gave a good, solid whistle. “Come on, guys! Don’t let ’em back in it!”

Her father winced and stuck a finger in his ear. “How much longer will this thing last, anyway?”

“It’s only the top of the seventh, so it’ll be awhile.” An eternity to him. Baseball had been Mom’s passion, not his. Family outings at Wrigley Field painted Avery’s most vivid and cherished family memories. For three seasons, before Dad became “America’s favorite tycoon,” they’d all tromped to the field in matching jerseys, her and Mom’s blond hair tied back into swinging ponytails like the perfect picture of the American dream. They’d buy tickets for the cheap seats and sit way up high, peering through second-hand binoculars. She and Mom would put on their pink mitts just in case someone’s rogue hit made it all the way up to the nosebleed section.

Oh, how things had changed. Ever since Mom’s death, her dad had despised America’s favorite pastime. But then, he despised anything that reminded him of her.

That thought was all it took to turn her to mush. There was a reason he hid inside his work. There was a reason he was desperate to complete the Aspen project. In his mind, the resort would be Mom’s legacy. She’d always loved it there.

Tuning out the game, she faced her father. “The ranch in Aspen is on two hundred forested acres. Located on Maroon Bells Road. Built in 1956 by the Walker Family,” she intoned as though doing a voice-over for a documentary. “The projected foreclosure date is not until January. So far, there are no other known interested parties.” See? She really did do her job. “I’ll travel out there in a few weeks to make Mr. Walker an offer before he loses it. By then, he’ll be desperate to sell. Trust me. It’ll be the biggest bargain we’ve found in years.”

“That’s my girl.” A look of pride dawned in his dulled gray eyes and made them come alive again. But he never looked into her eyes for too long. They must’ve reminded him too much of her mother’s. She saw it every time she looked in the mirror, too.

“Now can I watch the game in peace? Please?” she mock-whined. “You know how I feel about mixing baseball and business.” She rustled a bag of sunflower seeds out of her purse, ripped it open, then dumped a pile into her lap.

He gave her a disgusted look, but a slight smile relaxed his face. “I don’t see how you can watch an entire game in these ungodly seats.”

“And I still don’t see why you had to sit with me. Are they renovating your box?” That was where he always hid, far away from the memories, distracting himself with members of the board or potential investors or unsuspecting business associates being buttered up for a negotiation.

He shifted with an impatient grunt and straightened his suit coat. “Logan asked me to join you. Down here.” He said it like they were in some third-world country.

“Logan?” She flipped up the bill of her hat and stared at the pitcher’s mound. Though he’d never jinx his concentration with a glance back, she waved and gave him a thumb’s up. “Logan doesn’t care where you sit.” Sure, Dad and Logan had chummed around since she’d started dating him last year, but it wasn’t like things had gotten that serious. He was on the road half the time. And she worked sixty hours a week. He was a great guy, but…they’d never had what her parents had in those early days of their marriage, that fiery spark of energy that seemed to charge the space around them.

Speaking of Logan… She glanced at the scoreboard again.
Holy moly!
Two balls, one strike. Two outs? She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Come on, Logan! Strike ’im out!”

“Did you wear makeup today?” Her father’s tanned face slid into view. “Or brush your hair?”

“Why?” She smiled sweetly. “Am I embarrassing you?” Lord knew, it wouldn’t be the first time. There were certain expectations for people in their position, as he always reminded her, but she’d given up on meeting expectations in the looks department a long time ago.

“Of course you’re not embarrassing me.” He waved her off like that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You never know when the media will take a shot, that’s all. I want you to look your best.”

“This is my best,” she assured him. Maybe her current attire didn’t scream business executive, but it sure beat the hell out of those tight skirts and starched button-ups and godforsaken, ass-pinching pantyhose. “I haven’t washed my jersey all season. It’s good luck. See this mustard stain?” She pointed out the yellow blotch just below the V-neck with a proud smile. Proud and maybe somewhat mocking. She couldn’t help it. He sometimes had that effect on her.

“Whatever makes you happy, Aves.” Over the years, it had become his favorite platitude. Hers, too, actually. The thought was nice. Even if he rarely meant it.

“Can I start wearing my jersey to work?” She bounced her eyebrows.

“Once you take over as CEO, you can do whatever the hell you want,” he grumbled.

Yeah, right. Edward King would never retire. He was only fifty-five, and healthy as a Clydesdale. Besides that, she had no desire to take over as CEO of King Enterprises. Not that she’d tell him that. It’d break what was left of his heart.

“Let me know when it’s over.” Dad dug out his iPhone and started to peck away.

Good.
She could finally refocus on the game…

Out on the mound, Logan wound up.

She hunkered down, held her breath.

The ball zinged past home plate.

“Strike!” The ump signaled.

“Whoo hoo!” She leapt to her feet and screamed with the rest of the Cubbie faithfuls. “Way to go, Logan! One more!” Leaning forward, she gripped the concrete bar in all its sticky glory.
Come on…you got this…

Logan wound up and let it fly.

Strike!

She high-fived the men behind her, her throat raw from another high-pitched squeal.

“Seventh inning stretch.” Sliding back into her seat, she flung an arm around Dad and rattled his shoulders. “Isn’t this the best?”

“The best,” he parroted as he shrugged from her grip.

Waiting for the tune that exuded Americana, she hummed to warm up her vocals, find the right key. It was the best part of the whole game! Everyone singing about America’s beauty, then pining after peanuts and Cracker Jacks…

Except the music didn’t start. Instead, an announcer marched across the infield and handed a mic to Logan. He trotted toward the dugout.

Dad straightened his suit coat. “You might want to wipe that mustard stain off your shirt now.” He reached over and brushed a pile of sunflower seeds from her lap.

“Hey!” She dusted his hand away from her beloved snack and looked up.

Logan didn’t stop at the front of the dugout. He kept going, all the way to the end of the bench. Closer, closer…until she could see his smile, his eyes. What was he doing? He would ruin his concentration!

Vanessa rushed back to her seat. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

“I have no idea,” she hissed. “Vanessa, what is he doing?”

“Got me.” Her eyes were as wide as Avery’s. “I thought
you
knew.”

No. She didn’t know. But she had a bad feeling…

Logan hoisted himself up on the dugout roof and knelt in front of her with a nervous grin. His blond curls poked out from beneath his baseball cap in that endearing little-boy way.

She tried to focus on his eyes, brown and calming, the same color as a sweet, foamy latte.

Behind him, his teammates whooped and hollered.

“Time’s a wastin’, big boy!”

“Man up, Schwartz!”

“Logan?” The mic caught her whisper and carried it into an echo. A pound resounded in her chest. Her heart. Yes, that was her heart getting ready to gallop away…

“Pardon the interruption everyone, but I have something to ask my girlfriend.” His voice sounded so different in the microphone, low and manufactured. Like something out of a reality show.

“
Mierda
,” Vanessa choked.

Shit was right. Her palms broke out in a sweat. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. More whoops and hollers dented the silence, but the longer Logan stared at her, the quieter everything got. Muffled. Like she was sinking into the ocean.

“Avery…” He took her left hand in his. “You mean everything to me.”

“Awwww,” reverberated around the stands.

Gasp. Choke. Gulp.
She couldn’t utter a word, but she managed to peek over his shoulder. There, on the Jumbotron, was her mustard stain, glowing in the neon way of projection images.

“I love you. I want to share my life with you.”

Another
awww
stretched into a deafening chorus.

Oh, dear God. Oh, no.
He wasn’t proposing. Not like this. Not in front of 20,000 people. Whatever happened to baking the ring in a cake? She’d gladly chip a tooth over this any day! Whatever happened to discussing things like marriage? A lifetime? Forever? Those weren’t exactly spur-of-the-moment decisions.

“Make me the happiest man in the world.” The goofy grin expanded. “Marry me.”

“I’ll marry you!” some woman behind her screamed.

Logan handed the mic off to Dad and dug in his pocket. Out came a baby blue Tiffany’s box. When he flipped it open, a gargantuan emerald-cut diamond caught the sun.