Page 1 of The Runaway

PROLOGUE

6 months ago

“Don’t you think it’s time?” he rasps, tilting his head in that irritating way he does when he’s letting you know in a subtle way Dad knows best.

I glare at my father. Aiden Reeves, retired boxer and now a man with too much time on his hands. Time to think and pester his kids on how they should live their lives.

I don’t take the bait and stand with a stretch. “Yeah, I suppose it is time I head back to the city. Got an early practice tomorrow.”

“Sit down,” Dad grits out.

I sit my ass back on the leather armchair in his den.

“Time for what, Dad?”

“Elliot’s place. You can’t keep avoiding it.”

“I don’t have time for any of that, Dad. Can’t you get that real estate chick you were dating to put it on the market or something?”

“We’re not selling your brother’s house, Chase,” he growls.

“Now which one of us isn’t over it?” I mutter, knowing damn well I’m going to pay for that if he heard me.

It’s a minute before he speaks again. His expression something between pain and disgust. “You never get over losing a child, Chase.”

I swallow. Yeah well, same goes for your kid brother. “Look, I’m going to do it, alright? I’ll spend the day, take a look around, clear out some things…just...”

“Not today,” he finishes, tired of my predictable excuse.

“Soon,” I assure. Though neither one of us believes it.

My kid brother, Elliot, died nearly three months ago, and I inherited his one-bedroom cottage in our small town of Hideaway Springs. For some stupid reason, Elliot looked up to me. So when his assets—which weren’t much given he was a recent college grad—were divided, I was left with his home—and everything in it.

Several years ago, after Mom died from an illness that took her from us in the span of six months, Dad made us all create a will. For “the unexpected,” he’d called it.

So my twenty-two year old brother had one. And it clearly stated that all his personal belongings would be left to Chase Reeves. Since I knew him best and would know what to do with everything.

Would you have still chosen me after that last night?

Yeah. You probably would have. My brother and I didn’t fight often. Hell, he was the sweetest kid in town. No one messed with him—and the kid could never hurt a fly.

It’s why I pushed him away from trying to play hockey—too brutal, too intense. They’d eat him alive.

Two weeks after his funeral, I set one foot in his home, set some boxes down—and walked right out.

Disappearing for the next several weeks.

Which was easy to do, since I have a condo in the city. Before I got my own place, I lived in the cottage. And left it to Elliot four years ago, when I started playing with Denver’s NHL team.

“Look, Dad, I don’t want to talk about it, alright? I’ve got to head back to the city.”

“Fine. We’ll drop it for now. Hang out for a bit. I’ll grab a couple of beers.”

I sigh. I’m not the beer drinker with Dad. Never was—never cared to be. That’s Levi—the oldest. He and Dad could sit down and throw back a case of beer without a hiccup.

I’d bust my brother’s chops over all the calories, but the bastard doesn’t show it. He somehow manages to maintain abs of steel and the guy doesn’t even play a sport.

Speak of the fucking devil.

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