No Kind of Hero (Portland Devils Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  No Kind of Hero | Rosalind James

  Synopsis

  Author's Note

  Dedication

  Planning Fail

  Not Hitting the Jackpot

  Not the Friend Zone

  Not a Day of Rest

  Not Channeling Anne

  Navy Blue With Glitter

  Always a Lady

  The Yacht Club

  Like a Boss

  One Match

  A Dark Star

  Putting the Brakes On

  Rescuing Rosie

  Steam Heat

  Setting Virgo Free

  Change of Venue

  Alternative Beth

  His

  Home Truths

  Millionaires and Man Buns

  Redneck Style

  A Woman Like You

  Flinging

  Heart Music

  Burn Them Down

  Dancing in the Dark

  What A Woman Wants

  Real or Not

  Not Really Closure

  Possession

  Winds of Change

  Pesky Things, Human Emotions

  Proof

  Undercurrent City

  Calling It Out

  Failing the Lady Test

  The Past Rehashed

  The Angels Wept

  Another Day in Paradise

  In Motion

  Black Smoke

  Round Table

  The World in Slow Motion

  Volunteer Lady

  Not the Plan

  A Powerful Woman

  Text copyright 2017 Rosalind James

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

  Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

  Some men are hard to quit.

  Beth Schaefer isn’t just on the partnership track at her Portland law firm, she’s in the lead. Unfortunately, she’s about to fall at the finish line. When she makes a list of Breakdown Destinations, she can’t even manage to choose between them. Which means she has to come home to Wild Horse, Idaho, for her breakdown. She has exactly eighteen-point-five days of accumulated vacation time to devote to it.

  Evan O’Donnell’s girlfriend took off when their baby girl was a month old, and that’s just fine by him. His daughter Gracie is all the female companionship he needs, thank you very much. Beth Schaefer isn’t even in the running. Nine years ago, her parents convinced her to give him up, and he’s had enough of snobs and women who don’t stick. Evan’s a blue-collar guy from his too-broad shoulders to his scuffed work boots, and he’s nobody’s white knight and nobody’s hero. Not anymore.

  But what if Beth isn’t the only one who needs saving?

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No Kind of Hero | Rosalind James

  Synopsis

  Author's Note

  Dedication

  Planning Fail

  Not Hitting the Jackpot

  Not the Friend Zone

  Not a Day of Rest

  Not Channeling Anne

  Navy Blue With Glitter

  Always a Lady

  The Yacht Club

  Like a Boss

  One Match

  A Dark Star

  Putting the Brakes On

  Rescuing Rosie

  Steam Heat

  Setting Virgo Free

  Change of Venue

  Alternative Beth

  His

  Home Truths

  Millionaires and Man Buns

  Redneck Style

  A Woman Like You

  Flinging

  Heart Music

  Burn Them Down

  Dancing in the Dark

  What A Woman Wants

  Real or Not

  Not Really Closure

  Possession

  Winds of Change

  Pesky Things, Human Emotions

  Proof

  Undercurrent City

  Calling It Out

  Failing the Lady Test

  The Past Rehashed

  The Angels Wept

  Another Day in Paradise

  In Motion

  Black Smoke

  Round Table

  The World in Slow Motion

  Volunteer Lady

  Not the Plan

  A Powerful Woman

  Waving Goodbye

  Journey to Nowhere

  An Imperfect Proposition

  My Best Friend

  Like a Mother

  We’ve Got Love

  Surprise Ending

  Links

  Other Books by Rosalind James

  Acknowledgments

  For M’ilee and Ridge

  For reminding me how a mama loves her baby

  Possible Breakdown Destinations

  Beth Schaefer wrote the words neatly at the top of a fresh yellow legal pad and underlined them with care. She sat back and looked at what she’d written, then drew a second, defiant underscore beneath the first.

  Right. On to brainstorming.

  Cabo San Lucas, she wrote. She’d never been to Cabo, but she’d heard it was nice, and it sounded relaxing. She left some space, then wrote Baja California beneath it.

  Wait, though. Was Baja safe? Her pen hovered over the name, ready to cross it out.

  No. You’re brainstorming. No editorializing. She left Baja sitting boldly on its line, then went on before she could stop herself and wrote

  France

  England

  New Zealand

  Canada

  down the page.

  Canada? Who went to Canada for their breakdown? She started to cross that off, too, then caught herself and left it. She stunk at brainstorming. And this was the most vanilla list of destinations imaginable. Where was Morocco? Thailand? Samoa? Where was Italy, for that matter?

  She glanced at the clock on her computer. Seven-thirty. She needed to get to work. She’d gotten up at five as usual, had worked out in the condo’s gym, and had come into the office at her usual seven-fifteen. Now, the silver streaks against the single window in her tiny office told her that Portland was still Rain Central, the four neatly arrayed, overlapping folders on one corner of her desk told her that her day’s work was still waiting, and everything she’d learned since law school told her that arranging your breakdown wasn’t billable.

  Too bad. In a burst of recklessness, she clicked on the countdown timer in the top corner of her computer screen and set it for fifteen minutes. A quarter-hour of breakdown planning. Go.

  She wrote Pros on one side of her pad and Cons on the other, then began to fill them in.

  Cabo. Pros: probably cheaper airfare. Presumably affordable accommodation. She went to Google and began to research—her specialty—and quickly realized she should be creating her planning document on the computer. That way, she could copy links into her file for later. On the other hand, how thoroughly did the IT department nose around in the associates’ systems? She’d never known. She’d never had to know. She’d never done anything they’d be interested in checking. She’d never done anything they’d be interested in, period.

  First time for everything. She opened a document, named it PBD just to be on the safe side, and got to work. Cabo and Baja: beach. That was a pro. On the other hand: Spanish. She didn’t speak it.

  France: expensive. Also: French. England: exchange rate good, English good. Or maybe n
ot good, because learning a new language would be a more productive use of her time. But then: rain. She already had rain. Her breakdown destination was going to be sunny.

  New Zealand. That was sunny. Beach, too. Also: English. Oh, wait. It was winter there. She deleted it.

  Whoops. Brainstorming fail. What if her breakdown turned into a ski vacation and then a romance with a manly, capable, Kiwi-accented ski instructor who brought her back to life and actually enjoyed performing oral sex?

  “Examine the possibilities,” she muttered aloud. She retyped the name, then defiantly deleted it again. She didn’t want winter, and New Zealand men probably weren’t any more convinced that “it was better to give than to receive” than any other guys on the planet. But should she . . .

  The timer went off. She stared at her screen, then erased the whole thing, ripped the sheet of paper off the legal pad, and tore it into pieces before dropping it into the wastebasket.

  She’d do it tonight, with a glass of wine. She was at work. You did your breakdowns on your own time.

  Except she didn’t. Two hours later, she was still staring at her computer screen, totally blanking.

  Focus.

  She couldn’t.

  She got up, went to the break room, and got herself a tea. Not a coffee, because she was already so jittery that she was about to blow a fuse. She took it back to her office, tapped a file folder back into place, took a sip of tea, and poised her fingers over the keyboard.

  Nothing.

  This didn’t happen. Never. Not ever. How could she bill for this? She couldn’t. She was going to have a whole day of non-billable hours, and Simon was going to ask her about it, and she was going to burst into tears, and he was going to say . . .

  She was hyperventilating. Stop. This was catastrophizing, and it was the definition of unproductive.

  She could barely even feel herself doing it, but somehow, she was standing up and her feet were carrying her toward Simon’s corner office.

  The senior partner for Estate Planning didn’t raise his salt-and-pepper head at her knock. “Come in and don’t talk,” he said, his fingers continuing to fly over the keys, exactly the way hers should have been.

  She almost turned around and left again, but she didn’t. She walked over and sat down in one of the two chairs across from his desk. And then concentrated on not throwing up.

  “Right. Go.” Simon swiveled himself away from his monitor and stared at her over the glasses perched halfway down his aquiline nose. Rumor had it that he didn’t need the glasses, that they were for intimidation use only. But then, rumor also had it that he drank the blood of unsatisfactory associates, and that wasn’t true. Not literally.

  “I need a leave,” she said, then put up a hand as if she could recall the words and stuff them back into her mouth.

  He didn’t say anything for long seconds, just stared at her, his nearly black eyes boring into hers. Finally, he said, “No no no no no.” Simon never used one word when five would do. “You don’t need a leave. You also don’t need to cut your throat. You need to make partner next year. You’re my star. Go back out there and shine.”

  “I can’t. Ever since I lost the case . . .”

  “Who cares that you lost the case? I’ll tell you. Your client cares. Nobody else cares. Everybody else has forgotten already. You did your job. The firm got paid. You didn’t lose it on preparation. You didn’t lose it on presentation. You lost it on interpretation. Judges are crazy. What is this for you, Year One? Year Two?”

  “No. Year Six.”

  “Right. Year Six. My point. This isn’t your first rodeo. We don’t have a meltdown when we lose. We shake hands with our opponent, chalk it up, and move on toward that partnership. Now go away and get busy.”

  “I can’t. I need a leave.”

  “Ah. This would be when I’m supposed to counsel you to consult Human Resources if you’re experiencing stress. Or your family physician. Consider yourself counseled, and go back to work.”

  She was nodding, telling herself to stand up, but what came out of her mouth was, “I can’t. I’m empty. I need a leave.”

  Another black stare. “How many days of accrued vacation do you have?”

  “Eighteen-point-five.”

  He didn’t ask her how she knew or if she was sure. He knew she knew.

  “Oh, wait,” she said. “Oh. I should have said I need to take vacation. Urgently, because I, uh . . . for health reasons.” Why hadn’t she said that? Where was her judgment? It was like it had flown away over Puget Sound. Just . . . gone.

  “No,” Simon said.

  “I need to. I do.”

  “No. You also don’t need to stick a sign on your back saying, ‘Tightly wound.’ Another sign.”

  She flinched. The note had been there in her last performance review, along with “Exceptional diligence,” “Outstanding attention to detail,” and “Superior writing ability.” She said, “But I . . .”

  Simon waved her down. “Who cares. You’re tightly wound, I’m tightly wound. We’re all tightly wound. If it wasn’t for coffee, I wouldn’t be functional. And your mother is very, very . . .” He made come-to-me motions with one lean hand.

  “Uh . . . Interfering? Overinvolved?”

  A shake of the head. “Work with me.” The hand again. “Very, very . . .”

  “S-sick? My mother is very sick?”

  He nodded like an owner whose dog had just performed the trick where she held the treat on her nose. “And you need to take . . .”

  “ . . . some time off to be with her?”

  “But the Family and Medical Leave Act isn’t necessary because . . .”

  “Because I don’t have to care for her. I just need to spend some vacation time with her, because we don’t know how long she has.”

  Simon nodded twice. The dog had held the treat on her nose a good long time now. “And we hope you won’t need to ask for any FMLA time, unless she’s . . .”

  “. . . hospitalized.” What was she saying?

  “Very good.” Simon actually pushed his glasses up, a rare sign of favor. The dog got to eat the cookie. “Now either go away and work or go away and send me an email telling me about your mother. I prefer the work option.”

  “My poor mother, though. It’s like I’m dooming her.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” Simon said. “I heard, ‘I’m taking some days off and coming back ready to bust my butt to make partner next year.’ And don’t think this actually means you do have to go visit your mother just because you said it. I know you. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s keeping an honesty score. Now go away.”

  Beth was dreaming that there was a fly buzzing in her ear. She put up her hand to swat it away, and it came right back.

  Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

  She sat bolt upright. It was light in the room. Oh, no. Late. I’m late. She’d missed court. The nightmare had happened. Her heart was hammering, the panic rising into her throat.

  Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

  Oh. The phone. She hadn’t missed court. The case was over, she wasn’t even in Portland, and somebody was calling her. Way too early.

  She reached for the phone, glanced at it, and groaned aloud, but she answered it. “Morning, Mom. What time is it?”

  “Almost eight.”

  “You realize that if I’d succeeded, you’d have been interrupting.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become a lady, darling. And of course I wouldn’t have been interrupting. You know better than to go to bed with a man on the first date. I’ve told you enough times. He’s not going to value what comes that easily. A man who respects a woman, who’s looking for a wife and not just a good time, expects to have to move slowly. Little by little, that’s the way. He’s winning the prize, that’s the mindset you’re instilling.”

  “Well, I’ve clearly hit the jackpot, because if he were moving any more slowly, he’d be running in the other direction. Oh, wait.”

  Her mother drew in a sharp breath. “You’
re joking, I know. It’s not a joking matter. I hope you asked him about himself. That’s what men want.”

  “I don’t remember,” Beth lied. She was pretty sure she hadn’t done that. She’d known it was a mistake to tell her mother that she had a date. She’d thought it would make her less worried. Clearly, it hadn’t worked.

  She got out of bed and pulled the drapes back, and saw nothing at all like Cabo, Baja, or England. Instead, she saw Wild Horse Lake sparkling in the August sunshine, the Idaho mountains rising beyond in a view that was her first memory. All of it completely unchanged, as if careers and relationships and getting ahead in your life were just the temporary, petty annoyances of the puny beings who came and went in endless self-important succession while the trees grew taller and the water and the land remained, generation upon generation.

  Nice idea, anyway. Unfortunately, as one of those puny beings scurrying around on the surface, she couldn’t afford the lofty sentiment. And all right, so she’d ended up in Wild Horse. She hadn’t had the energy to have a breakdown anywhere else.

  She basked like a cat in the warmth of the morning sun and wondered what her mother would say if she knew she didn’t wear anything to bed. Probably quote statistics to prove that slutty women who slept naked were doomed to a lonely life as the Other Woman, and that women who went to bed in sleep shorts and tank tops—Beth’s winter sleep wardrobe—married plumbers.

  Meanwhile, her mother was still talking. “When are you going out with him again? This time . . . still no cleavage, I think, but maybe a wide V-neck. You have beautiful shoulders, and your skin’s still good. And if he takes you out on his boat for the day—a bikini, but a modest one, and not red or black. We’ll do some shopping.”

  “No, we won’t,” Beth said. “Dr. Anderson St. Clair and I aren’t each others’ type, trust me. If I go out on his boat, it’ll be as the jolly crew or something. I’m friendzoned, and so is he. Which is fine. I’m only here for a month. Also, he has a last name as his first name, and I’ve decided that’s a dealbreaker.”

  “Elizabeth,” her mother said, her voice rich with alarm. “What exactly did he say at the end of the evening?”