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Raven

“ I didn’t pay for you to go to one of the best schools in Georgia for you to become a weather girl.” My dad is using his booming voice, which I guess he thinks will scare me.

Hello? Ever heard of thunder? Skyquakes? My mother?

I don’t scare so easily.

“They’re not called weather girls anymore, Dad. They’re meteorologists.” I bite a Totino’s pizza roll in half, holding for a moment while the savory flavors of salty tomato and melted cheese coat my tongue and quiet my insides.

“So now the weather is controlled by meteors?” He switches to his ridiculing voice for this question.

I pop the other half of the rectangle into my mouth. And to think this man has millions of dollars…

“The name actually comes from Aristotle. He titled his book Meteorologica , using the Greek word meteoron , which means ‘things in the air.’”

Dad walks slowly to where I stand, arms crossed and frowning down at me. “You want to waste a brain like that on the weather ?”

He says it like I just announced I was going to work under a bridge downtown.

“It’s actually one of the most useful branches of journalism.” Years of experience have taught me to keep my voice calm if I want him to hear me, no matter how I feel. “Weather affects everyone, every day. Extreme heat introduces the danger of heat stroke and dehydration. Extreme cold can lead to frostbite and death, and I don’t have to tell you how destructive tornadoes can be.”

“No one can predict a tornado, Raven Gale. They’re too fast.”

Swiping another pizza roll, I don’t even try to argue. “I want to be the next female Jim Cantore.” Lifting my chin, I say the name with pride.

“Who’s that?”

Sad horn.

“Only the most famous hurricane hunter on The Weather Channel. Trust me, Dad, if Jim Cantore shows up in your town, you do not want to be there.”

“And that’s who you want to be?” His voice drips with disdain.

“Yes!” I practically shout—so much for keeping cool. “I want to be the person who tells people to stop sitting on their butts and evacuate. Do you know how many lives I could save?”

“I only care about one life.” Dad’s arms lower, and he closes the distance between us. “I don’t like this career path, Biscuit. I want you to get your MBA and join Amelia and me in the family business.”

“Don’t call me Biscuit.” It’s a low grumble.

“Just trying to get through calculus over here.” My sister Amelia holds up her pencil from where she sits at the ornate mahogany desk in our father’s office on the second floor of his mansion just south of Atlanta .

Being the daughter of a luxury jewelry importer and a former Miss Georgia World, even a late one, is a total double-edged sword.

Money and status make people feel like they have control over you, and the last thing I’ve ever wanted is to be controlled. I’m way too stubborn for that.

Exhaling heavily, I do my best not to resent my Dad’s opinion. Amelia’s degree is considered useful, because she’ll join the family business. I’m considered a troublemaker, because he doesn’t understand my dreams.

“No one ever died selling a watch.” Dad’s condescending tone annoys me.

“As far as you know.” I strain away from his hug. “I don’t want to sell Rolex watches, Dad.”

“Rolex watches are the backbone of the luxury timekeeping industry.”

“Luxury timekeeping.” Now it’s my turn to be disgusted.

“Yes, timekeeping.” Dad’s brown eyes lock on mine. “You’re talking about the weather. Do you have any idea how critical the business of time is? I’d wager it’s right up there with tracking a hurricane.”

“Only if you’re running out of it.”

“You’re joking, but I’m serious.” Dad puts his hands on his hips. “Weather is amusing, but luxury watches are our bread and butter. You are to come back here and take your place at my side like your grandfather before you, and his father, and… all the rest of us.”

I’m finished arguing. “Love you, Dad. Don’t stay up past your bed time .”

“Don’t patronize me, young lady. You’ve gone from one harebrained scheme to the next, and now you want me to take seriously an extreme weather venture?”

“It’s not like that. I wasn’t cut out for those other jobs. Anyway, there’s no shame in trying different things. That’s the whole point of being young, right? ”

“What would your mother say?”

Oh, he did not go there.

“Mom would say the camera adds fifteen pounds.” I can’t keep the irritation out of my tone.

“She’d say you don’t know what you want and you need guidance. Your mother was an important woman. She never wanted you to have to rise above the way she did. She wanted you to have stability.”

“The root word of which is stable , like in a barn,” Amelia teases.

“Don’t encourage her, Amelia.” Dad’s tone is clipped.

My little sister doesn’t make waves, but I have a feeling there’s a rebel lurking beneath her submissive front.

I don’t resent my dad. He’s actually a pretty decent human being—with occasional spoiled-billionaire-tyrant tendencies. He’s nothing like my very important mother was.

Miss Georgia World was done with me when I refused to go to fat camp and dropped out of the pageant circuit. To her I was choosing to be a nobody, an overweight failure, which in her mind was the worst kind.

Amelia was lucky she never had to experience that life. Our VIM was gone before my little sister was old enough to pause, look left, right, smile for the judges…

The memory sends a shiver down my back, and I snatch the handle of my rolling suitcase. It took me a lot of therapy and a lot of retraining my thoughts to get away from that childhood, but I did it.

Now I hold my head high, and I do whatever the fuck I want.

“I’ve got to go. I’m due in south Alabama for Dylan’s wedding.” I kiss his cheek, and turn, bending down to hug my sister’s shoulders.

“Who’s Dylan?” Dad grumbles. “Is that a boy?”

“Dylan Bradford is a girl, Dad. I met her on the cruise when Amelia graduated high school? I told you this. She was a chaperone for a group of kids from Newhope, Alabama. ”

“Have a nice time.” His tone is stern. “When you get back, you’re going to settle down and get serious.”

I’m tired of arguing, so I don’t even bother to reply.

“I’ll follow you out!” My little sister hops out of her chair, catching my hand.

She laces her fingers in mine as we walk out to my car, and I think about how close we’ve always been. She’s nine years younger than me, but it was the perfect time to get a new baby in the house. Her feet never touched the ground, and as the years passed, our bond grew stronger.

“I wish I was going with you.” She shoves a clump of dark brown curls behind her ear.

“You have to study for your finals.”

Amelia is a student at Emory, and in the fall, she’s moving into an on-campus apartment with her friends, which means I’ll be home alone with Dad.

It’s enough to make me want my own place. If only entry-level meteorologists were paid more. As it is, I’m pretty dependent until I get a promotion, which could take years.

I graduated from The University of Georgia at Athens with a degree in general studies and a desire to do something important, something that would make a difference in people’s lives. I just didn’t know what.

I tried being a mortician. It sounded interesting, and I thought I could be a kind, loving presence at a difficult time in people’s lives. Then I threw up on my first cadaver.

For a whole two weeks, I tried accounting—until my dad busted me sleeping at my desk, and I threw in the towel. It’s so freaking boring!

That’s when I discovered meteorology. I landed a six-month, unpaid internship at the television station in Athens, and I realized this was what I loved. It was fast paced and exciting, and it was news that actually impacted people’s daily lives.

I saw first-hand how important weather and hurricane coverage could be. I saw the destructive power of wind and hail and flooding.

It’s possible I was influenced by repeat viewings of the movie Twister with Helen Hunt. I look nothing like Helen Hunt. I’m short with thick brown hair that I dress up with gold highlights in the front. I have thick thighs, a big butt, and a narrow waist. I’m more like Helen Hunt-Kardashian, which makes me snort. That’s a weird combo.

“Does Larry know about your plans?”

“No.” I growl, impatiently shoving my overnight bag into the back of my car. “Why would I tell Larry?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t y’all supposed to be sort-of getting engaged or something?”

Lawrence Calder O'Halloran is the son of my Dad’s business partner Therman. Since we were born, our parents shared the dream of us one day getting married and uniting their jewelry empire.

Larry shared my mother’s dream of marrying a Miss Georgia World, and he was on her side when I dropped out of that madness. To them it was the worst mistake of my life. To me, it was freedom.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate pageant girls. I’m just not one of them.

It was Larry who coined the nickname “Biscuit.” Once when we were in high school, I made my signature drop biscuits for him. They’re delicious and fluffy, and with cream and honey, they’re like little bites of heaven. Larry decided I ate too many of them, and a nickname was born. I wanted to kick him in the biscuit.

Lately, he’s been making offhand remarks about how these new compounding pharmacies make off-brand Ozempic at affordable prices.

“I wouldn’t marry Lawrence O’Halloran if he were the last man on the planet.” Anger heats my throat. “He’s a dick.”

“But you’re going to unite the families.” She holds out her hand, doing a pretty decent imitation of Don Corleone from the classic movie The Godfather . “You’ll let down your father.”

“That ship sailed before I left for college.” My throat burns. “I only wish I wasn’t so financially dependent.”

“Aw, Dad loves you.” Amelia blinks up at me with the eyes of a youngest child. “He says a lot of stuff, but in the end, he really just wants you to be happy.”

Wrapping my arm around her waist, I pull her in for a hug. Ameila is a little taller than me, and has never had an overweight day in her life. She has no idea what it’s like to be the “failure” oldest daughter of someone like our mom.

“I’m sure you’re right, Sis.”

What makes me very happy is knowing that in four short hours, I’ll be down at the beach watching one of my dearest friends get married, going to a rocking after party, and having a weekend to be free of condescension and pressure.

“See you later alligator.” I give her a little squeeze.

“After while, crocodile!” She calls back, using our standard farewell.

Scooting behind the wheel of my car, I wave out the window as the gates slowly open for me to leave my family’s estate.

I can’t wait to see Dylan Bradford again. We share a love of cooking and eating and enjoying life, and we’re both a little fluffy.

We’ve kept in touch ever since the cruise, almost four years ago, when we discovered our love of hot peppers and margaritas and Mexico. We text, swap recipes, and she keeps inviting me to come for a visit.

Every Thursday at her family’s restaurant, they have a “Dare Night,” where she whips up a super-hot pepper recipe for daring customers to try. She said it’s a fun party, and I’ve been promising to make time to see it.

I couldn’t believe it when she asked me to be one of her bridesmaids. Then she said I’d be walking down the aisle with her brother Hendrix, who I happen to know is the star tight end for the Los Angeles Tigers .

I looked him up, and he ranks two million on the Scoville heat scale. That’s hotter than a Carolina Reaper, in case you didn’t know.

It’s going to be the best weekend, like a mini-spring break, and as my father’s mansion grows smaller in the rearview mirror, my hopes grow bigger.

I’m going to have fun, and who knows? Maybe I’ll figure out a way to make a place for myself on the coast and get one step closer to my dream.

“What do you like to do for fun, Raven?” Hendrix Bradford wraps both of my hands in his large ones and smiles down at me.

His sapphire blue eyes sparkle like the deep ocean, and I’m momentarily hypnotized.

We’re standing in the large dining room at Cooters & Shooters, and the Thursday Dare Night is winding to a close. I’m sorry I missed all the crazy fun, but my sadness is short-lived when Dylan introduces me to her six-foot-two, muscle-bound groomsman-older brother.

Let me just say for the record, Hendrix Bradford is 300 times hotter in person than he is in the pictures on Google, which makes him 300 times hotter than a Carolina Reaper.

I’m doing my best to be sassy-cool and toss my hair behind my shoulders as I laugh. I’m feisty and fun, and maybe he’ll want to give me a kiss after the wedding.

That’s the whole point of being a bridesmaid, right? Getting to make out with an insanely hot groomsman?

Okay, I know. The point of being a bridesmaid is the possibility of hooking up with an insanely hot groomsman… But the thought of Hendrix Bradford wanting a post-wedding hookup makes my stomach jump to my throat and do a roundoff, back handspring, with two backwards flips in a pike position .

Basically, it turns my stomach into Simone Biles.

Amelia once told me that Beyoncé developed a fake persona to help her when she was nervous about going on stage.

Beyoncé’s persona is Sasha Fierce , so we decided mine would be Tasha Scarce , which made me a bit skeptical. Why was Tasha scarce? Was she broke? Had she gone missing? Would she dip out when I needed her most?

Amelia said my fear was scarce, and I went with it. All those years of pageant training had to be good for something.

So while I wish I’d made it in time for “Dare Night”-dancing and tasting one of those little cups of vanilla ice cream with the Trinidad Scorpion blueberry sauce, Tasha gives me a fabulous personality to deflect my nerves around this big, rowdy family and their devastatingly handsome men.

“I’m a meteorologist.” I blink up at him with a smile. “I chase hurricanes.”

His brows quirk, and he steps closer, causing my core to clench. “Are you one of those poor reporters struggling to stand up against 100 mile-per-hour winds while you tell everybody to evacuate?”

“That’s me!” I even manage to laugh. “I almost ended up in the ocean once, but as you can tell, I’m not so easy to knock down.”

I motion to my sturdy frame, and his sexy eyes slide down my body. It’s like a hot caress, and it leaves me feeling completely naked and slippery and I’m pretty sure my ears are pink.

“You look good to me.” His low tone lights a fire in my veins, and I won’t lie, I like it.

Fighting the blush covering my entire upper torso, I lift my chin in defiance like Tasha would. “I’m going to be the next Jim Cantore.”

“Oh, shit.” His low laugh tickles my stomach. “If Jim Cantore shows up, you’d better get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Exactly!” I tap my finger against his rock-hard bicep. “Imagine how many lives he saves just by his reputation alone. ”

“I never thought of it that way.” Hendrix’s smile reveals straight white teeth as he studies me. “That’s a pretty cool twist—a life-saving reputation.” He nods. “I like it.”

“If only my dad agreed with you.” I take a sip of the Modelo I’m holding. “He thinks I’m trying to be a weather girl.”

Hendrix’s forehead crinkles, and even his laugh is sexy. “Does anybody still say weather girl ?”

“My dad does.”

My tone mellows his humor, and he genuinely seems bothered by this new information. “I hate that. You have a dream, and it means a lot to you. Your dad should respect it.”

“I think so.” My lips twist into a smile, and the gratitude I feel helps with the nerves twisting my stomach. “I appreciate you saying that. It’s nice.”

He leans closer, and I’m surrounded by his sexy scent—warm vanilla and sandalwood. He smells delicious.

“I know what it’s like not to see eye to eye with your family.” His chin lifts, and he takes a sip of his own beer. “Or when they try to tell you what you’re supposed to want.”

I tilt my head, looking up at him. “People actually treat you that way?”

“I have three older brothers.” He smirks.

“In that case, we should join forces and be rebels this weekend.” Tasha is in full control right now. “Leave all those limits behind us.”

“I like how your mind works.” Mischief is in his eyes, and he lifts my hand into the crook of his arm. “If you’re game, we can have a little adventure. Just say the word.”

“I never know the right response to that.” I lean forward with a laugh. “Is it word ? If so, then word !”

He points at me. “Word up.”