Page 3 of Unbreakable Bonds (The Boston Romance #2)

COLE

I love this time of day. The city hasn't fully woken, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sky's masterpiece—strokes of crimson bleeding into cotton-candy clouds.

Steam rises from my espresso, curling into the crisp morning air as I lean against my balcony's baluster.

Perfect silence. Perfect solitude. Perfect—

My phone vibrates. Fuck.

"Morning, Mother."

"Cole, darling. About the dinner party next week—"

"No." I drain my espresso, the bitter liquid doing nothing to wash away my irritation. "I'm not interested in meeting another 'perfect match.'"

"But—"

"Mother, I'm fine." And I've got other things on my mind. Like a certain blonde who's been haunting my dreams lately.

"Nonsense. Look at Nick—he found himself a sweet, caring woman who's building her own business. It's time you—"

"Running late. Gotta go."

My phone beeps with a text before I can pocket it. The message makes my jaw clench:

Good morning, Bulldozer. Up for a fresh round in the gym? Nick and I will be there in ten.

A growl rumbles in my chest at Brian's words. Bulldozer. My mind instantly conjures images of the blonde who gave me that nickname—all curves and attitude wrapped in red lace. Of all the women in Boston, my body decides to go haywire over my best friend's wife's best friend. Fucking perfect.

Time to focus on something—anything—else. I grab my Range Rover's keys and head for the elevator, the familiar weight settling in my palm. Forget another espresso. Time to teach Brian Fox a lesson about nicknames.

Labored breaths fill the air, and sweat drips from my pecs to my abdomen in steady rivers.

The burn in my arms should be my focus as my fists connect with the punching bag, but my mind keeps wandering to places it has no business going.

Like how Alisha's honey-blonde hair would feel twisted around my fingers, or how those feline green eyes would look glazed with pleasure.

How her ruby-red lips would— Fuck. Another punch lands, harder this time. Get. Out. Of. My. Head.

"Looks like our Bulldozer's lost his edge today," Brian taunts, his shit-eating grin visible in my peripheral vision.

Every ounce of frustration flows into my right leg as I kick the punching bag. It swings back with enough force to catch Brian in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his ass. Nick's laughter echoes through the gym.

Brian jumps to his feet, still grinning. "Definitely hit a nerve there."

"Fuck off," I mutter, landing another combination of punches.

"Come on, Grumpy. Why don't you just admit you're interested in Alisha?"

I kick the bag again, harder. "Says the man who's been too chicken for years to admit he's in love with a particular woman. Newsflash, Fox... there comes a time when she'll stop waiting for your sorry ass, and then you'll have lost her."

His water bottle whistles past my head. "Fuck you, Walker."

"God, you're both enormous babies," Nick says, crossing his arms. Before either of us can retaliate, a familiar voice cuts through our bullshit.

"Oh, there you are, guys."

Emma walks toward us, her smile bright despite the worry lines creasing her forehead.

"Dad!" Charlotte races past her mother, launching herself at Nick.

"Hey, Smarty. How was school?"

"Boring." Her nose wrinkles, making us all laugh.

"Can I play with the jump ropes over there, Daddy?" Nick nods, and she takes off running.

"How's Alisha doing?" Nick's voice drops low as he asks Emma.

My fists pause mid-strike, ears straining to catch Emma's response. The concern etched across her face makes my stomach clench.

"She received a threat letter yesterday," Emma whispers. "At her door."

The punching bag swings forgotten as I turn. "What?"

"Amanda made her call the police." Emma's eyes get glassy. "She hasn't slept properly since the attack. She's exhausted and scared, but too proud to ask for help."

Nick pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her temple. "She needs to be ready, Em." His hand drifts to her pregnant belly, protective and gentle.

"You're right." Emma sighs, then brightens slightly as she looks at her husband. "Are you coming to lunch?"

"Yeah." Nick glances between Brian and me. "You boys want to join?"

Brian shakes his head, retrieving his thrown water bottle. "Got orders coming in at Six-Pack. Need to sort out this security system mess."

"Cole?"

But I barely hear Emma's question. Rage pulses through my veins as I picture some bastard leaving threats at Alisha's door. My knuckles crack as I flex my fingers. If the cameras at Six-Pack hadn't malfunctioned that night... if I'd gotten a better look at the fucker who put his hands on her...

"I'm good," I manage to say. "You three go ahead."

Once they leave, I turn back to the bag. Each punch lands with brutal force as memories of Alisha's bruised face flash through my mind. The sick bastard who hurt her is still out there, still threatening her, and I'm standing here unable to do a damn thing about it.

The bag takes my fury until my muscles scream for mercy. Only then do I head for the showers, trying to wash away the helpless anger coating my skin like a second layer of sweat.

* * *

The moment my ass hits the cushion of my outdoor chair, I let out an exhausted breath.

Eleven hours of hammering out contracts, and all I want is to lose myself in this view.

Downtown Boston spreads out before me, city lights starting to twinkle in the dusk.

The static hum of traffic below usually soothes my mind, but tonight my thoughts keep circling back to that threat letter. To Alisha.

My phone's shrill ring shatters the evening quiet. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Good evening, Sir." A woman's professional tone crackles through the speaker. "This is Emily Miller. I apologize for calling so late, but I'm trying to reach Mr. Cole Walker."

I straighten in my chair. "Speaking."

She releases a heavy breath. "Oh, thank goodness. I've been searching everywhere for you. Do you know a woman named Jessica Davis?"

The name hits like a punch to the gut. Memories I'd rather forget surface—my father's death, months in Los Angeles I've spent fifteen years trying to erase. "Why are you asking about Jessica?"

"I'm Emily Miller from the Department of Children and Family Services in Los Angeles." She pauses, and something in my chest tightens. "Miss Davis has passed away."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but Jessica and I haven't seen each other in fifteen years." My fingers drum against the armrest. "Why are you calling me?"

"I'm looking for Samantha's father."

"Who's Samantha?"

"Samantha is Miss Davis's daughter."

"Look, I can't help you with that. I wish you luck—"

"Please, Mr. Walker. Don't hang up."

"Why not?"

"Because Samantha might be your daughter."

My brain short-circuits. "That's ridiculous. What kind of game are you playing—"

"It says here, on Samantha's birth certificate, that Cole Walker is her biological father."

The city lights blur before my eyes. One word escapes my numb lips: "What?"

The phone nearly slips from my suddenly sweaty palm. Jessica Davis. Fifteen years. A daughter. My daughter? The carefully ordered pieces of my life scatter like leaves in a storm.

First Alisha stirring up emotions I'd rather ignore, and now this? So much for my perfectly uncomplicated life.