Game Changer Read online

  Game Changer

  Sylvie Stewart

  Rolling Hearts Press

  Copyright

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than brief quotations for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by the author who can be contacted at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Sylvie Stewart

  Edited by Heather Mann

  First edition: July 2019

  ISBN: 978-1-947853-13-3

  Contents

  Also by Sylvie Stewart

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Game Changer Playlist

  Also by Sylvie Stewart

  Thanks and Keep in Touch

  Excerpt from The Fix

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sylvie Stewart

  The Carolina Connection Series:

  The Fix (Carolina Connections, Book 1)

  The Spark (Carolina Connections Book 2)

  The Lucky One (Carolina Connections Book 3)

  The Game (Carolina Connections Book 4)

  The Way You Are (Carolina Connections Book 5)

  Carolina Connections Box Set

  * * *

  The Nerd Next Door (Carolina Kisses, Book 1)

  Then Again

  Happy New You

  About That

  Full-On Clinger (FREE for a limited time!)

  * * *

  Between a Rock and a Royal (Kings of Carolina, Book 1)

  Blue Bloods and Backroads (Kings of Carolina, Book 2)

  Kings of Carolina Box Set

  To the boys of Old Dominion.

  Thanks for all the inspiration and for giving Mac his song.

  One

  “Mind the manners your mama gave you.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  “Cookie, I’ll take this damn thing on the plane over my dead body!”

  She smacks me right on the butt and I yelp just like I did when I was twelve. “Don’t you go using profanity in my house, young lady. God’s listening!”

  I turn to my grandmother and tilt my chin. “If God’s paying any mind, I can promise you he’s on my side.”

  We both look down at the bed where the enormous suitcase adorned with a three-foot by two-foot confederate flag stitched into the black fabric stares up at us.

  “Bunny spent all week cross-stitching that for you. She’s just about worked herself blind.” She crosses her arms and shoots me a victorious look as she throws out the ultimate challenge. “Do you want to hurt her feelings?”

  Dammit. She knows she’s got me. If I’ve learned anything in my thirty-one years it’s that you never, ever, disrespect your elders—especially the ones who still think the Civil War was last week and us Southerners are just taking a little breather before we rally.

  I sigh in resignation and unzip the monstrosity. It is rather spacious inside. “Fine. But I hope she knows no taxi within a thousand miles of the airport is gonna pick me up with that thing. I’ll be walking into Manhattan.” Let’s see how Bunny feels when my corpse is found stuffed in the damn suitcase three weeks from now. Scratch that. It’ll just be one more tick in her column of egregious acts committed by the Yankees. Jeez Louise.

  Cookie turns me to her and takes both my cheeks in her hands. She’s wearing one of her favorite floral-print blouses with an apron over it that says, “Gimme Some Sugar” in sparkly pink letters. She waits until I meet her eyes before speaking, her tone low and sincere. “No shame in your roots, Poppy darlin’.” She glances back down to the suitcase and shifts her cherry-painted lips to the side. “Well, you get my meaning.”

  And I do. I truly do. I love where I’m from almost as much as I love Cookie herself, and I’d do just about anything for her. Being proud of my roots is not a hardship. But last I checked we weren’t living on Tara and Rhett Butler damn sure wasn’t knocking on my door. Bobby Lee Collinsworth, on the other hand, can’t seem to stop. I feel my heartburn kick in again at the thought, but I muster up a smile because I know she needs it. “I know, Cookie. And it’s just New York, not New Zealand. I’ll be back so often y’all will be sick of me.”

  A wistful smile curves her lips and I feel myself beginning to tear up. She must notice because she releases me and steps back. “Well, supper’s not gonna fix itself. You come on down and I’ll put you to work.”

  I manage a return smile and nod. “Be right there.”

  Cooking with my grandmother while I’ve been staying here these past two weeks has been a secret pleasure. We wake with the proverbial rooster and prepare scrumptious plates of crepes with fresh cream and wild berries or fluffy omelets with Gruyère and chives with stacks of bacon and sausage from a farm just outside Savannah. And always, always, a giant platter of flaky scratch biscuits with homemade preserves. Guests at the historic Violette Inn awake to the scents of freshly ground coffee and buttery baked goods right out of the oven. It’s all part of the tradition Cookie’s own mother began and one her daughter is sure to maintain until she outlives us all.

  I look around the room where I’ve been staying, its buttercup yellow walls and maple four-poster bed as familiar to me as my own reflection. I’ll probably miss the B & B more than the apartment I just gave up. But it’s all part of a bigger plan.

  “No fair.” Another voice comes from the doorway and I don’t need to look to know it’s my sister. “If you start crying, I’m gonna start crying, and then before you know it, every damn person in the place will be blubbering like it’s a funeral procession.”

  I cough out a laugh through the lump in my throat.

  I reckon I shouldn’t be surprised at my tears since moving means leaving my entire family behind—not that I haven’t thought about selling a member or two over the years but who hasn’t? And I know I’m being a bit impulsive, but my gut keeps telling me I need to get my ass out of here and shake things up—spread my wings.

  So, when a long weekend visit to my friend Katelyn in the Big Apple turned into an impromptu interview with the publisher of Warbey’s Home Living magazine—yeah, that magazine—I took it as a sign. I’m turning over a new leaf and New York had better watch out for Poppy James!

  But it doesn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

  I sharpen my expression. “I’m a badass modern woman and we don’t shed tears. We strike fear in the hearts of mere mortals and make them cry.”

  Iris whoops, her curly b
lond locks dancing in time to her movements. “Damn straight!” She comes closer and drops onto the bed. “Now, let’s practice again.”

  I grimace and she shoots me a scolding look. “If you show up with that accent, the only job you’re gonna get is in the mailroom or at a strip club wearing nothing but your cowboy boots and a smile.”

  My eyes dart to the door and I shush my sister. “If Cookie hears you, she’ll skin both our hides.”

  Iris rolls her eyes. “Cookie thinks you should bring a basket of homemade biscuits and a jar of her apple butter to a job interview. She doesn’t understand how cutthroat the publishing industry is—especially in New York.”

  My hand goes to my hip. “And how exactly do you know? You’ve never even been there.”

  “I have a TV, Poppy. And I’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada. Meryl Streep would chew your Southern ass up and spit you out before you had a chance to whip out your résumé.” She raises an eyebrow and her resemblance to Cookie is uncanny. “You’d best take me seriously or you’re gonna be tucking your tail between your legs and coming home before you know it!” Her tone turns ominous. “And we both know what that means.”

  The heartburn is back. “Fine.” I sigh. Maybe she’s right, and it never hurts to be prepared. I straighten my spine and clear my throat. “I had the most delectable Brussels sprout tacos last night. They truly were perfection.” My voice comes out without a trace of my Georgia accent. Iris raises her pointy little chin and gives me an impressed nod before I continue. “Cancel my one o’clock. My chi is unbalanced and demanding hot yoga. I’ll return as soon as balance has been restored.”

  Iris laughs and I drop on the bed next to her, letting myself fall back on the ruffled duvet. She shoves the empty suitcase to the floor and mimics my pose. “You’re gonna do great.”

  “Your lips to God’s ear.”

  She flips over and props herself up on her elbows so she can look at me straight on. “You’re not some inexperienced hack, Poppy. You’ve been working your tail off for ten years. Nobody knows magazine design like you, and you’ve got the success stories to back it.” She narrows her eyes. “Do I need to pull out Mama and Cookie’s scrapbooks to remind you?”

  I groan. “Please, no.” Then I bolt upright. “Crap. I’d better find those and hide them before anybody shows up tonight.”

  “Two steps ahead of you, sis. I already stashed them in the linen closet.” She tilts her chin with meaning. “Under the plaid sheets.”

  I look back at my little sister. The plaid sheets have always been deemed tacky and are only to be used in emergencies. The scrapbooks are safe. “What am I gonna do without you, Rissy?”

  She sits up too and pats my thigh. “I guess I’ll just have to visit, now won’t I?”

  “Whenever you want. I mean it.” I feel the tears threatening again as my throat gets tight. “I’d best get downstairs and help with supper.”

  We both stand and Iris rights the suitcase before her hands freeze. “Oh my good lord.” Her eyes are fixed on the brightly-colored confederate flag. “Somebody’s gone and lost their damn mind.”

  Her gaze shifts to me and we speak simultaneously. “Bunny.”

  An hour later I’m elbow deep in Cookie’s secret fried chicken dry mix—which I’m ninety-nine percent certain is the same one from The Joy of Cooking—when a knock sounds at the back door of the historic townhouse. I look at my hands, knowing there’s no way I can manage the knob, so I call out, “Come on in!” and immediately wish I hadn’t.

  Neatly combed tawny hair over a classically handsome face greets me, complete with a gleaming white smile and a genuine cleft chin Superman himself would envy. “Well, good evening, Poppy. How is the girl of the hour?”

  I force a polite smile and wish for some Tums. “Hi, Bobby Lee. I’m doing well, how are you?”

  He lets himself the rest of the way in and I only have myself to blame.

  “I can’t complain. Left the office early so I could make the most of your last night in town.” His smile grows and I can’t help but notice it has a distinct trace of indulgence in it.

  “That’s awful sweet of you, Bobby Lee, but you didn’t have to do that.” Really, you didn’t I tack on silently as I arrange the dredging station on the counter for the mounds of chicken pieces I prepared.

  I know they say New York has some of the best food on the planet, but I’m not leaving Savannah without some homemade fried chicken. For all I know, the only way I might be able to get it up north is by visiting the Colonel, and that’s like eating fish sticks and pretending it’s a fresh-caught seafood dinner.

  He produces a bouquet of red roses from behind his back and my responding gulp is audible. “It wouldn’t be a party without flowers.” I smile weakly as he goes on, “And I can’t have you forgetting about me, now can I?” Good grief. He’s laying it on so thick, I reckon Katelyn is getting his meaning all the way from Manhattan.

  I hold up both flour-covered hands and look pointedly at them, taking a calming breath so I don’t lose my shit. “Uh, I can’t…” But before I can figure out what to say, the door opens again and the kitchen shrinks ten sizes.

  Bunny clasps her hands together over her mouth and practically floats into the room. “Oh, Bobby Lee! You are so thoughtful. Those roses are just beautiful.” She turns to me with stars in her eyes. “Aren’t they just gorgeous, Poppy?”

  All I can do is nod as I stand in the middle of the kitchen, my white hands held aloft. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bobby Lee bends down and kisses her cheek. “Hi, Mama.” She grasps his arm and hugs it to her large bosom like a child’s favorite blankie. He smiles down at her and laps it up like he thinks he’s Jason freaking Momoa in a pastel blue polo and chinos. I fight an eyeroll.

  But Bunny’s not done. “I see you’ve got your hands full, dear, so I’ll just put these in some water for you.” She plucks the bouquet from Bobby Lee’s hand and heads directly for the side cabinet where Cookie keeps the vases. Bunny knows this kitchen even better than I do. “We’ll be sure to wrap them up in newspapers and a bag of water for you to take with you in the morning.”

  I turn to the sink and bite my tongue, unable to control the eyeroll this time. I flip the tap with more force than necessary, but I can’t help myself. She really thinks I’m gonna take a bouquet of roses on an airplane? Let’s set aside for a moment the fact that everyone knows what red roses mean yet I’m the only one who thinks it’s all kinds of inappropriate for my ex-boyfriend to waltz in here with what looks like two dozen of the wretched things. My list of items to remember to bring as I move my entire life to another state is long—my ID, my phone, my credit card, my stupid suitcase, and let’s not forget my vibrator or my favorite boots. But there’s not a rose on that list, red or otherwise.

  I know what they’re doing, the two of them, and it’s not going to work. But I channel Cookie and don’t say what I want to say—what I’ve been wanting to say for months now. “Thanks, Bunny. And thank you for the flowers, Bobby Lee.”

  Bobby Lee leans in and kisses my cheek, the sharp scent of his hair product reaching me before his dry lips. I hear Bunny sigh from behind me and throw her a stiff smile over my shoulder. “And the suitcase was so… unexpected. You shouldn’t have.” Lord, I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I don’t tell her I’m taping over the damn flag as soon as humanly possible, and instead reach for a white linen dish towel to dry my hands.

  “Oh, it was my pleasure, dear. I got the idea from Warbey’s Home Living.”

  The towel drops from my hand and I barely notice when Bobby Lee retrieves it for me.

  “Of course the article showed it with a different design, but as soon as the idea popped in my head I knew you’d love it!” Her round cheeks are pink with pleasure.

  Kill me now.

  But death doesn’t come, so I choose to take this as a sign that I’m doing the right thing by moving. Katelyn and Athena Lennox, the publisher from the dinner in NYC, are on a mission to o
verhaul Warbey’s Home Living and bring it firmly into the twenty-first century. And I’m drooling at the chance to be a part of it, no matter how small.

  What I haven’t told my family—apart from Iris—is that I don’t technically have a job in New York yet. They might be under the impression I secured a position with Warbey Publishing, and I may not have said anything to dissuade them from that assumption. But, in my defense, Cookie, Bunny, and my mama were all talking about me having Bobby Lee’s babies when the subject came up and I couldn’t help myself. I felt the walls closing in and I saw myself scrubbing Bobby Lee’s drawers with a baby on one hip and Bunny standing beside me beaming and acting like her son’s underpants were made of gold.

  So I lied.

  There. I said it.

  And I don’t regret it one bit, because I’m going out there to follow my dream.

  And if I can save one poor girl from her ex-boyfriend’s mama cross-stitching a confederate flag on her personal items, I’ll count it as a win.

  Two

  “A smart woman never leaves the house without two things: red lipstick and a can of pepper spray.”

  – Cookie Rutledge