One night of complete surrender is all it takes.
Gareth Harris is Manchester United"s reclusive star defender. He has control over all aspects of his life. But a lifetime of supporting his siblings and filling in for an emotionally absent father has taken its toll.
Sloan Montgomery is a clothing stylist whose world was turned upside down when she found herself pregnant and moving to Manchester with a man who was never supposed to be her forever. Now recently divorced and struggling with shared custody of her daughter, control is a fleeting concept for this American living in England.
Both Gareth and Sloan are in need of a release.
A moment in time where they can forget about their pasts and family pressures…and just…
No one could predict what happens when both of their defences are down.
Surrender is part one of the Final Harris Brother Duet and concludes with Dominate. This duet reads great on it’s own.Books in Series:Harris Brothers Series by Amy DawsBooks by Author:Amy Daws Books
29 Years Old
"GARETH!" MY SISTER"S LOUD VOICE echoes through the phone as soon as I answer the call. "You need to call Camden. He"s absolutely going mental because he had to take a train to the stadium since Tanner and Booker left for practice without him and Dad"s out scouting a new player and, oh my God, I"m going to lose it! These are grown men!"
The speaker on my mobile rattles from the shrill tone of her voice. I have to pull it away from my ear to prevent my eardrum from rupturing. I silently apologise to the hair stylist attempting to gel my hair.
It"s not Vi"s fault, though. Our three younger brothers are far too similar to the Three Stooges. If they weren"t full-grown, professional athletes, I swear they"d be in a case study for how apes could function in society.
I take a deep breath. My reply is slow and controlled because I know that"s exactly what Vi needs to hear. "Vi, just hang up on them when they get like that. I"ve been telling them for years that they need to move out of Dad"s house. They are still too dependent on you, and you have to stop helping them solve all of their problems."
Vi groans. "I know, Gareth. But it"s hard. They are a special brand of stupid."
I have to fight back a chuckle. "That they are, but you know they"ll figure it out. They have to grow up eventually."
"I know, I know," she sighs deeply. "Thanks. This is exactly what I needed to hear."
"It"s no problem," I reply with a smile.
This is a routine between me and Vi that"s as old as we are. Even now as adults, she continues to break up the ridiculous battles our brothers get into down in London, and I have to talk her off the ledge from up here in Manchester. She"s like a sergeant on the front line of a battlefield, and I"m the commander calling the shots from the safety of the King"s palace. Control is my middle name.
"I keep reminding myself that this is exactly why I finally moved out of Dad"s house," Vi replies. "To get some space from those idiots. But somehow, they still make all of their problems my problems."
"Well, that"s a Harris for you," I grumble into the phone. "You going to be okay""
"Yes, I"m better. Thank you, Gareth," she coos, her tone ten times more relaxed.
"Are you at your photoshoot""
I nod. "They are trying to put makeup on me as we speak."
"Eep! Okay, I"ll let you go. Call me after!"
We hang up and I glance up at the male makeup artist coming at me with a sponge. "Don"t go crazy with that thing," I warn.
"Oh, don"t worry, I won"t." He giggles and flirtatiously adds, "You don"t need it. Now close your eyes, handsome."
I close them and try to relax, but a female voice with an American accent sounds off behind me. "Hi, my name is Sloan Montgomery. You can call me Sloan. Can you tell me your name, please""
The makeup artist stops touching my face, and my eyes open as he steps back. He drops the compact on the counter and slips out of the cosy hair and makeup area where I"m situated, leaving me alone with a brunette who"s swiping furiously on an iPad.
The woman says nothing more, clearly engaged in whatever is on the digital screen, so I take a minute to look her up and down. She"s tall with long, chestnut waves cascading around her shoulders. She"s wearing a demure black dress, and her long, dark lashes fan her pale cheeks. I have to bite back a laugh because she still hasn"t looked up from the damn screen.
I narrow my eyes and clear my throat. "Are you addressing me""
Her brows knit together for a brief second, then smooth. Painting on a polite smile, she finally looks up and stares at my face in the mirror. Her mouth is a bit too big for the delicate features of her face. Her lips plump but natural-looking, unlike some of my teammates" wives. Her honey-coloured eyes are big and sparkling in the warm glow of the LED bulbs. She"s pretty much all lips and eyes with a tiny slip of a nose.
And she does not look impressed by me.
Arching a perfectly plucked brow, she responds smoothly, "Yes, I am speaking to you."
"And you"re asking me my name"" I cross my arms over my chest. "You really don"t know who I am""
Her smile remains even as she licks her lips. "I don"t like to assume I know who anyone is."
This gives me pause because, from the second I arrived on set today, every single person I"ve come in contact with has gawked at me like a treasured artifact they want to steal from a museum exhibit. It"s what comes with the title of being a seasoned footballer for a Premier League football team.