 by Tory Baker.jpg)
Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 56295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Rosaleigh caught my eye from the beginning, but I didn’t make my move.
She was too young.
Unfortunately, my best friend didn’t have the same morals.
It killed me, watching from a distance as he disrespected the woman who was always meant to be mine.
When she finally discovers the truth about him, all bets are off.
I’m done holding back.
I make my move, ready to prove she has a real man now—one who will have her back and give her the life she deserves.
I won’t let anything stop me.
She’s not getting away again.
I’m going to make her mine.
This is the first book in the Men in Charge series, each book will be a complete stand alone, the common denominator? An Alpha Hero, a man that goes after what he wants, a guaranteed happily ever after, and of course steamy romance!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PLAYLIST
Make Her Mine Playlist
You, Me, and Whiskey- Justin Moore
Stoned- Parker McCollum
Tears the Size of Texas- Ben Burgess
Rock and A Hard Place- Bailey Zimmerman
Flower Shops- ERNEST
Daylight- Watchhouse
Space and Time- S.G. Goodman
Why- Read Southall Band
Proud Mary- Tina Turner
Just Like Leaving- Bella White
So Low- Koe Wetzel
Dirty Looks- Liner Wilson
PROLOGUE
Rosaleigh
Ten Months Earlier
“Hey, girls, where’s your father?” I ask as I walk through the door. All the lights are off, minus the small lamp in the corner of the room. David’s patrol car wasn’t in the driveway, and neither was our second vehicle. Both of our daughters have blonde hair and a similar build to mine, minus the fact that one is my height while the other isn’t that far off, with eyes that are like looking at my own; only theirs are red and bloodshot, as if they’ve been crying on the couch, huddled together, a rarity these days. They’re usually at each other’s throats, especially in the morning when Rory is taking her sweet time on her hair and mascara while all Emmy wants to do is brush her teeth, run a comb through her hair, and call it a day. That’s when the arguments start and I have to wade in, unless David is home. Then the house is as quiet as a tomb, no one willing to wake him up if he’s been working the nightshift.
“He’s gone,” my oldest daughter, Rory, who’s on the cusp of womanhood in the form of being a teenager, states. She’ll be thirteen in a few short weeks. Time has flown by, and that saying ‘Time is a thief’ couldn’t be more accurate. It feels like only yesterday when I admitted to myself that at the ripe age of fifteen, I was pregnant, a baby having a baby. It’s then I notice Emmy is practically on top of Rory, cuddled into her side, the tip of her thumb in her mouth, a habit she’s had forever but rarely uses unless a time calls for it, usually when she’s overtired, upset, or nervous. Tonight, it looks to be a combination of all three.
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” I ask, stepping out of my shoes, dropping my bag to the floor, and walking closer until I’m sitting in front of them, ass to the wooden coffee table, unable to understand that short sentence. Rory’s lip quivers, Emmy has tears in her eyes, and my stomach, well, my stomach plummets to my feet.
“He’s gone, Mommy.” I’m trying to wrap what those words mean around my head, David, my husband, their father, is a cop in small town of Abalee, Georgia. The place where David was born and raised. Me, not so much. I was a transplant from one of the many places my mom decided to up and move on a moment’s notice. Before moving here, home was a joke. We never stayed in one place for longer than a year because whoever the boyfriend or husband of the month my mom was after would be in another town, giving her the opportunity to quit paying rent on one apartment and leaving before getting evicted for her to do it all over again, a never-ending cycle. They say that history has a chance of repeating itself when it comes to you being a product of your youth. I may have been a statistic in some ways when it came to being a teen mother like my own was, but that’s where the similarities ended. A cycle I’m glad that I’m no longer a part of. “I’m still not understanding, sweetheart. Was daddy hurt at work? Is he in the hospital?” I work at the local plant nursery part-time, not wanting to lose my identity as a cop’s wife and a stay-at-home mother. Believe me, with my own mother and her vocal wishes of wanting to live off a man, I made sure I always had some semblance of independence.
“No, I don’t think so,” Rory murmurs, confusion cloying the air. The pinch of her eyebrows worries me even more.
“Baby, I can’t help either of you or your father if I don’t know what’s happening.” Emmy takes that moment to fly into my arms. Her small gangly body wraps around mine like an octopus. She’s all arms and legs, still growing into herself. A thing of beauty with her carefree ways. God, I love my girls more than they’ll ever understand.
“Mommy, he left. A call came in, and he left. Da-Dad, he said he was leaving and not coming back, that he was sorry, then he walked out,” Emmy says out loud the words Rory couldn’t speak. Their personalities are like night and day. Emmy lives to talk, while Rory is the one who looks but doesn’t say what she’s thinking, not until the words are perfectly formed.
“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’m sure it was work. He’ll call or something, okay?” This is so unlike David. Even if he had to go undercover for work, he’d tell me. He wouldn’t describe the case or how long he’d be gone, just that he might be unavailable, that the documents were in the safe, how the force would take care of his girls should something happen, and that he was carrying us with him. The last time that happened was years ago, when the girls were toddlers, not now, and to leave like this without saying goodbye or talking. It’s unimaginable.