Step-Baller

STEP-BALLER WANTING WHAT’S WRONG DANI WYATT Copyright © 2023 by Dani Wyatt All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. www.daniwyatt.com DEDICATION A NOTE TO MY READERS: I appreciate every one of you. To all the horny little girls. That’s it. There’s lots of you. Dedicated to DK And helping me Figure it all out. NEWSLETTER GET exclusive free books and other bonus epilogues and short stores by joining the reader’s group! NEWSLETTER STEP-BALLER CONTENTS 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 Get this F R E E Dani’s Other Books Let’s Stay Connected! About Dani CHAPTER 1 Mina Finding the exact color of Malachite green in a hidden seam zipper was like riding that perfect wave. That was a miracle in the little fabric store here in Harbor Shores. When I stepped out into the summer sunshine, with the sound of the seagulls overhead and the scent of the lake breeze in the air, all was right with the world. Then I skipped right into Cindy Hilton and her entourage. Buzz. Killed. My perfect mood evaporates like a drop of water on a scorching pan. Why the zipper matters, I’m not sure, since there’s no way I can get to New York for the design competition next week. But apparently I’m functioning under the delusion there’s some magic solution that will drop out of thin air and make my dreams come true. Since I was five, I’ve been making clothes. It started with a simple, tied together terrycloth robe made from an old washcloth for my teddy bear Theo. By the time I was six, I was whipping together some high-end runway level creations for my Barbies. The creative obsession rooted deep and I’ve been lost in fantasies of New York Fashion Week ever since. My personal style is a far cry from my design aesthetic. I’m more preppy Tomboy with a splash of Minnie Mouse, but it’s how I’m comfortable and every girl deserves a little comfort wherever she can find it. Creating beautiful clothes has been my dream since those first ratty robes, so when I heard about this contest for the best new designer, strictly age 18-21, put on by Marie Claire magazine I couldn’t help myself. With the help of my best friend at Chatsbury, Rosaria Sweeting, whose father is a general or something in the Bahamian military making her practically royalty. She helped me put together a mini collection and I entered, but I never, ever thought I’d earn a spot. Except, I did. Now, I have no way to get to the contest next week and no way my mom or Allen would let me go anyway. They have me on a fast track to being a corporate attorney. I’m going to pre-law at University of Michigan, Go Blue, my stepfather’s alma mater, in the fall. They silently tolerate my stacks of fabric and my little ‘hobby’ sewing room back at our house in Oakland Heights. My parents are fine, don’t get me wrong. I love them and they love me. Allen is hardheaded; he’s tried to toughen me up over the years but my creamy, marshmallow center, in more ways than one, has remained squishy despite his best efforts. As an ex-NFL quarterback himself, I understand that mindset just goes with the territory. The only thing about the law that suits me, is that I’m an obsessive rule follower. The idea of breaking a rule or, God forbid, getting arrested, sends me into palpitations. I’ve never turned in an assignment late. The lowest grade I’ve ever gotten on a report card is an A minus, in health sciences for heck-sake. Which, I still believe to this day is because the teacher, Mr. Gottfried, had a vendetta against our family because Allen’s team kicked the pants off his home state team in some Super Bowl a zillion years ago. Who. Cares. I got good grades, yes, but I’m not the smartest egg in the carton. It’s more that the idea of disappointing anyone and not doing my best, best, best is feels unforgivable. So I worked my fingers raw and studied harder than humanly possible to be sure my report cards were impeccable. “Wilhelmina?” Cindy chirps, always using the whole of my name like she’s my grandmother. “I heard your family sold their place. Didn’t think we’d see you this summer. Or Jackson. How is Jackson, by the way? I saw him interviewed on Sport Center yesterday. Is he around?” Her blazing white smile makes me wish I’d opted for my Hello Kitty sunglasses as she scans the area for my stepbrother. Everyone loves Jackson. Sure, I get it. He is the all-American guy with the edge of a sexy bad boy in a combo so potent, so good looking, if you manage to tear your eyes away, he’s somehow still there. Taunting you from behind your lids like you’ve looked at the sun a second too long. He’s also a bit of an ass, like his father, to everyone that is not family, which, somehow, makes him more attractive. “No, he’s not here,” I manage, watching her enthusiasm deflate and hating myself for just existing in her presence—then hating myself more for hating myself. Ugg, it’s such a vicious cycle. I grip the top of the paper bag in my left hand while tugging on the lace trim of my blouse and shifting my weight from one foot to the next