Second Chance Temptation. Joss Wood

       One

      Levi Brogan hurt.

      Everywhere.

      That’s what happened when you leave your dirt bike for a make-out session with a gravel road lined with rocks.

      His ass was now welded to a chair, partially because his leg was in plaster from above his knee down to his ankle, but mostly because moving anything more than his eyelids hurt. He’d not only broken his patella but also managed to pull a muscle in his left rotator cuff, so using crutches was like stabbing himself repeatedly in the shoulder.

      Wah-wah-wah...

      God, he was so over himself and his injuries, but he was rapidly coming to the conclusion he could do with some help.

      Someone who wasn’t his mother or his sister. He loved them but, God, they never shut up. Ever. And if they weren’t talking about wedding guests or honeymoons or babies or flowers, they were fussing over him.

      By the time he’d kicked them out earlier this morning, he was close to overdosing on estrogen. Levi now deeply regretted his show of independence and there was a good chance that, by nightfall, he might swallow his pride and send out an SOS.

      Levi pushed his hand through his hair, feeling utterly frustrated. His world was now confined to the bottom level of his home. Working out in his state-of-the-art gym in the basement was, obviously, not possible. He wasn’t able to climb the stairs leading to his master bedroom, so he was sleeping on the sofa in the media room and using the downstairs bathroom to clean up. He would kill for a hot shower, but he needed help to get in and out of the bathtub. And right now, the kitchen was a million miles away.

      And he was hungry.

      Levi looked at his crutches, not sure if he had the energy to make the trek to find food, and checked the pain level in his shoulder. It was still screaming from walking the ten yards to the bathroom. Food was, unless he took another painkiller, out of the question. And every time he took a painkiller without food, he tossed his cookies.

       Rock, let me introduce you to hard place.

      Levi heard a knock on his front door and frowned. His family used the back door leading into the kitchen. And they all announced their presence. The extended Brogan family was not a quiet bunch. The Murphy guys were also frequent visitors and they also used the back door, knowing it was rarely locked. Business associates who needed to see him would’ve called to make an appointment and the rest of his small circle of friends were at work. And if they had a day off, they would’ve given him a heads-up via a text message.

      End result: Levi had no idea who was knocking on his front door. A reporter? A photographer? The press had ambushed him when he left the hospital, the camera flashes making his headache a hundred times worse. He hadn’t responded to any of their nearly indecipherable questions, and neither had his mom or his sisters. His dad had loved the press, but Levi and his mom and siblings didn’t.

      Despite the Brogans shunning the limelight, the tabloid press paid him, and his sisters, far too much attention, all because they were the children of Boston’s most successful businessman and bon vivant, Ray Brogan. And, because those bottom-feeders loved drama, there had been a few articles about Levi’s accident, reminding the residents of Boston that he and his father had had a volatile relationship. The press took great delight in telling the world he’d spurned Ray’s offer to take over Brogan LLC , a holding company that owned and operated companies in many different sectors and that Levi, reserved, private and taciturn, wasn’t the man his father was.

      He wasn’t as charming, as exciting, as loud or as volatile. Thank God.

      Levi didn’t make rash decisions, never made promises he couldn’t keep, didn’t take huge risks, causing the people he loved anxiety. Ray got off on risk and adrenaline—betting every cent on huge deals that might or might not come off. He made impulsive decisions—buying companies without doing due diligence—and calling people who suggested caution—mainly Levi—unimaginative and boring.

      Ray’s successes had been stratospheric, his failures equally impressive. Levi’s mom had ridden the roller coaster; Levi, on joining the family firm after college, couldn’t handle his father’s volatility and resigned after a year.

      His father called him dull and a coward, not cut out for a high-stakes world. Levi had never understood his father, who never felt embarrassed or chastised. He just blustered and BS’d his way through the criticism, and the world seemed to love him even more for his confidence, his brashness.

      Levi was the exact opposite; he was not, and never would be, a fan of failure, not privately or publicly. He preferred to be the master of his own ship, avoiding storms rather than sailing directly into them. He liked to be in control. But the world expected him to be like his famous father, so whenever he showed even a hint of his father’s impulsive nature—and apparently crashing his dirt bike qualified—he made the news.

      Levi used his crutch to lift the drape covering the window of his study, through which he could see the road and his driveway. An unfamiliar SUV sat in his driveway, too expensive to belong to an intrepid reporter.

      He hoped.

      The knock came again and Levi bellowed a quick “Come in!” But, honestly, if he could persuade his visitor to make him a sandwich and a hot cup of coffee, he’d listen to a pitch for an interview, or from a salesman.

      He was that desperate.

      “I’m in the media room. Down the hallway, second door on your left.”

      Levi heard the front door closing and, judging by the hesitant steps, knew his visitor wasn’t someone who had constant access to his house.

      “For God’s sake,” Levi muttered, impatient. “Second door on the left.”

      “I heard you. I’m not deaf.”