Page 1 of One Kind Goal

Chapter One

Morgan Rayhill needed a napkin. The sweat on her margarita glass dripped all over her hand. Drops raced each other down the length of her bare forearm, collecting at the crease of her elbow. She pushed through the throngs of humans in this packed and overheated New York nightclub, trying her best to get to the bar. Was it too much to ask for people to get the hell out of her way? Why didn’t the bar staff populate other areas of the club with napkins? Wasn’t it totally possible patrons might need a goddamn napkin farther away from the actual bar?

Finally spotting the sleek copper surface of the bar between swaying bodies, Morgan covered the last few steps and grabbed several napkins. She used one to mop up her arm and stashed the others in the side pocket of the small purse slung across her chest. She didn’t think she had it in her to make the expedition back to the bar if she needed more napkins.

Morgan shifted away from the bar area where people shouted drink orders and glasses clinked as bartenders mixed drinks. Not that her new location was any quieter. The whole club was one loud, swarming pool of partiers. She used to be one of those partiers. Loved the bass-heavy tunes nearly splitting the oversized speakers in the club. Couldn’t get enough bumping and grinding with sexy strangers on the dance floor. Obsessed over finding the just-right scrap of a dress that turned her ass and boobs into crack for males and females alike in the club.

Tonight, however, she was adrift in a strange land. Nothing felt like it used to. She kept thinking about going home.

And not to her famous movie star brother’s New York estate she shared with her two sisters. She wanted a certain little town in Vermont instead.

Maplehaven.

The notion of wanting to spend time in a speck-on-the-map place like Maplehaven was completely ridiculous. She’d traveled all over the world and lived it up in nearly every major city on the globe. Thanks to her brother, Austin. He basically funded her life, and at age twenty-nine, she’d been thinking more and more about changing that. Especially since Austin had met his true love, Charlie, and had already married her. On national TV no less. The money he made with his acting career should be . . . well . . . his. As the oldest sibling, Austin wanted to take care of Morgan and the other two-thirds of the Rayhill triplets, Claire and Brooke, but he deserved the freedom to focus on his new wife and the life they were building together.

Morgan also deserved some freedom. Living on another person’s money wasn’t the ideal situation. Sure, she’d loved not working and not having to be financially responsible for anything, but at some point a person had to grow up, right? That time had come for Morgan. The short time she’d spent in Maplehaven, Vermont while Austin had been filming locally had left a mark on her. One she couldn’t seem to erase no matter how many times she tried to return to her usual activities. She hadn’t exactly found herself there, but the desire to do so had definitely been ignited.

The only problem was she had no idea where to start looking for who she was supposed to become. Aside from being known as Austin Rayhill’s sister and a fun-loving New York socialite, Morgan wasn’t sure what she had to offer the world.

And did the world want whatever she had to offer?

Someone bumped into Morgan from behind, sloshing her margarita over the side of her glass. Good thing she’d grabbed those extra napkins. She cleaned her arm then pulled out her phone to check the time.

1:24 a.m.

What were people in Maplehaven doing at 1:24 a.m.? Definitely not being jostled by drunk dancers and felt-up by horny dudes on business trips who were making the most of their wild time in the city. The folks in Maplehaven were no doubt cuddled up with their loved ones, flannel pajamas and sheets keeping them cozy against the February cold. They most certainly weren’t wearing stiletto heels that squished their toes or tight miniskirts that left little to the imagination. Their eardrums weren’t nearly bursting due to blaring dance music. Their feet hadn’t been stepped on approximately nine billion times per minute.

“There you are!”

Morgan turned to find her friend, Samira Hepti, who had been the one to drag her out tonight. “Hey. Where have you been?”

Samira waved a hand. “Oh, you know. Touching base with So-and-So and What’s-His-Name.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “What have you been doing? I thought you’d come find me on the dance floor.”

Morgan shrugged. “I wasn’t in the mood for shaking it tonight.”

Samira stepped back and zipped her finger up and down at Morgan. “Oh, doll. Don’t tell me you’ve been letting all this gorgeous magnificence go to waste. That dress is sure-fire bait.” She arrowed a thumb to the dance floor. “And let me say, the fish are a-biting.”

Morgan cringed. Had her friend always sounded so . . . crass? “My reel is away for the night.”

Samira slung her arm around Morgan’s shoulders. “What is up with you lately? Ever since that Vermont trip, you’ve been . . . I don’t know . . . different. As if nothing here is fun to you anymore.”

Morgan couldn’t disagree. “I’m not sure what’s going on with me.” She drew in a deep breath, coughed on the cologne coming off the guys behind Samira, and jiggled the ice in the few sips of margarita still remaining in her glass. “It’s as if I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit in this picture anymore.”

Samira opened her mouth to reply, but two women and a guy snagged her attention, making her turn away from Morgan to chat with them. Morgan took the opportunity to check out the guy. He wore slim-fitting black jeans, a no-doubt-expensive pair of black loafers, and a blue T-shirt that molded to his muscular chest. His blond hair was neatly styled, his face cleanly shaven, and he carried himself with an air of confidence. He clearly took care of his body, and pre-Vermont Morgan would have been interested.

Post-Vermont Morgan, however, didn’t feel a spark of anything as she stared at the guy. She knew exactly why too.

Sawyer Lundin.

Thinking his name sent goosebumps over Morgan’s skin and made that spot between her legs tingle. The sexy center forward for the RI Anchors hockey team wasn’t anything like this guy standing with Samira now. Hell. No. Sawyer had black hair that fell carelessly over his forehead and scruff on his jaw that gave him a rough look Morgan had instantly been attracted to. She’d met him at Pine River Cottages in Maplehaven when a winter storm had marooned her in the town for the night.

Turned out marooning was rather fun.

She and Sawyer had made the most of her cottage. They’d christened every single room. Some of them twice.

A shiver rippled through Morgan now as she remembered Sawyer’s big, capable hands caressing her body. The man had some serious skills. She’d made several jokes about how well he handled his “stick,” and his raspy laugh had turned up his sex appeal a trillion percent. She’d never had that many orgasms in one night.

But one night was all they’d had in Maplehaven. Sawyer had only been in town overnight for a game then his team had jetted off to the next city. They’d exchanged numbers, chatted a few times, and texted, but ultimately the match they’d lit that night at the cottage had . . . blown out.