by LK Farlow
Rebel Desire
LK Farlow
© 2020 by LK Farlow
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case 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, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Design: Jersey Girl Design | Juliana Cabrera
Cover Photograph: Lindee Robinson Photography
Interior Formatting: AJ Alexander
Editing: Librum Artis Editorial Services
Proofreading: Deaton Author Services
www.authorlkfarlow.com
Dedication: To my Phoobs. Thank you for always fanning the flames of my rebel desire.
Contents
Prologue
1. Ashley
2. Colton
3. Ashley
4. Ashley
5. Colton
6. Ashley
7. Colton
8. Ashley
9. Colton
10. Ashley
11. Colton
12. Ashley
13. Colton
14. Ashley
15. Colton
16. Ashley
17. Colton
18. Ashley
19. Colton
20. Cruz
21. Colton
22. Ashley
23. Colton
24. Ashley
25. Colton
26. Ashley
27. Colton
28. Ashley
29. Colton
30. Ashley
31. Colton
32. Ashley
33. Colton
34. Ashley
35. Colton
36. Ashley
37. Colton
38. Ashley
39. Colton
Best Laid Plans
About the Author
Other Titles By Lk
Acknowledgments
Take Two
Prologue
Colton
“No!” I tell the purple-haired menace darkening the doorway of my office. “Absolutely not.”
“But you don’t even know why I’m here!” She stomps her foot, like a petulant child at the start of a temper tantrum. In fact, I’ve seen my godchild do this very thing, and he’s two.
“And I don’t care, either. Leave,” I reiterate, refusing to let my temper get the better of me. This woman punches every single one of my buttons, and something tells me the notion would delight her—which is un-fucking-acceptable.
“Colt—Mr. Banks—please. Five minutes. No, four! Just give me four minutes, surely you can spare me that.”
I bite my tongue, half tempted to tell her those two-hundred-and-forty seconds of my time equates to twenty dollars. “Make it two.”
She nods, wisps of her oddly-colored locks escaping her ponytail with the motion.
“Your time starts now, Miss Murphy.”
“Right! A bride is threatening to sue me! I didn’t want to work with her to start with. She gave me bad vibes, and them together...let’s just say they’re not built to last. But she was persistent, and eventually, I relented, and she signed the contract and paid the deposit for the deluxe wedding package on the spot. But, on the day of her bridal pics—which we were doing at my studio—it was raining. Talk about a bad omen, right?” A full-body shiver works its way through her. “Anyway, I tried rescheduling because I don’t use artificial lighting. It is so not my style. The clouds were completely covering the sun, so it was super doom and gloom. But she refused and demanded we do them anyway.”
Ashley sucks in a deep breath before continuing.
“She wasn’t happy with the pictures. She said they were too dark—well, no shit, Karen, it was practically pitch-black outside—and here’s the kicker, I’ve already shot her wedding, and now she’s refusing to pay the rest of her fee. So, obviously, I’m not giving her any pictures. And now she’s threatening to sue me and is dragging me through the mud on social media!”
Once her rant is finished, all I can do is stare, in utter shock. Who knew you could fit so many fucking words into one-hundred-and-twenty seconds?
She must take my silence as an invitation to keep talking. Because sure enough, her lips are moving. Again. “Stacia said you were the best and so, help?” She wrings her hands and licks her lips. “Please?”
That single word tacked onto the end of her monologue almost breaks me; the way her voice pitched an octave higher with it, her lower lip wobbling, almost had me agreeing to take her on. Luckily, common sense prevailed. Ashley Murphy, while delectably hot, is a headache I neither want nor need.
I suck in a breath through my teeth, bowing my head a smidge. “Ah, sorry. No can do.” I brush past her to open the door, ignoring the way her cinnamon-sugar scent tickles my nose. “I’d like to say it was nice seeing you, but, frankly, it wasn’t. Let’s not do this again anytime soon. Best of luck to you, Miss Murphy.”
She flinches back, the movement almost imperceptible, even as her eyes glisten with unshed tears. I’ll never know if Ashley let those tears fall, though, because she rolls her shoulders back and steps out onto the sidewalk with her head held high. “I’m not giving up!” she shouts as I shove the door closed in her wake, wishing like hell she would—give up, that is.
Two hours later, I’m still agitated. Ashley coming here without an appointment only reinforces everything I know about her. She’s thoughtless, flighty, selfish, and unprofessional; it’s no wonder someone is suing her.
I try and force myself to focus on the task at hand—research for a client—but I can’t focus. Much to my displeasure, the look on Ashley’s face right before she stormed out keeps torturing me, along with a plethora of unanswered questions.
Did she cry on the way to her car? Did she do a poor job on the client’s pictures? Or is she the victim of a bridezilla?
It feels as if the walls of my spacious office are closing in on me. “Fuck!” I shove my chair back from my desk, snatching my phone as I stand. I dial up West. “ ’Sup, man?” he asks, answering on the second ring.
“Headed out. Wanna grab dinner?”
“Depends; does your restaurant of choice have high chairs?”
I snort out a laugh. I can honestly say I never pictured West as a dad, but he’s a fucking natural. Then again, Asher is a pint-sized badass. “I didn’t have anywhere in mind. Hell, let him pick.”
Now it’s West who is laughing. “Hope you’re ready for somewhere that offers toys with their kids’ meals.”
“I’m ready for anything that isn’t this office.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Let’s talk at dinner.” We end our call with plans to meet up in thirty minutes—just enough time for me to run home and ditch the suit.
Twenty minutes later, I’m nursing a beer at a corner table of our favorite pizza place. My godchild has good taste—far better than any other snot-nosed kid I’ve ever met.
/> “Unca Tolton!” is all I hear before my godson launches himself at me, nearly tipping my chair with the force of his greeting.
“Ash-man!” I lift him onto my lap and offer him my hand for a high-five. I only cringe a little when his sticky fingers touch mine. Once he’s situated in his own seat, I discreetly reach into my pocket for my hand sanitizer. I love the kid, but he’s a little germ bucket.
“What’s got your panties in a bunch?” West asks, plopping down into the seat beside his son.
“Panties are for girls,” Asher says, not missing a beat as he arranges sugar packets on the table.
I cough to cover my laugh. “Your wedding photographer.”
West raises a brow. “Ashley?”
“Obviously. Please catch up.”
My friend opens his mouth to undoubtedly toss some smartass remark my way, but thinks better of it at the last minute. Like a naughty parrot, Asher has a tendency to repeat everything he hears—typically at the most inopportune time—so now everyone censors themselves in his presence.
Personally, I think it’s hilarious. His parents…not so much. There’s something about a toddler shouting “What the fuck?” at the top of his lungs on the playground after landing in a puddle at the bottom of the slide.
West regards me over the edge of his menu. “I’m gonna need an explanation here, man.”
I drag my fingers through my hair. “She’s crazy.”
“Dat’s not a nice word, Tolt.”
West smirks at my being scolded by his toddler. “Sorry, little man,” I say, offering him a fist bump, which he happily returns before diverting his attention back to his sugar packets.
“Good evening, boys,” comes a soft, sensual voice from behind us. “I’m Darla, and I’ll be your server tonight. Y’all ready to order?”
We quickly place our order, and my eyes follow Darla as she walks away, her long, red ponytail swinging and curvy ass bouncing with every step.
West snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Details, Colton, I want details.”
“Where do I even start? She has to be the most unprofessional woman I’ve ever met.”
West furrows his brow. “Unprofessional how? The previews we’ve seen of our photos are great. Stacia loves her.”
“Did you know she hit on me at your wedding?”
“I’m sorry, she what?”
“Hit on me.”
“Shit,” West mutters.
Asher reaches over and tugs on West’s shirt sleeve. “Bad word, Daddy.”
“How? What did she say?”
I can’t decide if he’s asking because he’s as appalled as I was or if he’s winding me up. “She spent all night making eyes at me. And when she introduced herself, she placed her hand on my lapel.”
West’s eyes widen. “She didn’t!”
I nod. “She did. Rubbed the fabric between her thumb and index finger, too.”
“You’re a”—he pauses to cover his son’s ears—“a fucking idiot.”
His hands fall back to his lap as I ask, “How so?”
“When an attractive woman shows interest in you, one of two things need to happen.” He holds up his index finger. “One: if you’re interested as well, you chat her up, maybe ask for her number.” He adds another finger. “Two: if you’re not into her, you let her down gently and move on. You don’t stew on it for a week like a crazy person.”
Winding me up, then. Got it. “It’s not that she hit on me; I’m not a teenaged boy.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” my soon-to-be ex-best friend mumbles.
“As I was saying, it’s not that she hit on me—even though doing so while working was highly unprofessional—she also showed up at my office this morning, demanding I offer her my legal counsel. Who does that? Who barges into a professional setting, with no appointment, and starts making demands?”
“You’re telling me her only crime is being unprofessional?” he asks, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
I roll my eyes.
“And you don’t find her attractive? At all?”
“What’s that have to do with anything?” If I’m being truthful, she’s not my type at all. I like my women petite, with lush curves, and Ashley’s all long, straight lines. Hell, she’s nearly as tall as I am.
West laughs. “You’re clueless, man. Totally clueless.”
1
Ashley
I have a sixth sense when it comes to love; I always have. It’s like how some people can see ghosts, only I can see relationships. Not only can I sense when two people would be a good match, I can also tell if a relationship will stand the test of time.
Sounds crazy, I know, but it’s true.
This ability of mine is part of why I love wedding photography. I only book couples who give me forever vibes—well, except that one time, but I’m hoping for the best. It’s such an honor, knowing I’ll be the one capturing the start of their lives together, immortalizing the moment they become one.
The downside to this whole shebang is I know exactly what kind of man I’ll end up with. Well, not exactly-exactly. More of a broad stroke. A type, so to speak: sandy blond hair, blue eyes, a sharp jaw, and an even sharper tongue. Over the years, I’ve dated many men who fit the profile—and a few who didn’t—in an effort to find him.
Fruitlessly, I might add. So, imagine my surprise when I see him. One glance and my heart is racing, my palms sweating, and my belly feels like it’s turned into a damn butterfly garden. Sure, these feelings are fairly normal for me when I’m working, but it’s usually because I’m attuned to what my bride and groom are feeling.
But this time, it’s the best man that has me reeling.
Simply put, he’s gorgeous. My eyes trail over him for the umpteenth time, drinking in his delicious height. With me standing at five-nine, very few men make me feel small, but him…he has at least five inches on me. My mystery man has broad shoulders—the kind you want to sink your nails into while he pounds into you—and a trim waist. His dirty blond hair is the perfect length to run my fingers through, and his jaw looks as if it were carved from granite.
What really does me in, though, is his laugh: it’s deep and hearty, and the way his Adam’s apple bobs has me discreetly rubbing my thighs together.
I raise my camera and snap a few shots of him, along with the groom and another groomsman as they stand near the altar, waiting on the officiant to kick things off. Watching the three men interact fascinates me; my mystery man seems so comfortable, relaxed even, standing up there in front of everyone.
Surreptitiously, I capture a few more images of him, wanting to forever remember the way he runs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip.
Music fills the room, snapping me back into professional mode. With my camera poised and ready, I set to work capturing the first official day of West and his bride’s forever.
I click away, capturing the bride’s grandparents escorting her mother down the aisle, followed by the bridal party: a tatted-up, green-haired knockout I know is married to the groomsman, and a curvy Penelope Garcia lookalike. Both women are working the white dresses they’re wearing, but they pale in comparison to the bride.
Stacia looks like a vixen set on matrimonial bliss. Her black lace dress clings to every curve and showcases the inked canvas of her skin to perfection. Her atomic red hair is piled atop her head, tendrils framing her face, and her lips are stained a deep crimson. She looks like a dark angel as she walks the aisle, escorted by her father on one side and her two-year-old son on the other.
The thought of editing these images has me giddy. The way West’s eyes lit with pure joy at the sight of her, the way he kissed her with a passion that begged for privacy, without a single fuck given; the way their son covered his eyes and giggled. All of it, every single part of this wedding, has been pure perfection, and I know the reception will be as well.
And, if a certain hunky best man happens to talk to me…all the better.
I move toward t
he back of the ceremony space as the wedding party begins its trek back down the aisle. Warm fuzzies swirl within me as the love between Stacia and West lights up the room.
Feeling emboldened by all of the romance blanketing the room, I shoot my mystery man a flirty wink, hoping like crazy he’ll approach me at some point during the reception.
He slows as he nears me, and my heart hiccups in my chest. This is it! My one is going to talk to me! I’m a jittery mess as he approaches. I wonder if he feels it, too—that we’re meant to be.
He stops directly in front of me, holding up the entire processional. He leans in and—oh my glob, he smells so good—I freeze. “Hi,” I whisper, feeling dazed. Is he going to—my thoughts get cut off when his breath tickles the shell of my ear.
“Did you even capture their first kiss?” he asks, his voice hard.
At a loss for words, I nod. He sneers.
“Your professionalism is severely lacking. I’m fairly certain you took more pictures of me than you did the happy couple. Do try and focus on them during the reception. After all, it is your job, Miss Murphy.”
His cruel words penetrate my skin and fall over the swarming butterflies like a net, trapping them beneath its suffocating weight. And yet still, all I manage to say is, “You know my name?”
