by Nicole Snow
“So where are we?”
“A private spot,” he says, taking my hand. “I cashed in some favors. Turns out, the Damysus name still carries a lot of weight with a billionaire I protected from a hit job six or seven years back. It’s ours for the next week.”
I squeeze his hand, telling him that’s all I need.
We step into a clearing, then, and my breath nearly gets ripped away. It’s a gorgeous bungalow with tiki lanterns glowing along the front porch. “Oh, Flint, I love it!”
“And I love that I’ll get to do this again when we’re home.” He scoops me into his arms and carries me to the porch, right over the threshold into this charming little place.
After a kiss that makes me want so much more, he sets me down.
That’s when I notice it’s not just a porch, but an entire outdoor bedroom, screened in and complete with a four-poster bed surrounded by delicate white curtains.
“Ours for a week, you said?” I reach up and loosen his tie.
“Damn right.”
I unbutton his shirt. “Sounds rough. I mean, what are we going to do in a secret hidey-hole, all by ourselves, for an entire week?”
My dress is a simple, long, white, sleeveless dress made of silk. It’s held up by two thin shoulder straps.
He pushes one strap aside and kisses my shoulder blade. “This. Lots and lots of it, babe.”
“Hmmm...” I keep unbuttoning his shirt as he blazes a trail of kisses along my neck. “I think I like this very much.”
We take our sweet time undressing, exploring, and just loving each other.
By the time we’re on the bed, we’re totally beyond waiting to waste another second.
I shout with joy as he slides inside me, filling me both physically and emotionally.
We’re man and wife, two twined souls joining our tangled bodies.
The pleasure he brings is as phenomenal as ever, but it’s the love that totally encompasses me.
Even as my climax builds, as the friction of his cock thrusts in and out, driving me to the brink, I can’t stop smiling like a fool.
I love everything about him. About us. About our future.
Life with him was hard-won, but I know a man who’s been my shield will always be there. Protecting what’s his.
Before another mind-blowing orgasm shatters my entire being, I hold on tighter, driving my hips into his, begging him with every breath. We hit the pinnacle and lose it together.
We come with one heart, one breath, one big, happy forever.
The afterglow is glorious. We lie there, still folded together, as I trace my hand up his muscular neckline.
“I think I’ve decided something,” I say, touching his new tattoo.
He’d gotten it several weeks ago, a dark turtle shell on his shoulder with two dates inside it. The day we met and our then-imminent wedding.
“Hell of a time for deciding. What’s so important?” Flint laughs, bathing me in another gentle sea glass blue gaze.
“I’m going to start a turtle sanctuary. For real.”
He rolls off me. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah, some place where injured turtles can heal and find their way back to the wild, to live out the rest of their lives.” That’s exactly what he’d done for me.
“You want it, you’ll get it.” He kisses me fiercely. “We’ll make it the most successful turtle sanctuary in the world, Val. I’m on board with anything that lets you work your magic.”
“Is that what happened to us?” I whisper. “Magic?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing,” he says, kissing me again. “Think it had to be. Can’t see any other way I’d wind up with you hooked in this deep and loving every frigging second of it. Loving every bit of you.”
He’s right.
It was nothing shy of a miracle I survived, and pure magic when Flint saved my life several times over. Nothing else explains how we’re here, two perfect lovers drunk on each other’s kisses, planning a freaking turtle future.
Just try and convince me otherwise.
Thanks for reading Accidental Shield!
How's life shaping up for Flint, Val, and the family years later?
Find out what paradise looks like after the Happily Ever After in this special flash forward story. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/bye4nbz4xt
Then read on for a preview of another rollicking marriage mistake romance, Accidental Rebel.
Accidental Rebel Preview
Ring-a-Ling (Gwen)
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” I slap my desk with both hands so hard the round plastic holder full of pens and pencils nearly topples over.
This damn ringing is officially driving me nuts.
With writerly things still clinking together, I shove my chair back, letting out a loud huff. Remind me why I’m here again?
All the hours of unpaid overtime recovering data from a computer that must’ve been on Noah’s Ark is punishment enough. I’ve put up with rudeness, last minute requests that add on hours to my day, every nuisance imaginable since working here, but this...
This constant freaking ringing? I think I’d rather spend all day spraying nests of angry hornets.
I’ve had it.
Standing, I stretch angrily and march across the room to yank open Manny’s office door.
Every room of this oh-so-prestigious – gag me – law office is smaller than most broom closets. But that’s life. It’s also my tragic joke of a job.
I’m an ‘ass-ociate’ of Stork, Storkley, and Associates. A place where the Storkley part is fictitious and so are the associates.
Manny Stork, Esquire, is the only real lawyer here, and it’s a stretch to say that. And, well, as the only other soul here who could be called an ‘associate’ in the vaguest sense, I haven’t done anything but kept my nose shoved in an ancient computer for weeks doing data recovery.
Beggars can’t be choosers, they say.
But I’m wondering if I’d be getting better job experience rattling a cup for loose change on the street. Too bad this was the only legal job available in Finley Grove, Minnesota, one more small town among the pines.
Unless I wanted to sell out waiting tables, playing overnight cashier at the gas station, or working a fast food drive through, the choice was clear.
This is the part where I wish I’d taken a better look at my choices. Because right the heck now?
I think anything would beat Stork, Storkley, and Associates.
Growth pains. I could blame it on them.
Apparently, I’m still 'growing into my feet.' A phrase Mother loves using to describe my almost comical mess of a life and six-foot-tall height.
So I’m not the most graceful person.
Waitressing? Been there, done that. It didn’t work. My one and only paycheck went to cover all the dishes I’d broken.
And I think those little drive-thru gas pumps are even more claustrophobic than Manny’s law offices. They can also be dangerous.
I may be tall with a head full of untamable red hair that at times could scare the pants off any would-be robber, but I’m a chicken at heart. So cashiering overnights at a convenience store wasn’t up my alley either.
Then there’s that pesky paralegal certificate on my resume. The thing I’d shelled out good money and years of my life for, telling myself law would be stable. Glamorous. Exciting.
Right. Let’s just blame it on too many Law and Order reruns and cut our losses.
My losses. Anyway...
So here I am, following an obnoxious nonstop ringing in the stuffy office of a lawyer who has more side gigs than real clients on the books. That much I’ve figured out from the data I’m recovering.
Part of me wonders exactly what some of his gigs are all about. Admittedly, I’m intrigued, which is probably the only reason I haven’t handed in my resignation yet.
The noise is coming from Manny’s desk. Just a constant, steady basic bitch ringtone that only goes quiet for a few seconds before it g
oes off like an air raid siren again.
Sighing, I pull open the desk drawer. My brows knit together as I glare at the obnoxious phone that’s been blaring for the last hour.
The rest of the metal drawer is empty. God.
No wonder this thing sounded like an elephant stampede echoing off the walls.
Odd. It’s one of those disposable pay-as-you-go cell phones. Some off-brand I’ve never seen or heard of before. I frown.
This isn’t like my illustrious boss. Manny has a sleek new Android phone that’s larger than his palm and forever glued to it.
I lift out the phone just as it quits ringing again.
Honestly, I don’t know if I’m happy or disappointed.
The stupid plastic device just shattered my last nerve. To think I was looking forward to planting the tip of my heel in the screen, pressing down with a satisfying crunch, and putting an end to this insanity.
My finger taps the button on the front, turning it on.
“Seventeen missed calls?” I whisper out loud, reading the screen. “At least seventeen. More like seventeen hundred.” I scroll down. “Twenty-two text messages? Again, at least.”
All from Unknown. Damn spammers.
I flip the phone over, looking for the off button, when it buzzes in my hand again. My fingers shake so violently I feel like I’m holding on to a restless frog trying to leap away.
It’s another text. Mr. or Mrs. Unknown again.
Confirmation needed on tomorrow’s meeting ASAP. Answer me.
I shake my head, pursing my lips and staring at the message. I almost feel sorry for Unknown.
Whoever they are, they’ve put an awful lot of confidence in this firm. And if they’re stupid enough to believe Manny Stork is as good a lawyer as he believes he is, that’s their problem, not mine.
The message disappears, and I notice the time. “7:15? Christ. Maybe I’m the stupid one. There goes another four hours I’ll never be paid for.”
Saying it confirms how done I am with this day.
I’ve been here since seven this morning. I grit my teeth. As my boss, Mr. Asshat, Esquire himself, has said in the weeks since I’ve been here, ‘working long hours doesn’t always equal smart hours.’
He doesn’t have the saying quite right, but the meaning’s there. For me, I think it means one more day shot in the head.
But tomorrow’s another day. There’s always a teensy-tiny chance it might suck a little less than this one.
It might even be the day I’m done with this shady data recovery crap so maybe, just maybe, I can actually start working on a real case like Manny promised. Something I can sink my teeth into and hopefully, enjoy. Not to mention make my education pay off.
Hopefully I’ll remember what I supposedly learned. I graduated with a degree in marketing and went back for a paralegal certificate later, but have to admit, writing was always the one thing on my mind, which didn’t make me the best student.
The phone buzzes again.
Another text.
Confirmation ASAP!
I stare at the words until they disappear, feeling a tug of anxiety. Should I, or shouldn’t I?
Obviously, it’s a total invasion of privacy to play with a mysterious stranger who wants to reach my boss really badly over the phone. But it’s an invasion of a girl’s sanity to have no fun ever at work.
What the hell? I am an associate, after all.
Manny keeps his schedule in his phone, but I’ll be here all day tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that, searching through old computer files that barely hint at anything. This could be one of his side gigs where I can get some answers.
I click on the text icon, and then type fast, before I lose my nerve.
Confirmed.
Then, practically shaking in my heels with a snicker, I jet for the door.
When I reach to click off the light, I realize the phone’s still in my hand. I consider putting it back, but probably should scroll through the messages so I know what time this meeting is that I just confirmed.
Manny won’t miss the phone.
He won’t be back until nine a.m. tomorrow morning. I’ll be here by seven. Besides, if he wanted or needed it so badly, he’d have taken it with him.
Since my wonderful boss has been so amazing to me, I’m glad I could return the favor.
At my desk, I drop the phone into my purse, turn off the old dinosaur computer and the newer laptop, and then lock the office door. I lock up the outside door of the small brick building as well, and then climb in my Buick Regal.
Don’t laugh. It’s an old boat of a car, but I need the head room. In all honesty though, the old girl’s showing her age.
A decade of savage Minnesota winters, driving on ice and salt covered roads, is always hard on cars. I’m going to miss this beast if and when I can ever afford a new one. She’s never failed me.
The old US Mail slogan comes to mind: neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom...
She delivers. And I’m thankful I have one thing in my life I can count on.
Tonight’s no different, and Old Pearl – although her pearl white paint has faded into a dull ecru color – and I are soon pulling into my driveway. Or Mother’s driveway, to get technical.
Technically, she owns the townhouse I live in.
Technically, she owns the entire building and rents out the other three places, too.
Technically, she acts like she’s doing me a huge favor, even though without me keeping an eye on things, she would’ve had to sell these spur-of-the-moment rental investments a long time ago.
Sigh.
I’m so not bitter.
Even if I do sometimes secretly dream of following in her footsteps. A New York Times Best Selling Author.
That’s my mom, M.E. Court.
May Ericka Courtney to those of us who know her.
I’ve even figured out my pen name. Gwen Lynn. That sounds miles better than Gwendolyn Courtney, and much shorter, too. It’ll look nicer than Mother’s slanted, floral script on covers, too.
I want the huge, blocky style that’s right at home with thriller novels. Books full of intrigue and mystery. Romances are Mother’s signature genre and her claim to fame. Even though she and my father didn’t exactly have a happily ever after.
I don’t even know if they had a happy for now.
I barely remember him. They’d divorced long before he died.
Hitting the button to open the garage door, I wait impatiently for...nothing?
That’s what happens, and it can only mean the batteries are dead. Stupid thing.
No warning. Just dead.
I scan the area with an ever-familiar eerie sensation tickling the back of my neck before shutting off my car. This could be one reason I’ve never finished a single one of the many books I’ve started working on.
Confession? I’m afraid of the dark. Of my own shadow. Of dang near everything. The cowardly lion skipping his way to Oz had more courage than I do. I get to the point in a story where the intrigue gets deep, and I creep myself out and let my imagination go wild and just...stop.
Like I’m doing now. I shake my head.
Convinced the coast is clear, I jump out of the car and make a mad dash for the front door like a flock of flying monkeys are after me. Someday, I’ll get over this ridiculous fear of everything.
That’s what I keep telling myself, and I hope someday, I’ll be right.
Inside, with the door locked, I can breathe easy again.
In another life, I must’ve been chased through the night by a serial killer or something. It had to be another life because it sure hasn’t happened in this one.
Still, I’ve always felt like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I know something dark and sinister is going to happen.
Someday, it won’t matter, I tell myself again. Probably whenever I’m finally rich enough to lock myself inside and finish writing a book. A damn good one that will have me hitting the charts rig
ht alongside Mom.
I kick off my shoes, leave them by the door, and walk across the plush new carpet. Mom had the place re-carpeted before I moved in, all beige because it doesn’t show traffic like white does.
That’s my mother, though, and I love her. Drama and all.
Before I reach the kitchen, my purse buzzes like an angry hornet found its way inside. It’s not my phone. That’s a guarantee.
The number of people who have my phone number is next to nil, and most of them are far too busy to light up my screen at eight o’clock at night.
Real trepidation crawls up my spine as I pull out the cheap phone and set my purse on the counter. I take a deep breath and hold it, glancing at the text displayed on the screen.
Will she be there?
Forget the trepidation. Now, it’s a full-on shiver.
She? She who? A she hasn’t entered Manny’s office since I started there.
What have I confirmed? Manny’s not married, and he doesn’t have any daughters or sisters that I’m aware of.
Crud.
This must be one of his side gigs. Secretive, under-the-table projects that don’t leave much of a trail. Probably for good legal reason.
But I just know they’re how Manny keeps making money outside his skeletal client base. Far more than any lawyer makes writing up wills and settling small-time estate feuds.
I set the phone down and back away from it slowly.
The phone can’t hurt me. It’s ninety percent plastic. I have no good reason to be afraid of it. So why are my hands shaking?
Because deep down, I know this might be Manny’s Pandora’s Box, and I just opened it.
“Get a grip!”
My own voice makes me jump.
“Sheesh!” I head for the fridge and grab a bottle of water, downing half of it without coming up for air.
Better. At least I’m no longer shaking like a leaf.
Deep breath. I go through it in my head.
Manny is a snake, but he’s more like a gardener than a rattler. It’s not like he’s in the business of killing people. Or shacking weirdo Unknowns up with shes for a price.
