by Laura Burton
Trent blinked, and everything went fuzzy. The closing statements sounded like people talking while he held his head underwater. He turned to Rich, who wore a full smile now.
“Did she say what I think she said?”
Rich leaned over and raised an eyebrow. “Let’s just say Mario was more of a metaphor in that final statement.”
“And you knew about this?” Trent steadied his glasses to read Rich’s lips, since his brain felt a blur.
“I was the one who called and asked if she’d testify. Oh, and I was the one who told her you’re not with Delilah.”
Trent rubbed his jaw. It still didn’t make sense. “Wait . . . I saw her with another man—across from my apartment.”
“Yeah, she told me about that this morning. He’s some guy her friend wanted her to date, but she said it wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“You really need to talk to her about that, man.” Rich winked and turned back to the front.
Trent stood and squeezed Rich’s shoulder, then turned and squeezed past a few people to get to the aisle. He opened the door gently and snuck out.
Trent looked frantically in every direction for Angie. He spotted a dark-haired woman in a black suit a few yards ahead of him.
He ran to her and turned her around.
But this woman had a different face. Trent glanced down in embarrassment, seeing that she also had a pregnant belly. “Sorry, ma’am.”
The woman shot Trent a disapproving glare, and he jetted off in the opposite direction. He headed for the parking lot, thinking he would have better luck locating her car. Sure enough, her car was in the parking lot . . . and it was leaving.
Trent went into athlete mode, and did the one activity he’d always hated—he ran. He tried his best, and managed to clear most of the parking lot quickly, but between his aching side and shortness of breath, there was no way he could get close enough to catch her attention. He slowed to a stop, holding his rib cage, and watched the only woman he’d ever loved drive away.
If he were in a cartoon, a light bulb would’ve gone off above his head. The tracker!
He wiped the line of sweat from under the bridge of his glasses and hobbled back to his truck. He took a few shots from his inhaler, then voiced a quick prayer that by some chance, Angie still had the tracker under her floorboard.
Inside his car, the tracker honed in on her car in an instant. Jackpot. He followed the signal all the way to her house. He didn’t care if he looked like a stalker or if anyone saw her with him. He’d done his part to capture the criminals, and so had she. It was time for their reward—being together.
Trent drove as if his life depended on it, and when the first light turned red, he pulled out his blue light and fastened it to the hood of his truck. He’d never used it to his advantage before, but this was a true emergency.
He made it to Angie’s house in record time and pulled in right behind her, lights still flashing. Some of the neighbors opened their doors at the commotion. One older man yelled, “What’s all that racket?”
Trent waved. “Everything’s fine. Nothing to see here.”
Angie stood on her front doorstep, shaking her head. “What are you going to do, frisk me?”
Trent didn’t say a word. He practically skipped to Angie. “Ms. Andrews, you’re under arrest for eluding an officer.”
Angie put her hands on her hips. “Is that a fact?” She looked up at him, her eyes dancing.
“Yes ma’am. Your sentence is to pay me one kiss”—Trent pecked her lips and then pulled back—”every day, for the rest of your life.”
Angie wrapped her arms around his neck and grinned. “That doesn’t sound like a punishment to me.”
“Then punish me, because I’m guilty of loving you, Angela Andrews.”
Angie’s eyes twinkled. “I love you, too.”
She pressed her lips to his, and he kissed her with the force of an entire SWAT team breaking down a building. And he planned to do the same, every day for the rest of their lives.
Epilogue
Six months later
Angie stood at the board, numbering the various lines for a sonnet. Simply explaining the method of this poem wasn’t cutting it so late in the afternoon. The students were tired, and so was she. But in a good way. Instead of yawning from driving around random people all night, Angie spent all her evenings doing graduate work and laughing over dinner with her boyfriend.
The dry erase marker squeaked across the board, annoying Angie. Not as much as her phone, however. Angie ignored the so-called silent vibrations on her hollow desk, hoping the call would go to voicemail.
“Miss Andrews, are you going to answer that?” Angie raised an eyebrow and peered over her shoulder to see who’d spoken. To her surprise, she couldn’t tell, because all the students looked alert.
Angie glanced at her phone, now ringing again, and picked it up. She covered her mouth to muffle the conversation, despite all the students staring. “Trent.”
“Hey, Angie.”
“I’m still in class. Can I call you back in, like, ten minutes?”
“Why don’t you just look outside your window?”
“Huh?” Angie scrunched her nose. What was he talking about? Nevertheless, she walked toward the window and pulled open the curtains she kept drawn to lessen distractions.
Angie dropped the phone and bit her bottom lip in an effort to contain her excitement. “I’ll be right back, class.”
Angie rushed to the door and yelled across the hallway. “Raven, keep an eye on my class.”
Running as fast as her ballet flats would allow, Angie made it to the front lawn in record time. On the school marquee, in large letters, flashed the words “ANGIE, WILL YOU MARRY ME?”
Trent stood under the sign dressed in the same handsome tux and tie he’d worn as Van Culpepper—minus the mustache and dyed hair, of course.
When Angie made it to him, Trent dropped to one knee and held up a gorgeous princess-cut diamond. “Angie, will you not only kiss me every day for the rest of our lives but also every night for the rest of our lives?”
“Guilty as charged.” Angie dove into his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck. A moment later, Trent pulled her to her feet and kissed her. After basking in the reality of her dreams coming true, Angie opened her eyes to applause. Raven, the principal, and Angie’s entire class had gathered to congratulate them.
And to think that all this had started with a side hustle.
A note from the author
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Side Hustle. Thank you so much for reading! This is the first book in my Schooled on Love series, which focuses on educators finding love. It’s a small tribute to my educator parents and many teacher friends. If you enjoyed Side Hustle, I would love for you to leave a review on Amazon.
All of the books I write are clean reads set in the South with a strong romantic focus. Simply put, I write all things “sweet, Southern and sarcastic.” If you enjoy these types of stories and want updates about what I'm writing next, sign up for my newsletter HERE. If you’re on Facebook and want to hang out, check out my author Facebook page HERE. We have fun conversations, and it’s a great way for us to get to know one another.
Thanks again for taking the time to read my story. I’ve loved every minute of writing it for you!
With Love,
Kaci Lane
What’s Next
Look for No Time for Traditions, part of the No Brides Club series from Sweet Promise Press, coming out November 2020.
Brittany goes home for Christmas like always. Only this year is different as it's the first since her grandfather died.
While she loves living in New York and working as a book editor, there's something missing. Every year, she looks forward to Christmas in the South with her extended family. Whenever she comes home to Alabama, her creativity blossoms and she enjoys writing again.
Greg Tucker is a local land surveyor hi
red by Brittany's family to split up her grandparents' land. When Brittany discovers this includes mapping out the family farmhouse to sell, she is furious. Even worse, Greg is the former high school jock who aggravated bookworm Brittany to no end. Little does she know it's because he had a secret crush on the girl he knew was out of his league.
Can these former high school rivals settle their differences once and for all? And will Brittany find what's been missing from her life all along—her true home and true love?
Acknowledgments
First, I would like to thank God for giving me creative ideas and placing the right people in my path to help see them to fruition.
My husband, Blake, gets credit next for always supporting my writing endeavors, even if he finds my stories a little too “girly and Hallmarkish.”
I also want to thank my editors for this project. Jessica, you helped bring my characters to life and make this story so much richer with each draft. Joanne, I so appreciate your eagle eye and efficient proofing skills.
Last but not least, thanks to all the fellow authors of this collection for your encouragement and fun camaraderie.
About the Author
Kaci Lane is a journalist turned fiction writer who believes all stories should have a happy ending. While unsuccessfully trying to learn Spanish for a decade, she has become fluent in sarcasm, Southern belle and movie quotes. She is married to a high-tech redneck and has two young children who help keep her humility in check. Connect with her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest, or on her kacilane.com.
Not Happy Campers by Ash Keller
Chapter 1
Lainey couldn't hobble away from the interview fast enough. She punched the button to the elevator, practically falling into it when the doors opened. Mercifully, it was empty.
She kicked off the uncomfortable heels and flexed her toes. Another failed interview. The fifth that week. Catching sight of herself in the mirrored wall, shoulders slumped and a frown line creasing her forehead, she scowled. "Don't look at me like that," she muttered to her reflection.
"And thanks for all your help," Lainey said, glaring down at the offending shoes. After interview number four, she had seen the heels in the window of a secondhand store, and had to have them. They were the shoes of a confident, sophisticated, and successful woman. The kind of woman Lainey wanted to be. A woman who was going somewhere. But on her, the designer heels may as well have been clown shoes.
There's an idea. She'd answered every job posting that she was even remotely qualified for. Maybe it was time to run away with the circus. But first she'd have to ditch the heels.
Lainey suppressed a whimper as the elevator doors opened into the lobby. It was time to jam her feet back into the torture devices. She longed for her beloved vintage Converse high tops, once bright red but now closer to pink. She vowed to never take them off again.
Lainey was tempted to walk home barefoot, but the streets of Brooklyn weren't exactly a field of daisies. She eased her feet into the heels, apologizing to her blistered soles. You only have to carry me four blocks. One step at a time. We've got this.
But as soon as she stepped out of the building and into the August heat, her feet seemed to swell in protest, making each step more unbearable than the last.
Not for the first time, she cursed the pretty rich boy who'd gotten her into this mess in the first place. She'd had a perfectly good job at the diner. Okay, so maybe it hadn't really been perfect or good. Truth be told, she was a terrible waitress, so her tips were nothing to write home about. But a starving artist needed a second job, and the diner had paid the bills—mostly. Now it was gone. All because a grown man had a meltdown during the dinner rush.
With every painful step, Lainey grew angrier. It's not like she'd intended to dump the pitcher of beer on him. It was an accident. But the way he'd carried on, you'd think she had deliberately doused him with radioactive waste.
Her feet ached. Her blouse was damp with sweat. Her head throbbed. She needed an iced latte. If coffee wasn’t a cure-all, it would at least ease her headache. She wasn't proud of her caffeine addiction, but she wasn't sorry for it, either. Coffee was the one constant in life that had never let her down.
Lainey pulled out her phone to check her bank account balance. She leaned against a pole to give her battered feet a break, and they practically sang a Hallelujah chorus in thanks. Holding her breath, she opened her banking app. She had submitted an invoice for a freelance illustration job over a month ago. With any luck, the direct deposit had hit her account that morning. Maybe, just maybe, she'd catch a break.
Nope. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Her empty account mocked her with a row of zeroes. Heaving a sigh, she dug into the recesses of her purse, searching for spare change, reaching into each corner and even checking the liner for holes. She continued to feel around as she walked to the coffee shop. Pooling together every last cent to her name, she was worth four dollars and twenty-three cents. Not enough for an iced latte.
Not willing to admit defeat, she continued to search her purse as she waited in line. She inhaled deeply, the aroma of roasted beans energizing her. She only needed twenty-two cents. Daring to hope for a quarter, she said a prayer to the patron saint of coffee, and reached in one last time.
No luck.
"Next," the barista called, her tone bored.
Taking a deep breath, Lainey stepped to the counter. Despite her love of coffee, Lainey was intimidated by baristas. Some were just so smug, as if a PhD was required to make a cup of joe. This woman was definitely one of those, the look of derision evident in her eyes despite her efforts to hide them behind thick black eyeliner and long bangs.
"Hello." Lainey winced at the shakiness of her voice. She cleared her throat and started again. "I'd like three shots of espresso over ice in a large cup, please."
The barista smirked. "Would you like me to fill it with milk, too?"
Lainey pasted a friendly smile on her face, refusing to be shamed for ordering a poor man's latte. It wasn't a crime, after all. She gestured to the condiments station and said, "I can add it myself, if you'd prefer."
The barista rolled her eyes. "I'd prefer you order a latte if you want a latte."
Lainey had reached the end of her rope. "Could I just get my coffee without the side of judgment and cynicism, please?" She tossed the assortment of change onto the counter. "I'm not cheap. I'm broke. There's a difference."
The barista shrugged. "Whatever."
Lainey grabbed her coffee and sprinted toward the door. Every step felt like walking on shards of glass, but she couldn’t slow down. Tears were beginning to prick the backs of her eyelids and she'd wear her feet down to bloody stumps before she'd let the snotty barista see her cry.
Come on, demon shoes. Let's go home before the day gets any worse.
Chapter 2
There was nothing Lance Blakeman needed more—but wanted less—than a fiancée.
As his taxi weaved in and out of traffic, Lance scrolled through his phone contacts. There had to be someone who was not only suitable, but could be available on an hour's notice. Who was he kidding? It was hopeless.
The cab driver slammed on the brakes, laid on the horn, and spewed a stream of profanities at a group of pedestrians that would make Ozzy Osbourne blush. With the obvious anger management issues and the thick scent of cigarette smoke wafting from the front seat, Lance feared the cabbie would drop dead before he reached the destination.
With a groan, Lance tucked his phone into his pocket. There was no one. It was an impossible task. The truth was, he'd only had a healthy relationship with two women in his life: 1) his assistant, Valerie, who was not only already happily married, but was older than his mother, and 2) his younger sister, Lola, who was unsuitable for obvious reasons, ranging from illegal to grotesque.
Lance didn't do relationships. That's the way he liked it. But now, he couldn't think of a single woman who could pose as his fiancée for one lousy lunch date. He had been handed the
client of a lifetime on a silver platter, and he was going to blow it.
Paul Arken was the biggest name in horror novels since Stephen King. Every book he penned was worth its weight in gold, guaranteed to top the bestsellers' lists. For more than a decade, the superstar author had been represented by Lance's mentor, Trevor Peabody, at Peabody and Schultz. The biggest literary agency in the world, Peabody and Schultz represented former presidents, movie stars, and celebrities in every field—and that was just their nonfiction titles. There wasn't a category or genre that Peabody and Schultz didn't dominate in sales numbers.
And now Trevor Peabody was retiring. His clients were being passed to others in the agency, and Lance was in line to inherit Paul Arken. Only, Paul Arken wasn't sold on the idea. A fact Lance hadn't known until that morning. Apparently, Paul would prefer an agent whose sole focus wasn't work, but included outside interests similar to his own. As Paul was a newlywed, with a baby on the way, that meant love, marriage, kids—the whole kit and caboodle.
If only Trevor had retired a year earlier. But the whole thing sounded insane to Lance. Why wouldn't an author want an agent whose only obligation was selling his clients' books? Lance could, and would, work around the clock for Paul.
He should have just said that. Instead, words he'd never planned to utter in his life fell from his lips. "Actually, I've met someone. We're engaged."
And now he was scheduled to meet Paul for lunch, without so much as a photograph of his so-called beloved to show him.
"I'll walk from here," Lance told the driver. The taxi screeched to a halt, nearly getting rear ended, and causing the cabbie to release another string of colorful phrases. Lance paid and stepped onto the sidewalk.
