Ace
KING
MCQUEEN
JACK
Los Angeles Bad Boys:
COLD HARD CASH
HOLLYWOOD HOLDEN
SAINT JUDE
THE COMPLETE COLLECTION
About the Author
Frankie Love writes sexy stories about bad boys and mountain men. As a thirty-something mom to six who is ridiculously in love with her own bearded hottie, she believes in love-at-first-sight and happily-ever-after’s. She also believes in the power of a quickie.
Find Frankie here:
www.frankielove.net
Leading to Forever
By USA Today Bestselling author Adriana Locke
Books by Adriana Locke
The Exception Series
The Exception
The Connection, a novella
The Perception
The Exception Series Box Set
* * *
The Landry Family Series
Sway
Swing
Switch
Swear
Swink
Sweet - coming Summer 2018
The Landry Family Series Box Set
* * *
The Gibson Boys Series
Crank
Craft
Cross, a novella
Crave—coming Spring 2018
* * *
Standalone Novels
Sacrifice
Wherever It Leads
Written in the Scars
Battle of the Sexes
Lucky Number Eleven
12 Days Until Sunday—coming fall 2018
* * *
For an email every time Adriana has a new release, sign up for an Amazon Alert or text the word adriana to 21000.
1
Brynne
* * *
“Do you hate me?”
Ignoring Presley’s question, I continue flipping through the racks of clothes lining the walls of my favorite boutique in Vegas. She knows darn good and well I don’t hate her.
A coral-colored sundress with pockets hangs prettily in front of me. The fabric is soft, yet thin, and I think it’ll hug the curves I’ve put on since moving in with Fenton. It astounds me that I don’t hate the roundness of my hips and the way my breasts hang with a little weight. I used to spend so much energy watching the way my clothes fit but now I just don’t care. I actually kind of like it. How could I not with the way my guy can’t keep his hands off me?
I feel myself drifting off into a Fenton-filled dreamland and I don’t even care. It’s like a snowball. First his grin pops in my mind. Then, one of two things happen: option one is the corners turn into the smirk I love, mostly because I know a comment will follow that will have my tummy clenching before he even finishes his sentence. Option two includes his gray eyes softening and a whisper of something so sweet, so counter to his roguish exterior, will glance across my ear and I’ll be swept away in his arms.
That’s the thing with Fenton Abbott I didn’t expect—the paradox. The mystery, yet open book. The rough but still tender. The man that is in total, absolute control over everything in his life but turns his heart, the one thing he protects more than anything, over to me.
“Earth to Brynne.” Presley tosses a bikini at me, hitting me in the face.
“I’m here.” I shake my head, holding the bikini in the air. “I kind of like this one.”
“I love the color. It’s the color of the Mediterranean.”
I flip her a look. “Nice way to slip that in there.” I sigh.
“Your fiancé offered you a wedding anywhere in the world. Legit, anywhere. I heard Greece.” She moans, following me to the front of the store. “Rome. He offered you Paris, Brynne, and you picked Las Vegas.”
“You didn’t have to come.” Looking over my shoulder, I smile. “Yet, here you are.”
“Here I am because my best friend isn’t getting married without me,” she huffs. “Even if you pick the cheesiest place in the world to get married.”
My pace slows and Presley comes up beside me. I adjust the load of garments in my arms. “I like Vegas. I have a sentimental attachment to this city, cheesy or not.”
“I can’t argue with you there. This was your first date—one I still can’t believe you agreed to.” She laughs.
My cheeks flush as I remember that weekend. The exhilaration at doing something unpredictable with a man I just met. The excitement of having the attention of Fenton all to myself. The feel of the fabric over my eyes. The sound of—
“Brynne,” Presley whispers, elbowing me in the side.
“Huh?”
“Did you hear them?”
“Hear who?” I ask.
“Them.” She nods to the two women in front of us. “They’re going to Ruma tonight.” Her eyes shine. “Excuse me,” she says, interjecting herself into their conversation. “I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, but did I hear you say you’re going to Ruma for dinner?”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Smiling as I watch Presley in action, I imagine what Fenton’s going to say about this. Probably not too much, but he’ll give her a hard time for sure.
“Yes, we are,” the silver-haired lady says. “It’s our favorite place to eat in the city. Have you been there?”
“Oh, all the time.” Presley winks at me. “If you give us your names, we’ll have the staff get you a table overlooking the ocean.”
The ladies exchange a look with one another. “And how will you do that?”
“My friend here,” Presley says, motioning toward me, “owns Ruma.”
I fidget as their gazes turn to me. I own Ruma. It’s still hard to believe I own, or will own soon, one of the premiere restaurants in Vegas and others around the world. It catches me off guard every time.
The ladies look at me curiously. The one with glasses pulls them off the bridge of her nose and peers at me over the top.
Cringing at the attention and the way my friend just laid that out there, I pick a spot on the far wall and stare at it like it’s a lifeline. Fenton says I’ll get used to things like this, things like his wealth, but I’m not sure. It still feels so alien.
“Is that right?” The lady with the glasses asks with more than a hint of disbelief, maybe even disgust, in her tone. “You own Ruma?”
She says it like it’s impossible. Like a girl like me couldn’t possibly have anything to do with something like Ruma.
Throwing my shoulders back, my gaze sinking over her judgmental eyes, I grin. “Yes. I do. I’m Brynne Abbott.” The name, one that’s not quite true yet, rolls off my tongue. If I were in any other situation, I’d probably giggle at the sound. “Please be our guests tonight. What did you say your name was?”
“Caroline Hamilton and Joan Beguy.” She pauses, as if to decide whether she should believe me or if I’m toying with her.
“Do you have reservations?” I ask sweetly.
“Our reservations are for seven.”
“I’ll call ahead for you. I hope you enjoy your evening,” I say, looking at the waiting cashier in hopes they take a hint.
They turn and finish their purchases and take their bags, occasionally glancing at us over their shoulders. Presley and I watch until they’re out of the store.
“Did you get their names?” I ask her.
“I wrote them in my phone. What nasty wenches,” she snarls. “I was trying to be nice. This reminds me why I don’t try that very often.”
Laughing at her joke that’s as untrue as it can be, I place my selections on the counter.
“Did you find everything all right?” the cashier asks.
“We did. Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t forget this.” Presley sets a bikini on top of my things and then looks at me. “What?”
“You’re pushing Fenton’s buttons today, aren’t you?” I laugh.
“For one, he can afford it. For two, I forgot my card. For three, I’m considering this an asshole tax for making Brady
work out of town all week last week.”
“Um, it’s his job,” I remind her as the cashier begins ringing up my things.
“Can’t he have a local job? One that leaves him available to me every night?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure my brother would love a desk job, Pres. The guy that gallivanted all over the world. The guy that has a wanderlust unlike anyone I’ve ever met would assuredly love working some mundane job just because you asked so sweetly.”
She grins. “I’d be sure to make it worth his while.”
Handing my credit card to the cashier as she reads off the total, I shake my head at Presley. “No. Nope. Not discussing your sex life with Brady. I can’t.”
I take my card back, put it in my purse, and gather the bags. Presley rattles off how unfair it is that she can’t brag about Brady “just because” he’s my brother. I ignore it. She finally takes the hint as the hot afternoon Vegas sun hits us as we exit the boutique.
“When are your parents getting here?” she asks, changing the topic to something more palatable.
“Tomorrow morning,” I tell her, spotting Fenton’s car. “We are doing the walk-through tomorrow evening at the venue and then we’re all supposed to have dinner tomorrow night.”
“I need to call the florist this afternoon,” she says. “I ordered your mom a particular corsage but there was a flower in it they didn’t have and were going to order. I need to make sure they got it all taken care of.”
“Are you trying to sweet talk my mom?”
“Uh, yeah. Clearly.”
Fenton’s driver, Ivan, pulls open the limo door. “Good afternoon, Miss Calloway,” he says to me. “And to you, Miss Bradshaw.”
“Hey, Ivan,” I say as Presley climbs into the car. “How are you today?”
“Very good.” He takes my bags. “Mr. Abbott has asked that you return straight to the penthouse.”
I bet he has.
My phone, silenced since this morning, feels like a brick in my bag. I wonder how many missed calls and texts are waiting for me.
Sliding into the car, I get situated and then look back at Ivan. “I need to make one more stop before we head to the penthouse.”
His features drop. “But, Miss Calloway …”
“I can take a cab, if you’d rather.”
“I quite like my job.” He grins sheepishly. “Is there any way I can convince you to let me take you back to Mr. Abbott?”
“It shouldn’t be so sexy that he wants you like this,” Presley interjects, “but it is.”
“I know,” I moan, fighting what I want to do with what I need to do.
My thighs clench at what Fenton is going to do when I get back. He won’t take kindly to my phone being off all day, but I had to have some space. I needed a breather and to get my head together before the wedding.
“One more stop,” I tell Ivan. “Let Mr. Abbott know I’m not finished with my errands for the day but will return when I am through.”
He doesn’t look thrilled but gives up his negotiations. “Very well.”
The door closes.
Presley pours herself a glass of champagne and offers me one.
“No, thanks,” I say, my mind already three steps ahead of where we are. “I need to keep my head clear today.”
She lowers the glass from her lips. “Do I want to know what all of this is about?”
“What all of what is about?”
“This.” She takes a sip and then looks at me. “The ‘one more stop.’ The no champagne. You’re up to something, Brynne.”
“No,” I stammer. “I just have things to do. I’m getting married, you know.”
She’s not convinced. Instead, she crosses her legs and takes another sip. After savoring the drink, she looks at me with a perfectly arched brow. “So, do I want to know?”
I suppress my giggle. “Yes. You do.”
“So, tell me.” She leans forward with a wide grin. “What’s happening?”
I relax back into the soft leather seats as we pull onto the Strip. Palm trees sway beside the road as the air conditioner sends cool air to calm my frazzling nerves. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” A mischievous smile on my lips, I press the button next to the glass. “Ivan?”
“Yes, Miss Calloway.”
“Take us to Gelman’s, please.”
“Yes, Miss Calloway.”
Presley laughs. “Odd choice, but I like where this is going.”
A hand over my stomach, I laugh with her. “Let’s hope Fenton does too.”
2
The numbers above the elevator door rise higher and higher. With each chime as I pass another floor, my heart pumps a little faster. The one bag I refused to let the valet bring to the penthouse rests in my sweaty palm.
I’ve imagined doing this for two weeks now. I’ve almost given him his wedding present early a hundred times, talking myself out of it at the last minute each time. It’s hard when you think you have the perfect gift for someone that’s impossible to buy for. I plotted for six months to find the one thing that would be unforgettable. I fought him from eloping and pushed the wedding date as far as he would let me just to buy myself more time.
Fenton is always thinking about me. He worries himself senseless about my security and well-being. He takes care of any need I have before I realize I need it. He’s constantly going out of his way to give me new experiences and bouts of pleasure and joy and says they really give him more than they do me, but I know that can’t be true. He fills me with so much love and security, two things I didn’t think I would find, that I wanted to find him the one gift that would tell him just how much I love him.
And I think I did.
The elevator dings and the doors open. The oversized wooden doors leading to Fenton’s penthouse—our penthouse—await. He’s on the other side, I’m sure, pacing. He’ll be agitated I haven’t talked to him since he left this morning and irritated I rerouted Ivan to Gelman’s. But the relief that will be buried in his slate-gray eyes is the layer he’ll try to hide. It’s the one I’ll find. It’s the one I’ll hold onto.
I swipe the door open and enter the marble foyer. He’s home. I can sense him. Every nerve in my body is on edge as I close the door behind me. My shoes click against the stone as I make my way through the hall into the living room. A picture of Fenton and I from my first trip here hangs to my right. I look a little shocked in the photograph. It feels like so long ago since he found my phone in a bundle of bananas and started this whirlwind affair. Today, I don’t stop and smile at it like I usually do. Instead, I press on.
Then I stop.
My breath stutters as I take in the sight of him. He’s standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. His tie is loose around his neck and his dark hair an unruly mess. His free hand runs through it as he takes me in.
My feet refuse to move as the weight of his gaze plants me in place. A blossom of warmth begins in my chest and radiates through every fiber of my being as relief washes over his face.
His shoulders settle. He blows out a breath. A smile teases at his lips but he fights it back. “You don’t listen worth a shit.”
I hear passed the premediated grumble to the tinge of relief embedded in his tone. “How was your day, babe?”
“Two meetings that took entirely too long. Four hours wondering why the hell my fiancée wouldn’t answer my calls. You decide how my day was, babe.”
“Sounds frustrating.”
He glares my way.
“Come on, Fenton. I was shopping with my best friend for our wedding. With your driver,” I add for good measure. “You knew where I was and that I was fine.”
He just takes a drink nonplussed.
“Besides, we’re going to be married soon and you need to come to terms that you might not know my whereabouts twenty-four seven. I’m a grown woman. I’m not checking in with you like a child.”
He sets his drink on a side table and stalks toward me. “Say that a
gain.”
My mouth grows dry as my panties dampen. I know what he wants to hear, but I’m not giving it to him. Not yet. I love this look on his face too much.
“You might not know my whereabouts,” I repeat, knowing damn good and well that’s not what he meant.
He’s even less humored than I thought. Standing in front of me, towering over me, he’s broodier than I imagined and if I didn’t know him so well, like the back of my hand, I might even be a little nervous. Instead, his pricey cologne washes over me, mixing with his testosterone and my adrenaline, punching every button on my libido. My jaw falls slack as I try to pull as much oxygen into my lungs as is humanly possible under such delightful duress.
“Try again, Rudo,” he insists.
“Oh. Did you mean …” I lick my lips. “That we’ll be married soon?”
His eyes almost glow. “Two days,” he whispers.
“Two days.”
My heart fills to the brim, threatening to explode as I watch the fierceness in his features turn almost reverent.
Fenton doesn’t have to tell me he loves me. I feel it in his touch. I see it in his eyes. I hear it in the words he uses even when he’s telling me random things. My favorite way to see it, though, is in moments like this when he’s looking at me like he can’t believe I’m here.
I wonder if this will stop when I take my vows and his name in two short days. If reality will settle in that I’m his forever and things will become routine. If so, I’ll miss this look. I’ll hate being able to make him happy just by being present. By being here. With him.
He bends to kiss me, but I step back. Once our lips touch, that will be it. I’ll fall into his arms and won’t come up until morning.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Hang on a second.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t either, but I need you to.”
“I need you.”
Going to the Chapel Page 8
