Valentine Kisses: A Kiss to Last a Lifetime
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Lola Flannigan by Abigail Drake
Other Books by Abigail Drake
Dedication
Lola Flannigan
About the Author- Abigail Drake
Hearts Must Be Broken by Bridie Hall
Other Books by Bridie Hall
Hearts Must Be Broken
About the Author- Bridie Hall
Not Today by Lisa Hahn
Other Books by Lisa Hahn
Dedication
9:00 AM
9:05 AM
9:15 AM
9:45 AM
1:30 PM
3:00 PM
6:50 PM
7:00 PM
7:15 PM
7:30 PM
7:45 PM
FEBRUARY 13TH- TWO YEARS LATER
About the Author- Lisa Hahn
Avalanche by Kim Briggs
Other Books by Kim Briggs
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author- Kim Briggs
Lost & Found by Shilpa Mudiganti
Other Books by Shilpa Mudiganti
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author- Shilpa Mudiganti
What's Better Than a Book Boyfriend? by Sarah Vance-Tompkins
Other Books by Sarah Vance-Tompkins
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
About the Author- Sarah Vance-Tompkins
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Valentine Kisses
A kiss to last a lifetime….
Abigail Drake, Bridie Hall, Lisa Hahn, Kim Briggs, Shilpa Mudiganti, and Sarah Vance-Tompkins
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Valentine Kisses:
Lola Flannigan by Abigail Drake
Hearts Must Be Broken by Bridie Hall
Not Today by Lisa Hahn
Avalanche by Kim Briggs
Lost & Found by Shilpa Mudiganti
What’s Better Than a Book Boyfriend? by Sarah Vance-Tompkins
Copyright © 2017
All rights reserved.
Inkspell Publishing
5764 Woodbine Ave.
Pinckney, MI 48169
Edited By Melissa Keir
Cover art By Najla Qamber
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Lola Flannigan
Abigail Drake
Other Books by Abigail Drake
Traveller
Saying Goodbye, Part One
Saying Goodbye, Part Two
And Under the Name Wende Dikec
Tiger Lily
Starr Valentine
Lola Flannigan
Copyright © 2016 Abigail Drake
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To the Pink Ladies:
Here’s to strong women
May we know them
May we raise them
May we be them
(And may we also make them join together
at some point to form the best street team ever created)
Thanks for all the love, support,
and tolerance, Pinkies.
I couldn’t do it without you.
LOLA FLANNIGAN
“I had the most magnificent breasts.”
Mrs. Waddle, a former burlesque dancer with dementia who came into my shop every Tuesday night to have her hair done, always paid in cash. She placed the bills inside an envelope and printed my name neatly in block letters on the front.
Lola Flannigan. Tuesday. Wash and style.
Conversations with Mrs. Waddle often began and ended with a discussion about her breasts. She also loved to talk about her days on the stage, her many former lovers, and the sexual kinks she’d found especially intriguing.
Her stories didn’t bother me. I found them entertaining, even those she’d told so many times I had them memorized. It also didn’t bother me she paid what the old owner of the shop charged many years ago, at a time when giant hair dryers filled the air with their noise and everything had been painted bubble gum pink.
The shop had evolved under my careful hand, turning it into a sleek, modern oasis with white walls, wooden floors, and subtle lighting. I’d chosen minimalist furniture, with real artwork on the walls. A classy place, it had grown steadily, becoming the best shop in town. That meant I could afford to help little old ladies who paid a fraction of the going rate and then tipped with a single, crisp dollar bill.
Mrs. Waddle was an oddity, just like me. We had a lot in common. I liked her. She made me laugh.
“Work your magic, Lola,” she said. “I may have one foot in the grave, but when I go, I’m going out in style. I used to be so beautiful.”
“You’re still beautiful, Mrs. Waddle,” I said as I combed out her freshly washed hair. She’d dyed it herself, in a brilliantly unnatural red, which suited her perfectly.
Her eyes met mine in the mirror and she reached up to pat the gloved hand I’d placed on her shoulder. “Beauty doesn’t last. Enjoy it while you can, Lola. You remind me of a stripper I once knew.”
My heavily pregnant assistant, Maria, snorted. “Lola gets that a lot, Mrs. Waddle.”
I glared at her, flicking my blond hair over my shoulder in annoyance. I did get that a lot, and not just because of my short dresses and high heels. I loved men, especially the wrong men, and had poor impulse control. I exuded sexual hormones like some kind of invisible cloud, signaling my location to any loser, bad boy, or Casanova within shouting distance. I was like a beacon of sluttiness, but I preferred a different term.
“I embrace my inner goddess.”
I shifted, adjusting my dress under my utilitarian black work apron, and sighed. It was a very pretty dress. Skin tight, strapless, and in a blue that matched my eyes, it would have been perfect for a night out on the town. Unfortunately, my date had cancelled at the last minute, s
o I was all dressed up with nowhere to go.
It happened to me more often than I cared to admit. Seven times in the last seven months to be exact.
Seven. Ugh. I hated that number. It had never been lucky for me. Although I’d owned my shop for seven years, an accomplishment, I’d spent the last seven Valentine’s Days all alone and dateless. Not a great track record.
And today was the seventh of February. It looked like I’d be alone for yet another Valentine’s Day. Another reason to feel depressed. Every year, I dreamed about getting chocolates in a red satin box, or roses from a secret admirer, but it never happened. Usually, I ended up gorging on candy alone while drinking heavily and mentally chastising myself for always, always, always picking the wrong men. This year would probably be the same. I dreaded it already.
“Embracing your inner goddess?” asked Mrs. Waddle. “Is that what they call it these days? We called it being a two-bit floozy.”
Maria laughed, rubbing her lower back. Her third child was due to arrive any day, and she continued to work to avoid dealing with the other two.
“That’s one of the things we love about you, Sparky,” she said with a grin.
“Why does Maria call you ‘Sparky’?” Mrs. Waddle frowned, puzzled.
I pointed to the framed newspaper clipping mounted on the wall. “Because of that article. When I got struck by lightning last month, a guy from the paper came to interview me.”
“When he found out you’d been struck more than once, the story went viral,” said Maria.
Mrs. Waddle put a bejeweled hand to her chest. She had rings on every single one of her fingers. “Oh, gracious. How many times have you been hit?”
“Um, seven.”
Seven. See what I mean? Definitely not a good number.
“Lola’s like a human lightning rod. She attracts it the same way she attracts bad men. It’s a skill.”
Maria had known me since kindergarten. We had no secrets. I gave her a dirty look, one that made her laugh so hard she snorted.
“The important thing is that it doesn’t affect me, Mrs. Waddle. And neither do the men.”
A bold-faced lie. The men broke my heart and the lightning affected me, too. My hands had become weapons, causing me to shock people whenever I touched them. Not a mild zap, either. Electricity shot out of my fingertips, sometimes knocking people right off their feet. I wore gloves at all times, for the protection of everyone around me. I’d learned to do that after once grabbing an old boyfriend during a particularly amorous moment, and accidentally singeing him. There is no greater turn off than the smell of burning chest hair, or the screams of a man getting zapped in bed. Trust me on this. It’s awful.
The doctors hadn’t been able to help me one bit. I’d allowed them to poke, prod, and scan me in the hopes of finding an answer, but no one ever could. They concluded I was some sort of conduit for static electricity, took my money, and sent me out the door. I, Lola Flannigan, was a medical mystery, but not one anyone was particularly interested in solving.
“Could it have something to do with my feet?” I’d asked the last and final doctor I had visited.
An older man with white hair and bifocals, he stared at me, befuddled. “Your feet?”
“Yes. My deformity.”
I sat on the examination table, nearly bursting out of the gown they’d given me, and shifted uncomfortably. I always put the stupid gowns on backward, not sure if I should tie them in the front and expose my cleavage, or in the back and show off my bottom. Today I’d chosen to tie in in the back, and my thong-clad bum was now stuck to the protective paper covering the table.
“Show me, please.”
The words I’d been dreading. I pulled off my socks, biting my lip at the shock and revulsion I knew I’d see on his face. Everyone reacted that way, even doctors. Another reason to keep my feet covered at all times.
He cleared his throat and managed to keep his expression neutral. “Six toes on each foot. A rare deformity, yes, but hardly something to worry yourself about, and certainly not something to cause the, uh, symptoms you’ve experienced.”
“Really?”
He backed away to wash his hands. “It’s very unlucky you’ve been struck by lightning so many times, and it’s…odd…that you hold onto this electricity for some reason. It defies logic, to a certain extent. But nature is full of anomalies, and it could explain your slightly elevated body temperature…”
“Slightly? I’m like a human space heater. I run well over a hundred degrees on a good day.”
“What about when you’re sick?”
I shifted in my seat, trying to delicately remove the paper now welded to my fanny. “I never get sick.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Then you should consider yourself very fortunate indeed, Ms. Flannigan. Stop worrying about things you cannot change, and learn to appreciate what you have.”
I wanted to smack him in the head, preferably while not wearing my gloves, but I held myself back. I stopped going to doctors. None of them could help me. I was on my own.
I finished Mrs. Waddle’s hair exactly at 7:45 p.m., just as a car pulled up in front of the shop to pick her up. Our Tuesday night routine never changed. We waved goodbye to Mrs. Waddle and began to clean up the shop. I swept the floor, and Maria sank into a chair with a groan. She lifted her swollen feet up onto a stool and began counting the money from the register.
“You realize that she’s probably a millionaire or something, don’t you? She has a car and driver, and wears Chanel. You need to tell her she’s been underpaying you.”
“I couldn’t. She’s sweet and she’s old. Tuesday nights are always quiet, anyway. I have nothing better to do.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, the bell above the door tinkled and a man walked in. I turned, ready to say we were closing, but as soon as I saw him, I froze, the broom clenched in my hands. He was gorgeous, with dark, curly hair, eyes the color of chocolate, and just the right amount of scruffy stubble on his chiseled jaw. I made a small squeaking sound deep in my throat at the sight of him. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.
“Is it too late for a haircut?”
He didn’t have an accent, but his English was a bit too perfect and precise for him to be a native speaker. He wasn’t from around here, a big point in his favor.
Maria tried to heave herself up out of the chair. She usually handled men’s haircuts. I held up my hand to stop her.
“It’s okay, Maria. I’ve got this. You can go home now.”
Although we normally closed at eight, I wasn’t about to turn this guy away. My hands itched inside my gloves to touch him. Maria yawned, exhausted, and gave me a worried frown.
“Are you sure, Lola? I don’t mind staying.”
I shook my head, my eyes meeting his. Not chocolate. Dark chocolate. Warm dark chocolate that made my insides go all squishy and weird.
“No. I’ll do him.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Maria muttered under her breath.
I gave her a subtle elbow to the ribs, and then smiled at Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yummy. “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in just a second,” I said, and then pulled Maria behind the desk, out of the customer’s line of sight.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked, rubbing the spot I just poked with my elbow. “He might be a rapist or a murderer or something.”
“He’s fine. I can tell.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can tell? You have terrible judgment. You’re just acting crazy because it’s February and you always get psycho right before Valentine’s Day.” She folded her arms over her ample belly. “I don’t like this, but if I don’t leave now Jimmy will be late for work.”
Her husband worked the night shift, and with another baby on the way, they had expenses piling up. He couldn’t afford to miss.
“What can I do to make you feel better? Frisk him?” I asked.
“Don’t you dare.”
I nibbled on my lower lip. Fr
isking him might be fun. I looked over at the man sitting stiffly in a chair, filling out a form on a clipboard with my favorite pink, feathered pen. The pen seemed to annoy him by its very existence, and I found his reaction completely adorable.
“Look. He’s filling out our new customer survey. And he’s using my special pen. Would a criminal do that?”
“I guess not.” She still didn’t look convinced.
“It’ll be fine. Really.”
I almost pushed her out the door. I didn’t want Hottie McHottiepants to leave before I had a chance to get my hands on him.
Maria cast one last glance over her shoulder. “Just be careful, Lola. I have a funny feeling about this.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I gave her a cheery wave and then scurried back to my new customer. He handed me the form he’d filled out.
“Morgan Slade?”
He nodded, giving me a sexy smile. He had dimples, a very bad thing. Dimples were my kryptonite. I was powerless against them. I nearly dropped my undies at the sight of them. I almost had to fan myself.