Show Time

by Ally Crew

  I rouse, wiping the cloudiness from my eyes, but I’m alone. Either it was a dream, or it was…

  “Miss, your father is a fighter,” are the first words that awaken me full when the doctor emerges from the surgery wing four hours later. “He did amazing and I don’t think we’ll see any complications.”

  As soon as I hear the message, I beam in relief and run to catch my father being wheeled out and into another hallway. I blow an affectionate air-kiss, but then I realize they’re taking him into the recovery ward of the private wing. The one where the rich and elite go.

  The doctor steps in front of me. “He’ll receive the best care possible. You can see him later, Miss Morales.”

  “Wait! I didn’t…” But he disappears quickly, off to save more lives. I make my way to the reception desk on the floor. “I didn’t ask for the private wing…and we can't afford that!”

  The receptionist smiles at me. “The account has been pre-paid. All costs and incidentals are covered. Don’t worry about any payment, Miss Morales.”

  “What?” Her words set off a shiver of emotions in me. My feet falter a startled step back.

  With me, you’ll always be loved, and safe….and never hurt. The words of his love come back to me.

  I rub my arms and that’s when I notice the cashmere tux jacket still wrapped around me. But its owner is nowhere around. “Thatcher…did you see where the man who was with me went?”

  “No, I didn’t. Sorry.” She returns to her bookkeeping.

  Shit, I don't even have a working phone to ring him. He was with me till the end of the surgery. He couldn’t have gone far. I spin on my heels—thankfully, no stumbles this time—and run to the parking lot, breathing the hugest sigh of relief when I spot him beeping open his car.

  “Thatcher! Wait! Please…” I implore him and he stills.

  “Iris?” He glimpses over, warmth and relief washing over his features.

  He welcomes me with an outstretched arm, and I run straight into the haven he has to offer.

  “My prince charming…” I mutter to myself.

  “I heard that.” He laughs, an amused throaty laugh, but steps back. “I have one more thing for you.”

  I tip my head. “Thatcher, you’ve done so much. Please, no, I can’t—”

  He tears a button off his handcrafted, luxury tuxedo shirt. “I heard you. You said you needed a spare button, a spare phone, and a spare job. With me, you will have all three and so much more. Please…Iris…I knew from the moment you crashed into my life that I was meant to be yours. Right here to hear you and to help you and to love you. Please, be mine forever, Iris. Marry me and be my family, forever.” He holds out the button. It’s not a ring, and I’m totally okay with that. I’ll need to get used to his generosity and spirit, things I was missing in my life.

  I dig my face into his chest before quickly pushing myself up on my toes and surprise kissing him with every ounce of my being. I have a few surprises, too, Mr. Scott.

  “I love you. And yes, I’ll be your family…forever.”

  Epilogue

  Thatcher

  Lights off. Check. Cozy blankets. Check. Caramel popcorn bowls. Check. Four seats occupied. Check.

  “Show time!” Our three-year-old, Charlie, giggles, adjusting his electric recliner, and snuggling beside his grandpa in the movie theatre of what many would call a mansion, but we simple call home.

  It used to be a typical media room. But ever since my princess came into my life, our joint love for movies meant the media room sprawled into a mini theatre. Our very own Phenomenon! screen at home. Little wonder that our little boy has turned out to be such a movie buff too, with Friday nights becoming his favorite and he has to call out “Show time!” every time.

  About halfway into the movie, Iris’s finished with her bucket, and leans over to steal my popcorn. We tussle for a bit—like we generally do—when I catch a peek of the creamy curve of the roundness of her breast through the halter top she’s wearing. A sexy blouse I purchased for her a month ago on a trip. I like to surprise her with small gifts, even if she says I shouldn’t.

  I should.

  I rub my jawline, feeling the instant hit of arousal. Fifteen seconds later, I know. Nah, there’s no way I’ll last the whole movie.

  She notices my sly grin and matches it with a sly flicker of her eyebrows.

  “We’ll be back,” I pitch a whisper to her dad—our wingman—who knows the drill. He lives in a small house I had built in the back of the main house. It’s two bedrooms so Charlie stays with him a couple nights a week getting as much Grandpa-time as he wants.

  And we slip out for our own private adult time. Four years ago, I bumped into Iris outside the bathroom. Months later, we started a beautiful marriage and two months later an amazing little boy decided to be a part of our lives.

  And I’m just as hard for her today as I was then.

  Buttons…phones…and the hope of a new…life…it’s all it took to make me fall and every day, I fall again.

  She’s mine and now…it’s show time.

  ~THE END~

  If you liked Iris’s story, you’ll love the next book in the series—

  GOING DOWN! And stick around for an exclusive sneak peek!

  Be sure to join The Crew newsletter to find out when the release is coming in July and how to be the first to read it!

  Hugs and kisses, Ally

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  Come be part of her Fan Crew and get sneak peeks, updates on books, special giveaways, and more!

  ALLY’s FAN CREW

  Ally loves to hear from every reader.

  You can email her at allycrewauthor@gmail.com

  Easy Caramel Popcorn

  Iris sure did love caramel popcorn, but who can blame here—it’s a delicious and decadent treat—just like Thatcher. Here’s a recipe that I use and it only takes about 10 minutes!

  Easy Caramel Popcorn

  Prep: 5 minutes

  Cook Time: 7-8 minutes

  Servings: 2 —or one if you’re like me and love popcorn!~ Brynn :-)

  Ingredients:

  1 large brown paper bag

  2 quarts of popped popcorn (microwave is fine, but I’ve found that air popped holds up a little better to the hot caramel)

  1/2 cup brown sugar

  1/4 unsalted butter (1/2 stick)

  1/2 tsp of salt

  1/8 cup light corn syrup

  1/4 tsp baking soda

  1/2 tsp of vanilla

  Directions:

  1. Add the popped popcorn to a large paper grocery bag—make sure it’s clean!

  2. Grease a baking sheet with a good spray of nonstick cooking spray.

  3. In a medium saucepan, combine brown sugar, butter, salt, and corn syrup. Bring to a boil over high heat, stirring frequently.

  4. When the mixture is at a rolling boil, set a timer for 1 minute and don’t touch it.

  5. Remove from heat, stir in the baking soda, it will bubble and foam up, so be prepared!

  6. Add the vanilla and stir like your life depends on it until well incorporated and smooth.

  7. Immediately pour the caramel sauce over the popcorn in the bag. Stir the popcorn in with the sauce for a few turns.

  8. Fold the top of the bag down, securing it firmly. Place the bag in the microwave and microwave for 1 minute.

  9. Take it out and shake the heck out of it! Keep the top folded down to ensure all goodness stays inside.

  10. Put it back into the microwave and cook for 1 more minute.

  11. Shake again and shake some more!

  12. Pour the popcorn out onto the prepared baking sheet, breaking up any chunks.

  13. Let cool for a couple minutes, then enjoy!

  Hope you enjoy! <3 Ally and Brynn

  GOING DOWN-Sneak Peak!

  1

  Stella

  I sweep the tabletop of crumbs with five flat neat strokes and stare out the front window. My reflection bounces back a happines
s that’s part façade and part routine.

  “Stella, my girl, you’re a creature of habit, just like the sun,” my dad would often say. He always used sunny adjectives to describe me—sunny smile, sunlit cheeks, ray of sunshine. However, as I wave goodbye to the last customers of the afternoon, and make my way back to the cash register, the sunny smile fades from my face and the fake happiness sinks to my gut. The feeling reminds me of the plunging sun on doomsday book covers. Ominous. Never to rise again.

  And I wonder if that same fate awaits our family café too. A venture that bears more than just the family’s name. Dad took his life savings and started a few businesses to open up jobs for our friendly community going on twenty years ago. And this café, now my baby as the manager, has become the town’s personal favorite.

  Since the very first day the open sign turned, my parents poured their heart into every frothy cup of black sunshine. And gifted their souls to make each customer feel welcome. Naturally, it was a moment of pride when my heels stepped in to assume my spot at the top, as hostess and manager.

  Six months have now passed, and the deposits are less and less each day. My coffee and espresso drinks are still to die for – as a coffee aficionado I know it, I drink them daily. My peppy spirits still draw them in. I’ve been told as much, by almost everyone - young and old, the regulars and the newbies. But that doesn’t seem to be enough to stop the grim shadows of darkness falling on our enterprise, threatening to eclipse us completely. Shadows that only seem to be getting darker, longer and more monstrous in nature—in the form of a new coffee shop—a chain store, no less.

  “Not only do we charge less… we pay our employees more!” the proprietor of the chain store had mentioned in the local paper interview.

  Ugh.

  If I could match that deal, I would. Slashing prices on the menu, upping the bonuses of the kitchen staff and gaining a lot of brownie points with clients and crew alike sounds sweet-n-swell—as long as we can keep the doors open. With our profit margins tight as it is, anything tighter means we would suffocate.

  I watch a group of people stop by to peep at the ‘deals’ on our shopfront window, and then walk past. No doubt toward the new coffee shop. With a sigh, I pick up the trays from the counter and head into the kitchen.

  Maybe I need to have a brief chat with the new café owner? Read his pulse for what the hell his plans are. He’s bought-out a shop down the road, and I heard through the small town grapevine that he plans to buy one on the other side of the community, near the highway for that traffic. I can feel the tidal wave slowly coming in, towards us. I can see it, but I don’t know if I can get to higher ground to avoid it.

  But like dad always said, “If you can’t win them with your pie, win them with your smile.” Can’t hurt to try to talk some common sense into the man. He can’t be that hardheaded not to see what he’ll do to the little guy.

  But I’ve often found common sense is something sorely lacking these days.

  I flip off the lights. I’m afraid soon it will be for the last time.

  My heels clatter against the shiny hardwood planks of the fourth floor of the most expensive high-rise downtown as I walk past a series of fancy metal sculptures. I have to cross another stretch of glitzy glass walls ten feet tall, before I get to his lair.

  Obviously, the ‘pay more-charge less’ boss isn’t going to have his office at a modest little industrial mall or the back of his shop, like we do. No, he’s going big and part of it makes me feel small. And that’s something I’ve never been. My generous curves and roundness garners a fair share of looks from men, and some from women, too. But I like my body and I won’t change it for anyone.

  Don’t like it. Don’t look.

  I’ve been too involved in my career to make an effort to find a partner in life. And I’m not sure I want to either. Life is complicated enough, adding another person into the crazy well, that might just be crazy.

  And not common sense.

  I finally stop at a chunky dark cherrywood door that screams ‘powerful’, but in very suave tones. Fuck, how could a door be so overpowering?

  Stella, for Pete’s sake, you’re 25, not 5!

  I push my shoulders back, tidying up a few golden highlights spilling over my ivory sleeves.

  This might be a dog-eat-dog world. But sometimes, it’s the little dogs that are the toughest. Yeah, I’ve repeated that mantra a few times already. Yet, somehow, I’m edgily plucking out a mirror from my purse to make sure I don’t have bright red lipstick dots on my teeth.

  “Impressions count,” I murmur to myself, remembering my father’s sage words.

  My pupils hover over the brass nameplate. Cash Drexel, CEO. I memorize the name—not difficult, since even his name has the connotation of money built right in.

  “Cash Drexel,” I say it again, taking an odd liking to the sound of it as it rolls down my tongue. Somehow, it doesn’t fit the picture of the potbellied bespectacled honcho in the local newspaper.

  Drawing a deep yoga-styled breath in, I knock.

  For a whole minute I hear nothing back and just as I’m raising my knuckles, “Come in,” a deep voice finally responds.

  I twist the knob and enter, letting the door shut behind me quietly. At first glance, I’m struck by an expanse of the lushest beige carpet I’ve seen. And as my gaze rolls up, to the opposite end of the room—which seems far enough to be considered another continent—I spot the silhouette of a man. He looks tall against the window frame he’s standing by, his hands in his pockets, his attention to the view of the town on the outside.

  “Mr. Drexel?” I clear my throat.

  The man darts an unhurried peek over his shoulder.

  My breaths unexpectedly pause, as I’m met with a pair of caramel eyes glistening against the soft light. Damn, this man is definitely not the potbellied bespectacled honcho I’ve imagined from the papers. But, the one glance is enough to tell me he owns this place. This place, and everything inside it. Everything.

  His raven black hair is gelled back in neat strokes, and a finely-trimmed beard contours his sharp jawline, finishing off the whiskered-businessman look to perfection. Complementing those fine attributes are a set of sharp features that look like they’ve been etched by a skilled sculptor. The rest of him is quite striking too, a fit frame beneath a sublime smoky-colored suit. Double damn.

  My body tickles low in my belly and my mouth dries.

  With rampant thoughts in my head—the prepared speeches and punchlines having come to a screeching halt—my mind scrambles to come up with the first few lines.

  “I’m Stella Stone…” is all I can choke out.

  He turns around and approaches me, his loafers halting five inches from the tips of my heels. His eyes refuse to release mine. Instead, they drop down to my lips, past my neck and my curves, before flicking back up to my face.

  Shit. My breaths that’d paused a few seconds ago, come to a complete standstill now. Is this brazen greeting reserved for all female visitors who walk through that cherrywood door? Or, only for a few select ones?

  “Well, hello, Ms. Stone.” He finally removes a hand from his pocket and holds it out, as if he’d been waiting to catch that ‘out-of-breath’ response on me. “Cash Drexel.” A sleek smile tilts his lips into full and beckoning ruby red pillows.

  With no warning whatsoever a flutter goes off in my chest, the effects instantly zipping right down to my warm core. Sure, it’s the first time I’m squaring my shoulders against a CEO. But I can’t imagine feeling this way against any other man, CEO or not.

  I clear my throat. “I spoke to your sec…” The words crackle, betraying how the heat of his stares have sponged my throat dry. “I spoke to your secretary…”

  As I take his extended hand, I’m hyper-aware of how hard his palm feels against mine.

  It’s a fricking handshake -stop acting like a high-schooler.

  And that’s when I realize the handshake’s lasted a little—a lot—longer than mo
st handshakes do. I retract my hand quickly and give my senses a hard jolt to try and recall the speeches I rehearsed. “My…my family are the Stones…” I reiterate, in case he hadn’t picked it up during my introduction.

  I wait for the hint of recognition in his smile. I see nothing. The man is a steel trap. And that’s another blow to my ego. Can’t even affect a man anymore.

  “Well, we’re very popular among the locals.” I over emphasize on the word ‘very’ and feel like I’m saying that we’re running a brothel. “We’ve invested a lifetime and our lifesavings building up this town,” I say speedily to try to counteract my faux pas.

  “I see…” He shrugs after hearing me out, clearly not all that impressed by my speech. If judging by the glint in his look, he’s fascinated by the shape of my lips rather than the words leaving them.

  I pause for a bit. He’s making me too edgy. And he’s feasting on my edginess. Somehow, I’m unable to stop him from doing either.

  Bundling up my scattered nerves, I continue, “My dad - he’s touched many lives, sponsored and shored up their businesses with funds, and made their dreams come true. His only dream is the café in town, few doors across from your brand new ‘coffee shop’.” I stick my fingers up displaying air quotes. I’m trying not to be shy about the fact that I don’t consider his “coffee shop” a coffee shop.

  I clear my throat and straighten my back, throwing out my chest in the process and I again see very little change in his demeanor. “In our family café, we remember how each one of our regulars prefers his or her unique brew, and the locals appreciate us for that. We acknowledge people for what they are—individuals. We don’t see them as numbers. Your fancy coffee shop cannot replicate that sentiment with its get-them-in, send-them-out M.O., can it?”

  His skewed smile steadily evolves into a full-blown smirk. “You don’t see them as numbers? I like numbers… especially the ones I see…” His baritone timbre dips as his eyes scan my body. “Thirty-six-twenty-four-thirty-six…am I right?”