From Ashes To Flames
Page 33
We parted ways and Wiley and I headed home.
But I had to admit, my curiosity over Dick’s owner was growing. She did seem to be the kind of woman who like to have a good time. I wondered if that extended to the between the sheets kind of fun.
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* * *
Website
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annie@amhargrove.com
* * *
For Other Books by A.M. Hargrove visit www.amhargrove.com or my Amazon page.
* * *
From Ashes to Flames (A West Brothers Novel #1)
From Ice to Flames (A West Brothers Novel #2 late July 2018 Click here for LIVE ALERT)
From Smoke to Flames (A West Brothers Novel #3 November 2018–Click here for a LIVE Alert)
For The Love of English
For The Love of A Sexy Geek (The Vault)
I’ll Be Waiting (The Vault)
A Special Obsession (The Men Of Crestview #1)
Chasing Vivi (The Men of Crestview #2)
Craving Midnight (The Men of Crestview #3)
* * *
The Wilde Players Dirty Romance Series:
Sidelined
Fastball
Hooked
The Wilde Players Dirty Romance Series Boxed Set
Worth Every Risk
* * *
A Beautiful Sin
* * *
The Cruel and Beautiful Series:
Cruel and Beautiful
A Mess of a Man
One Wrong Choice
* * *
The Edge Series:
Edge of Disaster
Shattered Edge
Kissing Fire
* * *
The Tragic Series:
Tragically Flawed, Tragic 1
Tragic Desires, Tragic 2
* * *
The Hart Brothers Series:
Freeing Her, Book 1
Freeing Him, Book 2
Kestrel, Book 3
The Fall and Rise of Kade Hart, Book 4
* * *
Sabin, A Seven Novel
* * *
The Guardians of Vesturon Series
Acknowledgments
I start with the readers because you make it all happen. Without you, there wouldn’t be a book world. End. Of. Story. So THANK YOU with everything in my heart. I hope you loved Grey and Marnie! Grey was in bad shape but Marin had the fortitude to straighten him out. That’s what women do, right? Look out for Hudson’s story coming next—From Ice To Flames. I think you’ll love this one. Thanks again for taking a chance on me—I love you all.
Terri E. Laine—my book wifey—there aren’t enough words. Even though we act like an old married couple, I love you to the stars and back and you’re vanilla to my chocolate. A day without you is a day without the sun.
Ashley, Heather, and Kristie. Oh, man, you guys killed it. Grey was an ass and you helped make him a much better ass, if there is such a thing. I love you ladies and wouldn’t know what to do without your brutal honesty, your awesome critiquing, and your amazing help. THANK YOU!
Amy Jennings—you have brightened up my world and enhanced my travel life. With or without RARE, I love you to pieces. Italy, here we come!
Harloe Rae—thank you for all your help and I know my questions were enough to drive you crazy but your patience was greatly appreciated. I hope to meet you someday and share some adult beverages.
Also, a HUGE thank you to Sejla and Selma Ibrahimpasic my amazing tour guides who showed our group around Vienna. They were the ones who introduced us to the catacombs beneath St. Stephen’s cathedral, which was the inspiration for this story. And if you’re wondering, they are definitely creepy.
Ellie McLove and Petra Gleason—thank you ladies for your mad editing skills. You make a fabulous team and I totally appreciate you!
Letitia Hasser at Romantic Book Affairs for the amazing cover. Every time I send you a photo, I’m always giddy when I get the cover back. Your talent is beyond words.
To all the bloggers and reviewers who made it happen with this book—you guys rock! Thank you so much for all your help!
One last word—I am so thrilled to be a part of the romance world. This amazingly talented group of writers, who lift each other up and offer each other assistance, are such a blessing. I cannot express this enough. It is simply overwhelming to be a part of this great group of women. Thank you to everyone!
Playlist
(Spotify links)
Leaving California—Maroon 5
Piece By Piece—Kelly Clarkson
My Heart Is Open—Maroon 5, Gwen Stefani
I Won’t Give Up — Jason Mraz
Forever Young—Rod Stewart
Can’t Stop The Feeling—Justin Timberlake
September Song—Agnes Obel
Lost Stars—Adam Levine
The Conversation—Mat Kearney, Young Summer
Shasta—Mat Kearney
Summertime Romance—Johnnyswim
Wicked Game—Johnnyswim
Cry of The Celts (with taps)—Ronan Hardiman
CLEAR—NEEDTOBREATHE
Slow It Down—The Goo Goo Dolls
Brand New—Ben Rector
Sneak Peek of For The Love of English
* * *
Single Dad, Beckley Bridges, is gorgeous.
No, really, he’s the hottest thing since the sun was created.
Honest to God, crack an egg on him and the thing will sizzle.
So what’s the problem?
He’s also a gigantic jerk.
I hate the bastard.
I try to avoid him at all costs.
But for some reason, everywhere I go he seems to show up.
* * *
Only the real issue is his daughter, English.
She’s an adorable quirky first-grader who’s the sweetest thing since iced tea.
And she’s one of my students but also the love of his life.
So I have to deal with him on a professional level.
It’s not easy.
On a scale of easy to hard, dealing with Beckley Bridges is like nails screeching across a blackboard.
* * *
But when English’s mother tries to gain custody after abandoning her on Beckley’s doorstep as an infant, he’ll do anything possible to keep her under his roof.
* * *
That’s how he ends up propositioning me.
* * *
And crazy as it sounds?
* * *
I find myself considering it.
* * *
To buy For The Love of English, click here.
Prologue—Beck
About Six Years Ago
“Beck, you’d better get in here.”
It’s still dark, but then again, it is December and the sun won’t rise until seven thirty. But I’m home for Christmas break, so why is my dad waking me up so damn early?
“What?” I groan.
“Just get your butt out of bed and get in here. Now.”
When he uses that tone, I know not to argue. So I drag my ass out of my warm and toasty bed and shuffle into the kitchen. My parents stand by the island, looking into a large cardboard box as my mother stuffs a letter into my hands.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but it was on top of this.” She points at the box.
“A Christmas gift?” he asks. “A little early.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s earl
y if I were you,” my dad answers.
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I attempt to clear my head. I’d partied hard last night. All the guys got together as they usually did when everyone came in town from college. I barely remember what time I came home last night.
“Can someone tell me what this is all about?”
All of a sudden, a baby starts crying.
My mother says, “Well, we were hoping you could shed a little light on this.”
“Whose baby is that?” I ask.
“Beck, read the damn letter!” My father’s patience comes to an end. “It was in the box with the baby on the front porch. I walked outside to get the paper, and there it sat. Now, read the letter so we can get some answers.”
I look at the envelope in his hand. Sure enough, my name is scrawled across it. I tear open the seal and pull out a folded page of paper, the kind with the lines you tear off from a spiral notebook. I rub my fingers across those little tags left behind because suddenly I’m scared, totally freaked out. I don’t want to read what’s on this piece of paper.
Raising my eyes, I instantly feel five years old again when the accusatory gazes of my parents drill holes into me. I swallow, but my saliva has taken a hike to places unknown.
In a soft voice, Mom urges, “Beck.”
Nodding, I unfold the paper and read.
* * *
Beck,
I tried. I really did. But it was too much. So I’m giving her to you. She was a lot more than I bargained for. If you don’t want her, then you can give her up for adoption. In the box under her blankets, you’ll find the legal papers, signed by a lawyer and me, which give total custody to you. I’ve given up all legal rights to her. If you’re wondering, she was conceived homecoming night at the fraternity party in November our freshman year. I doubt you even remember since we were both drunk. I don’t blame you, as the fault was mine as much as yours. On the documents, you’ll find my name. I’m sure you will follow up with DNA testing, which I encourage you to do. But you are her father, as you were the only one I was with. In the envelope with her legal documents, I’ve also enclosed her medical records. She is healthy—if you’re wondering. That’s not why I’m leaving her with you. And so you know, I couldn’t go through with the abortion I scheduled.
I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t cut out for motherhood.
Abby
* * *
I’m completely stunned, frozen.
“Well?” Dad asks. I hand over the letter. And then I somehow summon up the courage to peek into the box and get my first glimpse of my daughter—the daughter whose name I don’t even know. The deepest blue-green eyes lock onto my own, and I can’t breathe for what seems like an eternity. Because I’m staring into a mirror. All I want to do is touch her, but I’m scared to death. I’ve never held a baby before. Will I hurt her? Is she fragile?
“Go on. Pick her up, Beck,” Mom says.
My shaking arms reach for her, and her pink blankets fall away to unveil a tiny body encased in a pale pink one-piece suit as her arms and legs flail about. Her small head is layered in pale fuzz, and I rub my cheek against it. It’s the softest stuff I’ve ever felt, and I don’t want to let her go.
“Well, kiddo, looks like you got yourself a kid,” my father grumbles.
Mom chuckles and says, “Looks like you’ve got yourself a granddaughter.”
“Dad, did you read the letter?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“Will you check her medical records? I want to know her name.”
Dad ruffles some papers around, and he finally says, “Hmm. Says here it’s English. English Beckley Bridges.”
“English.” What the hell am I gonna do with a baby?
Suddenly, a loud sounding prrrft escapes as I feel the vibrations on my hand. The room fills with a noxious odor.
“Ugh, what’s that?” I ask.
Dad laughs, roots around in the box, and hands me a plastic pad. “I know one thing you’re gonna be doing. Looks like you’re gonna be changing a diaper. Make that plural.” I hear him laughing all the way down the hall.
* * *
One
Sheridan—Present Day
My scrutinizing glance takes in all the trimmings and accessories I’ve strategically placed on every wall, looking for any little fault I can find. There isn’t much left of my nails as I chew them down to the quick while I analyze my decorating skills. I frown, admitting to myself it’s apparent why I chose the profession I did. No doubt my roommate would waltz in here and have a dozen or more ideas on how to make this room much more appealing to the eye. She’d probably recommend hand-sewn decorative pillows strewn about with lavish artwork hung on the walls and those cool things you see on Pinterest made out of used pallets. And most likely, she’d have all new desks made out of them with little cubbyholes for pencils and slots for books. Unfortunately, my budget and time won’t allow for that. My stomach quivers in anticipation, but why shouldn’t it? It’s the first day of school. My very first day. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for and working toward my whole life. Okay, maybe not my whole life, but whatever. In a few minutes, twenty-two six-year-old kids will be running through the door, minds like sponges, and if I’m not prepared to be the very best sponge filler in the world to them, I will forever destroy their love and zest for learning.
Melodramatic much? Maybe. I am a first grade teacher, and it’s my overwhelming duty to offer them a chance to love school. If I fail, they will hate school forever, and it will all be on my shoulders. And to top it all off, this is my very first day as a bona fide teacher. I just graduated from college, so this is it. My chance to change the world! My dream job, my career, and my path I’ve chosen.
Clearing out the toxic carbon dioxide, I fill my eager lungs with a dump truck load of fresh oxygen. And then I hear them. The pounding of minuscule feet on tiled floors and the screaming of young voices. In the midst of all that, I can hear Susan Jorgensen, the principal, telling the children to calm down and line up, single file in the hall. I stifle a giggle because I can remember hearing those very same words from my own principal. The door swings open, and Susan sticks her head inside.
“Miss Monroe, are you ready to meet your new students?”
“I am.” I cross my fingers and pray.
She holds the door open, and a line of kids, resembling marching ants, walks into the room. A smile replaces my frown, and I can’t help but feel the excitement replace my anxiety. They look scared to death, but if cute could be a picture, it would be lined up in front of me. Oh. My. God. How can I not fall in love with every single one of these mites? I am going to be mashed potatoes with them.
“Good morning, everyone. My name is Miss Monroe, and I’m going to be your teacher this year. How is everyone today?”
One little boy immediately pops a thumb into his mouth, and his bottom jaw goes to town. A few of the girls offer me a shy grin, and a couple of the boys look around and don’t give me the time of day. Susan catches my eye, points to the door, and heads out. I have prearranged seating, so I go to the front row and start calling out names and seating the children. When I’m about halfway down the second row, I get to the name, English Bridges, and no one responds, so I keep on. I have about three-quarters of the students seated when the door bursts open, and a woman, who is perhaps in her late forties, stands with a child clinging to her neck.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but is this the first grade classroom?” she asks out of breath.
“Yes, it is,” I answer, smiling. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry we’re late. I’m Anna Bridges, and this is English. English Bridges.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Would you mind if I had a word in the hall with you?”
I glance at the unseated students and say, “Can you give me a couple of minutes to seat the rest of the students?”
“Sure.” I watch her exit and then finish with the rest of the children.
“Now, a
ll of you remain in your seats, and I’ll be right back. Remember, no getting out of your seats. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” they all answer. I walk into the hallway, and Anna Bridges stands there, still holding English.
“Is English all right?” I ask.
Anna rolls her eyes at me. Of course, English can’t see her. I wonder what this is all about.
“She’s fine. She just has a case of I-don’t-want-to-go-to-school, but I told her that if she didn’t come, she would grow up to be intellectually challenged.”
I hear a muffled voice say, “I will not be intellectually challenged. I’m smart. You said so. I can learn on those school videos I see on TV.”
Hmm. This one’s quite precocious, so I ask, “But, English, wouldn’t you miss out on making friends and having all sorts of fun at school?”
“School’s not fun.”
“Hmm. Didn’t you like kindergarten?”
“Yes,” she mumbles.
“Then how do you know you won’t like first grade if you’ve never been?”
Her shoulders practically meet her ears as she gives me an exaggerated shrug.
“Tell you what. Why don’t you try it for a week? Then you can decide if you like it or not.”