by CJ Roberts
He grinned. “Good. That’s my plan.” He shut off her response with lips that were firm and blessedly familiar. His tongue teased her a moment as cheers rang down around them. Sara felt her whole body lighten. Could this possibly be happening?
She broke the kiss, took a deep breath, placed her hand in his and nodded, as tears slipped down her cheeks. If it were possible, the room got even louder. Sara couldn’t hear anything but Jack as he slipped the obnoxious ring onto her finger then took her in his arms and kissed so deeply her head spun.
“You won’t regret it Sara,” he finally said, lips against her ear. “I promise. You can trust me. I promise that too.”
He took her hand, and they faced the now standing group. The fact that the words “I love you,” were on her lips but unsaid did not escape her rattled brain, but there was time enough for that later. Her eyes scanned the crowd and she saw that Blake had left and that Craig was the only one not standing. He remained seated, legs still sprawled in front of him, arm hooked over the back of his chair, staring at Sara with unasked questions in his eyes.
She wiped her wet face. Then with a smile to the roomful of her colleagues, she gave Jack a peck on the cheek, and a slap on the ass to the delight of all then returned to her seat. Her face burned and the enormous diamond felt heavy on her finger.
“I’d say, ‘get a room you two’, but from what I understand, you don’t usually require one,” Greg Stewart bellowed into the microphone causing a fresh round of laughter as Sara rolled her eyes and sat not meeting Craig’s eyes.
He leaned over to her. “Congratulations and good luck.” He pressed a soft kiss on her cheek, rose and left the room. Sara squeezed her eyes shut for a second, realizing she’d likely made the sort of fork-in-the-road decision one should not make in public. She was beyond pissed at Jack for putting her in such a spot.
Pats on her back and a table full of friends wanting to see her ring brought her back to the room as she stared at the gem on her left hand ring finger. Smiling at the man she had agreed to marry in front of two hundred of her nearest and dearest, including ten or fifteen intensely jealous women, her mind spun but her heart sang as it resumed something resembling a normal rhythm.
Sara took deep breaths, let thoughts of weddings and dealing with her parents flit in and out of her head. When Jack looked straight at her during his presentation and winked she surprised herself by blowing him a kiss. Maybe this would be fine after all. Plenty of time for the “I love you’s” later.
She watched as her fiancée put the final flourishes on his presentation, descended the podium, and sat in the chair Craig had vacated. He leaned into her ear. “I love you Sara. Thank you.” He kissed her hand then turned around to listen to the rest of the meeting, leaving her speechless and, for the first time since laying eyes on him, truly happy.
Want the whole Stewart Realty saga from the beginning?
Continue to follow Jack and Sara in:
Sweat Equity
Closing Costs
Then read Blake, Lila, and Rob’s story:
Essence of Time
Find out about Maureen and Rafe (and the aftermath of Essence of Time) in:
Escalation Clause
Go back in time and read about Jack Gordon’s history in:
House Rules
Then get caught up in Evan and Julie’s exciting journey:
Mutual Release
Catch up with everyone’s journey as partners and parents in:
Good Faith
Finally, don’t forget about Jack Gordon’s latest project, Detroit’s hottest new soccer team, The Black Jack Gentlemen:
The Black Jack Gentlemen series:
Man On (The Black Jack Gentlemen Book 1)
Red Card (The Black Jack Gentlemen Book 2)
Shut Out (The Black Jack Gentlemen Book 3)
All Books on Amazon
About Liz Crowe
Amazon best-selling author, beer blogger and beer marketing expert, mom of three, and soccer fan, Liz lives in the great Midwest, in a major college town. She has decades of experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as a three-continent, ex-pat trailing spouse. While working as a successful Realtor, Liz made the leap into writing novels about the same time she agreed to take on marketing and sales for the Wolverine State Brewing Company.
Most days find her sweating inventory and sales figures for the brewery, unless she’s writing, editing or sweating promotional efforts for her latest publications.
Her early forays into the publishing world led to a groundbreaking fiction subgenre, “Romance for Real Life,” which has gained thousands of fans and followers interested less in the “HEA” and more in the “WHA” (“What Happens After?”). More recently she is garnering even more fans across genres with her latest novels, which are more character-driven fiction, while remaining very much “real life.”
With stories set in the not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch, in successful real estate offices and many times in exotic locales like Istanbul, Turkey, her books are unique and told with a fresh voice. The Liz Crowe backlist has something for any reader seeking complex storylines with humor and complete casts of characters that will delight, frustrate, and linger in the imagination long after the book is finished.
If you are in the Ann Arbor area, be sure and stop into the Wolverine State Brewing Co. Tap Room—but don’t ask her for anything “like” a Bud Light, or risk serious injury.
Find Liz online at the following places:
Website:
www.lizcrowe.com
Writing Blog:
www.brewingpassion.com
Beer Blog:
www.a2beerwench.com
Twitter:
www.twitter.com/beerwencha2
FB Author Page:
www.facebook.com/lizcroweauthor
FB Fan Page:
www.facebook.com/groups/Lizcrowefans/
Break Me Slowly
Joya Ryan
1
“You need to breathe, Katelyn, otherwise you’re going to pass out and I sure as hell am not hauling your ass all the way to campus myself.”
I bounced in the four-inch heels, which I’d borrowed from Megan and were a half size too small. The expensive torture devices were currently cutting into my little toe.
“What do you mean, all the way to campus? It’s right across the street.” My order came up and I grabbed my soy latte.
“It’s still too far to drag you.” Megan took a sip of her coffee. Her sun-kissed skin and platinum blond hair made her look more like a beach babe than a city girl. “You just need to take a deep breath…” Megan inhaled deeply and locked her brown eyes on me, expecting me to mimic her. So I sucked a breath in through my nose and released it through my mouth. Every draft of oxygen calmed the familiar hum of anxiety pulsing through my veins.
“Good,” Megan said in a soothing voice she had picked up from all those yoga videos she forced me to watch—and participate in—with her.
Despite making me exercise, she was amazing. Ever since second grade, when Bridget Burgess pushed me off the monkey bars, slinging a string of insults directed at everything from my ratty clothes to my white-trash mother and effectively throwing me into my first panic attack, Megan had stood up for me. From the age of seven, she had always been there, reminding me to breathe and trying her damnedest to keep me from the brink of a meltdown.
“You’re going to be great today, Katelyn. You’re one of the top students in the program and the professor is going to love you.”
“Thanks, Meg.”
We stepped out into the busy downtown Chicago morning. Traffic was booming. The cool September weather was crisp and carried the smells of gasoline and pastries fresh out of the oven. This time of year, when red and yellow leaves blew past the skyscrapers like tiny flecks of paint, was my favorite.
Megan held out her hand. She knew I wasn’t a hugger. People coming into my personal space made me uneasy, no m
atter how much I trusted them. And there was no one I trusted more than Megan. But having lived for years with my mother’s fists and nails coming at me, I shied away from any physical contact.
Reaching out, I took her hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. “Remember, if anyone gives you trouble, gets too close, or you feel like you’re on the brink of a panic attack—”
“I know. I need to breathe.”
She nodded. “And if that doesn’t work, you just give their face a high five and run.”
I laughed. Megan wasn’t the only person who knew about my past, but she was the only one who was aware of how it affected me.
“I’ll see you tonight. Good luck!” Megan’s hand slid from mine and she walked toward my uncle’s real estate firm.
We had graduated last summer with our undergrad degrees. Megan now worked for my uncle, Tim St. Roy, while I’d made the choice to return to school and go for my master’s in sociology. Two more years of school and volunteering at the Children’s Home and I’d be on the fast track to being a full-fledged social worker.
With every step, the clicking of my pumps on concrete sent a shiver up my calves. But when my heel got momentarily stuck in a crack in the pavement, I faltered. One of these days I would have to learn to walk in these damn shoes without looking like a stumbling drunk person.
I ran a hand through my red curls, trying to tame them—not working—and continued my trek toward the university.
Graduate school had been tough to get into, but when the opportunity to T.A. for the head of the sociology department opened up, I’d jumped at the chance.
Clutching my coffee, I fished my cell phone out of my purse to check the time—
A horn blared and headlights flashed.
A shriek caught in my throat as I stared down a black town car coming straight at me. Brakes screeched, I jumped, and my coffee tumbled down the front of me.
The car stopped abruptly, just inches from my toes. Air finally found its way from my lungs as I struggled to breathe. Almost being crushed by oncoming traffic was not my ideal way to start the week. I stood dazed in the middle of the street, into which I hadn’t even realized I had walked.
“Are you all right?” The driver stood by his door. He was older and outfitted in a black hat and jacket. The chauffeur.
Looking down at my ruined blouse, I slowly nodded. My knees shook as I made my way back to the sidewalk. Once I stepped up on the curb, my body relaxed a bit. The driver got into the car, pulled up alongside me, and parked.
“Miss?”
Standing outside the back passenger door was a man dressed in a three-piece, steel-gray suit and dark purple tie. His eyes were like frosted ocean water, two icebergs shinning at me.
His black hair was thick and coiffed perfectly in a rugged yet professional way that made my heart beat harder.
The driver stayed behind the wheel this time while the sinfully corporate-looking man walked toward me on the sidewalk. Those intense eyes never left my face.
“You should watch where you’re going.”
“I…” I looked up at him. Even in Megan’s four-inch heels, he towered over me. Jesus, he had to be pushing six-three.
He was close enough that I could smell him. Crisp and clean and amazing. He radiated power and confidence, from his broad shoulders to his lean hips. Who knew suits could look so good on a man. Every stitch molded over him perfectly. His strength was very apparent even through the layers of expensive fabric.
“Are you all right?” His voice was deep, but this time, there was a slight rasp when he spoke.
“I’m fine. Thank you.” A tremor slipped out and coated my voice.
“Can I offer you anything?” He looked down my body. Heat rushed over me. Shifting my weight, I tried to get a grip on my hectic heart rate. I knew I was staring—primarily at his mouth. It was thick and firm.
His gaze slid over me again. When it focused on my breasts, I inhaled sharply. Men had looked at me before, but none as blatantly as this. That heat that was pulsing? It surged so hot that my bloodstream caught fire.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, then realized he was really looking at the soy latte splattered all over the front of me.
Damn!
“I—I’ve got to go. I’m late.” And now I needed to find a new shirt.
Anger decided to spark just then, and irritation that this man—this sexy, sleek man—had interfered and made me feel all…weird.
Even though it was I who had walked into the street—and I who was lingering like a goon, undressing him with my eyes. Still! This morning was turning to hell quickly, and standing in the middle of downtown Chicago looking like a rumpled mess and being stared down by Mr. GQ was not helping.
“I must insist on giving you a ride.”
I glared at him. Hating how cool and calm he was. Hating that he was standing there like chiseled perfection while my hair was frizzing by the second and the sugar from my coffee was sticking to my chest. A moment ago I had been keenly aware of all his earth-shattering attributes. I had never paid any man such attention before. But that was drowned out by the awareness of my own shortcomings and general lack of grace.
I was a twenty-three-year-old virgin, a fact I rarely gave thought to, but for the first time, I felt like it was written all over my face. The second dose of heat that burned through me was much different than the first.
Shame.
Embarrassment flooded me and I just wanted to get away from this moment. Adrenaline was crashing. I needed to run. From him. From this whole situation.
“I don’t take rides from strangers.” The Walk light was now flashing across the street.
“What is your name?”
My gaze landed back on him. “Katelyn.”
“Well, Katelyn, I really must insist on giving you a ride.” The way he said my name made a shiver roll across my back.
“No need, I’m just right there.” I pointed to the university and moved in step with the foot traffic and crossed the street.
Careful not to look back.
I snatched a shirt from the campus bookstore on my way in. While it didn’t go with my heels and pencil skirt, it was dry. When I walked into Professor Martin’s office, he eyed me with confusion.
“Well, I admire your school spirit,” he said, his belly rumbling with each word. A brown sweater vest atop a tan button-down and chocolate corduroys completed Professor Martin’s look. The only contrast to his obvious obsession with earth tones was his half-bald head and white mustache. He sort of looked like Santa’s second cousin.
“I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Miss Gunn.” He gestured for me to sit. The room had rich wood furniture, like the big desk he sat behind and the matching chairs in the corner, and was decorated in different hues of chestnut. Go figure. From the carpet to the paintings—brown, brown, and more brown.
“Thank you so much. I am excited to be your assistant this year.”
“Tell me, what is your long-term career goal, Miss Gunn? Academia or workforce?”
I folded my hands in my lap. “Well, I’d like to be a social worker.”
He sat back and nodded. “I see. That can be difficult. Takes a tough skin to see what goes through there sometimes.” He smiled. “But they need all the good people they can get.”
I couldn’t help but smile back. Professor Martin was nothing like what I’d expected. He was just so…jolly.
“I’m teaching a full load this term. Everything from entry-level sociology to upper division. I’ll need you to hold regular office hours, and, if you think you’re up for it, I would like you to step in and lecture my Soc one-oh-one classes from time to time.”
“I’d be happy to, Professor.”
“I’ve seen your transcripts—very impressive.” He winked. “I think that you will do really well here.”
“Thank you.”
“Here’s my schedule.” He handed me a piece of paper with the times and days he taught the various clas
ses. “And these—” He circled the Tuesday and Thursday evening sociology classes. “—will be the lectures you take over.”
“Great! When would you like me to start?”
“Might as well start at the beginning.”
“Tomorrow?”
“That work for you?”
Excitement bubbled. “Yes, of course.” I was going to teach. A real college class. Granted, the first day was always short and generally you went over the syllabus and expectations, but it was still something!
The morning might have started out a bit rough, but things were looking up. Somewhere between a near-death experience, a sexy stranger with intense blue eyes, and Soc one-oh-one, I was feeling like my life just might be finding an even keel.
Professor Martin had left right after giving me a spare key to the office and telling me to make myself comfortable. It took only an hour to select my office hours, cross-reference Professor Martin’s schedule with mine, and successfully color-code and organized every weekday in my personal planner. Right as I opened my laptop to tackle my thesis paper, a man entered the office.
“Can I help you?”
“Delivery for a Katelyn Gunn.”
“That’s me.”
The man handed me a rectangular box wrapped in shiny white paper, with no card or any identifying writing on it. Odd.
Even though I had lived with my aunt and uncle for the last part of my high-school career, we weren’t necessarily close. They had never once sent me anything. The only time I spoke with my mother was when she needed something, and I’d just seen Megan this morning. That girl couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, so if she had gotten me something, I would have known then.
The messenger left and I unwrapped the mystery box. It was thin and light. When I pulled the last of the paper away, I saw the top of the box and frowned.
Saks Fifth Avenue.
