Love, Laughter, and Happily Ever Afters Collection (Eight Fun, Romantic Novels by Eight Bestselling Authors)

by Violet Duke

  By the time Hunter pulls into my driveway, the giddy afterglow of my orgasm is long gone, replaced with a bitter sting of disappointment and self-loathing.

  Way to go, Brit. Screwing things up like you always do.

  Hunter shuts off the engine. There’s silence.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I clench my jaw and try to pull it together. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

  I open the door and scramble down before he has a chance to reply. I slam it behind me and stride towards the porch, biting back the sting of tears I’m shocked to feel welling in the back of my throat.

  Why am I so stupid? I dig my nails into my palms in frustration. This was what I wanted, isn’t it? I was just pretending to buy into that whole ‘perfect date’ bullshit back at the fairground, after all. I always knew this was how it would end, with me back right where I started. Alone. Hell, at least this way I got a mind-blowing orgasm out of it, which is more than I usually walk away with.

  I hurry up the steps and scramble for my keys, but I can’t find them in my purse. I hunt again, growing more selfconscious and nervy the longer I’m waiting here on the porch. I force myself not to turn around. I haven’t heard Hunter’s truck leave, and—

  “Looking for these?” His voice comes from behind me, too close.

  I startle, whirling around. Hunter is at the bottom of the steps, dangling my keys from his index finger. “They fell out of your pocket, back at the stables. But, you were kind of distracted…” His lips curl in a smile.

  “Thanks.” I snatch for them, avoiding his eyes.

  Hunter pulls them back, out of reach. “Not so fast,” he says. “Look at me, Brit.”

  I keep my gaze fixed on the dusty floorboards. I should sweep, I tell myself. I should stop being such a slob, and try harder, and be better.

  “Hey, Brit.” Hunter’s voice is soft. “Where’d you go?” He closes the distance between us and reaches to gently tilt my chin up, but I keep my eyes averted, looking everywhere but him. “What’s wrong?” Hunter asks.

  “Nothing.” I try to pull away.

  “Don’t lie to me.” Hunter cups my cheek, a touch so gentle, it sends a pang right through me. “Are you OK? Listen, about what happened tonight…”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I can feel the emotions whirling, but I’d rather die than let him see I’m affected.

  “Tough.” Hunter insists. “I’m not letting you run away again.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You practically bolted from a moving truck,” Hunter cuts me off.

  “I’m tired.” I fold my arms. “Can I just have my keys?”

  “Not until you look at me, Brit. I mean it, look at me.”

  I do.

  Hunter’s hair shines gold in the porch light, blue eyes clouded with concern. It’s almost more than I can take, to have him looking so gorgeous and perfect right now. I’m feeling scattered and undone, like what happened tonight shattered some hard, brittle part of me, and now everything’s just messy and raw and impossible to control.

  “Hunter, please…” My voice twists, and I’m dangerously close to losing it now.

  “Please what?” he replies, not moving. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” I clench my jaw.

  Hunter shakes his head. “Don’t push me away,” he says softly. “I thought we were past that.”

  “Why?” I answer darkly. “Because I spread my legs and let you do whatever, like some cheap slut?”

  Shock flashed across his face. “Why would you say that?”

  I give a bitter laugh. “It’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? It’s what they all think. And I don’t exactly prove them wrong.”

  Hunter takes my face in both his hands, looking at me straight on. Direct. “There’s nothing wrong with what you did tonight—what we did, together.” he tells me fiercely. “You blew my fucking mind, you were so hot. Unless…” his hands drop, uncertainty creeping into his expression. “Do you regret it? Did I push too far, is that what this is about?” he asks quickly. “Because Brit, I never meant to. I thought you were right there with me—“

  “I was!” I exclaim. I can’t have him thinking even for a minute that he forced me somehow. “I wanted it too.”

  Relief floods his expression, then a confused frown. “So what’s the problem?” he asks.

  “There is none.” I shut down again. “We had a great time, it’s done, so you can go now.”

  He pauses. “Is that what you want?”

  No!

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  Hunter stares at me a moment, his expression unreadable. The sad ache in me twists, sharp and painful. This is it, I tell myself. His cue to leave. I brace myself, willing him just to go, and leave me. For this to be over.

  Then he kisses me.

  I freeze in his arms, confused. The kiss is soft, slow and tender, and heartbreakingly sweet, but before I can react, he draws back, and gently brushes hair from my eyes.

  “You’re not a slut,” he tells me, his voice low but even. “You’re not twisted, or trashy, or used up, or broken. I don’t know why you think it, and I could kill anyone who’s ever made you feel this way.”

  My mouth drops open in shock, but Hunter’s not done. He tilts his head, resting his forehead against mine, so I can feel every word, the soft whisper of breath and the sweetness of his promises. “You’re perfect, Brit. Special, and rare. And maybe you can’t believe that, but I swear, I won’t stop until you see what I do. The most incredible girl I’ve ever met.”

  Hunter kisses my forehead and then reaches past me, unlocking the door.

  “You’re working tomorrow?” he asks.

  I nod, wordless in disbelief.

  “I’ll come by the bar and pick you up,” he says. “Sweet dreams.”

  I watch in a daze as Hunter heads back to the truck. He starts the engine, then slowly reverses out of the drive, driving away until his headlights are swallowed up by the dark night.

  My legs give way. I sink to the porch step.

  You’re perfect.

  He can’t mean it. I don’t know what kind of game he thinks he’s playing; or maybe it’s not a game, and he’s fooled himself into thinking I’m something I’m not. Either way, he’s wrong. I know it, deep inside, the way I’ve known it all my life.

  There’s nothing perfect about me, nothing precious or rare.

  He’s wrong. He has to be.

  But as I sit, clutching the porch railing for dear life, something flickers inside me, just a spark of hope. I feel it, warming me, slipping into my bloodstream and chasing away the dark shadows of doubt and insecurity.

  You’re perfect.

  His words whisper in my ear, long after he’s gone, more seductive than any flirtation or dirty words. Nobody’s ever said that to me before. Not even close. Sure, I know that Emerson loves me, and would do anything for me, but it’s not the same. Nobody’s ever looked at me the way Hunter just did, as if I’m something bright and good. As if I’m worth something.

  He sees it in me, what I sometimes can’t even see in myself. That man, who could have anything and anyone, wants me. For some crazy reason, he wants me, and he doesn’t show any signs of quitting yet.

  And for the first time, I realize: maybe I don’t want him to.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HUNTER

  AFTER I TAKE BRIT home, I’m wound so tight I spend half an hour standing under the f
reezing cold shower jets, waiting for my hard-on to subside. It doesn’t help.

  Jesus Christ.

  It took everything I had not to ravage her right there in the stables, to just part her soft, pale thighs and plunge deep inside of her, over and over, until we both were gasping and lost to the world…

  But I can’t. Not yet. No matter how much I want her, or how far she pushes me to the edge. I can’t let myself get carried away and ruin everything in one reckless night.

  I owe her that much. I owe her everything.

  The ranch is too quiet, dangerously still, so I head back down to the stables and set to work cleaning out stalls for the new horses I have arriving this week. It’s tiresome, back-breaking work, the kind of thing one of my stable hands should be doing, but tonight, I welcome the distraction. I lift, and shovel, and sweat, until the darkest part of the night is over, and my body finally aches with something other than wanting her. Only then do I let myself even think of earlier tonight, and the way Brit looked, so goddamn sexy and effortlessly beautiful…

  She tasted like temptation. She felt like an angel. She was my darkest fantasy brought to life: wet and writhing and crying out for me to take her. And God, I wanted her. I thought I’d die, going a single second longer not inside of her.

  So what the hell are you waiting for?

  I catch my breath, sweating hard now from the work. Maybe it’s crazy. I don’t even understand it fully myself. But I know, deep down, that Brit isn’t ready for more.

  Sure, she says she is. Hell, just a few hours ago, she was begging me: her pale skin flushed with desire, so wet against my mouth I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I could have taken her, hard and fast and strong, and she would have loved every damn minute of it.

  But it would have been wrong.

  She wants me, but she doesn’t want to let me in. I can give her pleasure, but I can’t give her trust. No, that I’ve got to earn, day by day, until she’s ready to let me into her bed—and her heart.

  She thinks you’re a good man.

  I close my eyes, waiting for the memories, but it’s not Brit’s naked body that fills my mind. It’s her face: heartbreakingly beautiful, her dark eyes gazing into mine.

  Damn. It’s more powerful than a hundred cold showers, the way she looks at me. Even when we touch, and my desire goes from zero to five thousand in the space of a single heartbeat, it’s enough to keep me hanging on. That look in her eyes, like I’m good, and true, and perfect.

  I want to be that man for her, live up to her dream of me.

  What would she say if she knew the truth?

  No. I can’t think like that.

  I stare out at the dark fields, and feel a deep sense of rightness seep through me, as surprising as it is a blessed relief.

  This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  Coming here to Beachwood Bay gave me a direction, but knowing Brit the way I do now has given me something more than that: it’s given me a purpose.

  Because she makes me want to be a better man.

  From the moment I wake up in the morning to the second that sleep claims me at night, she’s always there, in the back of my mind. Reminding me that good things exist in this world, reassuring me that I can feel some hope again. I want so badly to live up to her illusions, be that man she sees in me, even if I can’t see it in myself just yet.

  I want to give her everything, all the things other girls take for granted: every romantic gesture, every sweet word. Right now she doesn’t believe she’s worth a man’s affection, but I’m going to show her she’s wrong.

  She deserves everything. And I’m going to be the one to give it to her.

  Because something’s telling me, if I can do that—put the past behind me once and for all and do my best to be the man she deserves—I won’t just be changing her mind, I’ll be changing mine too.

  It might be the only way I can find through this darkness.

  I finally toss the shovel down and head back to the house, stopping by the kitchen for a beer. But looking at the neon glare of the refrigerator––empty save a couple of six-packs and some leftover takeout––I pause.

  How many of these have I drunk over the last three years? How many nights have I wound up in a wasted haze, just to quiet the guilty whispers in my mind so I could fall into a dreamless sleep?

  Too many times.

  We all found our ways of coping. Mom’s got her society functions, scheduling every last minute in the day with charities and lunches. Dad’s working himself into an early grave at the office, driving Covington Investments to its high as one of the most profitable hedge funds in the country. And me? It was all I could do just the keep it together, numbing myself with beer and partying, stumbling through my time in college on the track they wanted for me, but hating myself every minute all the same.

  I meant what I told them, I’m done with their life. Not just the parties and prestige, but the denial too: downing my guilt and pain in the bottom of another drink instead of facing the shadows head-on. I grab the six-packs, and pop the tabs: pouring them down the sink, one by one, until there’s nothing left. No crutch to dull my pain, no easy way out of this. Done. I slowly climb the stairs up to the loft bedroom and strip off my jeans and shirt, falling back onto the bed. I’m wide awake, too damn alert, and without the beer haze lulling me under, the memories come flooding back. Of Jace, and that summer, and Brit. Always Brit…

  *

  3 years ago…

  “YOU MADE IT!” The party is already loud and buzzing when we hit the beach on the outskirts of town. A bonfire blazes in the firepit, and maybe fifty kids are drinking beers and dancing to the sound of the rock songs pumping through the speakers someone hooked up to their jeep. It’s the last night of the summer season, and Beachwood is sending it out in style.

  “What did you do, rob a liquor store?” One of the guys takes in our haul.

  Jace laughs, unloading our stash of six-packs and bottled beer. “Help yourselves.” he tells them, “Plenty to go around!”

  “Sweet.” They grab some, greeting me and Jace with fist-bumps and back-slaps as we move through the crowd.

  “Way to buy us some favor,” I murmur to Jace, amused.

  “Give the people what they want and they’ll love you forever.” he winks.

  And the people love Jace. When we first dropped by these beach bonfire hangouts at the start of summer, most of the kids gave us a wary side-eye. We’re outsiders, after all, and worse than that: rich summer kids. But they didn’t count on my big brother, and soon enough Jace had them eating out of the palm of his hand with free beers and his effortless charm. Nobody can withstand his good nature for long, not even suspicious townies.

  We reach a spot in the sand with a prime view of the party. Jace pops the top on a cold one and hands it to me. “Last night in town, little brother,” he says, surveying the scene. “It’s now or never.”

  “For what?” I ask, feeling the beer buzz work its way into my system. I needed this—to get away for one last night. Mom and Dad are already talking about my class schedule for the fall, and all the clubs and activities they expect me to take as the newest Covington ambassador at Yale. I thought that college would be a fresh start for me, some kind of freedom, but already I can see, it’s just going to be the same old story in a new town.

  “For your waitress,” Jace replies, pointing across the sunset beach.

  I see her there in the crowd, and I stop.

  Brittany Ray.

  I’ve been watching her all summer. I can’t help it. Something about that girl just screams out to be noticed. It’s not her crazy dyed hair, or her mismatched, funky outfits. It’s something deeper than that, the furious challenge in her eyes.

  Danger.

  I’m not crazy. I know that girl is trouble through and through
. So despite everything in me screaming to go say ‘hi’ every time our paths cross in town, I’ve managed to stay away, keep my distance. But here she is again: dancing in the firelight in a flimsy red dress, her dark hair falling, choppy in her eyes. Walking temptation.

  “I’m telling you, man up.” Jace punches my arm. “Go give her a beer. I’m sick of watching you drool every time she comes around.”

  “It’s not like that.” I argue weakly.

  Jace just shakes his head. “You’ve got to make that move sometime.” he teases. “Or one of these guys will beat you to it. Huh,” he adds, glancing back across the beach. “Looks like someone already has.”

  I try to play it cool, but I can’t help turning back to check out what he means. That’s when I see the two guys moving in on Brit. They’ve got her trapped between them, thrusting and horsing around. Even in the dim light of the fire, I can tell, she’s not laughing.

  Before I can think about it, I’m starting through the crowd towards them.

  “Back off!”

  I hear her protest as I approach them. “Get your hands off me.” Brit shoves at one of the guys, but he just catches her around her waist, pulling her in against him.

  “What do you say?” the meathead slurs to his buddy. He’s wearing an outsize football shirt, a red band of sunburn across the back of his thick neck. “Think she can handle the two of us?”

  “Fuck yeah.” He grabs Brit’s ass. “You like it crazy, don’t you, slut?”

  I see red.

  Without a word, I pull him around and smash him across the jaw, my fist connecting with bone in a satisfying crack.

  Someone screams, and then his buddy shoves Brit aside and comes charging at me. He lowers his head and tackles me hard, but I haven’t spent three years blocking on the football team for nothing. By the time we hit the ground, I’ve twisted on top of him: raining sharp punches down on his face and neck until an arm comes down around my throat and yanks me back up.

  I wheel around, breathing heavily. It’s the first guy, with a bloody nose now and murder in his eyes. He punches me hard in the stomach before I have time to brace.