by Brynne Asher
Table of Contents
Gifts
Table of Contents
Dedications
A Note from the Author
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
About the Author
Gifts
A Killers Novel, Book 3
Brynne Asher
Gifts
Brynne Asher
Published by Brynne Asher
[email protected]
Keep up with me on Facebook for news and upcoming books
https://www.facebook.com/BrynneAsherAuthor
Edited by edit LLC
Cover Design by Sloan J Designs
Other Books by Brynne Asher
The Carpino Series
Overflow – The Carpino Series, Book 1
Beautiful Life – The Carpino Series, Book 2
Athica Lane – The Carpino Series, Book 3
Killers Series
Vines – A Killers Novel, Book 1
Paths – A Killers Novel, Book 2
Anthologies
Little Black Dress – An Anthology for Charity
Text Copyright © 2017 Brynne Asher
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Please purchase only authorized editions.
This book is a work of fiction.
Table of Contents
Gifts
Table of Contents
Dedications
A Note from the Author
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
About the Author
Dedications
To Elle –
Thank you for the inspiration. Little bits of our lives are sprinkled throughout my books. You’ll never know what your support means to me and you’ll always be the first to read my words in the raw.
To the Mister –
Thank you for being patient while I obsess over every word and for eating cauliflower. If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is.
To Layla and Sarah –
Here’s to conversation streaks, off the hook Saturday night raves, and pictures of my dog. Thank you for always supporting me.
To Kristan, Kolleen, Laurie, Gi, Carrie, Gillian, Ivy, and Penny –
The time you give my books is a gift I’ll treasure. Thank you for reading, your input, your sharp eyes, and believing I’m worth your time and effort.
To my Bloggers and Reviewers –
I wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you for reading, coming back for more with every story I create, and spreading the word. I adore you all.
A Note from the Author
My favorite things in books are a big cast, a lot going on, imperfect yet mature characters, and, now in my Killers Series—farm animals. It’s odd how I’ve become the author of cows, but I love it. Thank you for being odd with me. Now we can add annoying goats to the list.
I hope you enjoy the love story of the Hollingsworths and Lockharts as much as I loved writing it. Every character in this book owns a bit of my heart and I hope their world brings you hours of reading goodness.
And now, the story of Asa and Keelie…
Prologue
Five O’clock
Keelie
I’m pissed.
Phase four thousand, three hundred and eighty-nine of the refurb is going to shit. I had the front stoop torn off. Jimbo started with the exterior and, since he’s only working in his free time, I’ll be lucky if it’s done by the time Knox starts high school.
Just like with all previous phases, I blame this one on you, too. If I have to live in the country, my house is going to look like a Christmas card, dammit.
Knox was accepted into the gifted program. You and I would argue about this. You wouldn’t give a shit that this is my area of expertise and would be smug as hell even though I feel he should wait until middle school for honors courses. I don’t like him being pulled out of class even though I know he’ll love it, but I caved like I have on so many things.
Saylor, on the other hand, is just now starting to read. I know this is my territory and I should be all over that, but my patience is shit. I don’t have the energy to fight her.
Did I mention we have three new babies? I can barely get Saylor in the house long enough to work on her reading on a good day. All she wants to do is play with them. They make her so happy. I should still be pissed at you about the goats, but I just can’t be anymore. Not when I see Saylor love them the way she does.
It’s Saturday.
I know I complain every week, but I hate Saturdays.
Today is even worse.
I haven’t mentioned this, but Stephie has been on my ass for months to get on with shit. I’ve held her off again and again, but she was so annoying, I finally gave in.
I have a date.
Tonight.
At five o’clock.
Am I that old that I have to go on a date at five o’clock? Thirty-five is not old. Who the hell is she fixing me up with that wants to go on a date at five o’clock? I know it’s been forever since I’ve been on a date, but five o’clock is for senior citizens—not women in their mid-thirties.
I’ve decided five o’clock dates piss me off, too. Just for that, I didn’t shave my legs.
Or anything else for that matter.
Not that I plan on opening my legs. Hell, I’ll probably be home by seven-thirty. And who wants to have sex with someone who has to go on a date at five o’clock? Five o’clock does not say stamina. Five o’clock screams early-bird special.
But here I am, in the middle of the afternoon, getting ready to go on a date for the first time in fucking years.
Could I be more pissed?
Yeah, I know the answer to that.
I should be plucking my eyebrows, not texting.
I’m fucking sick of dreading Saturdays.
I hate you.
I press send and toss my phone to the counter. What the hell is wrong with me? Looking at my reflection
, I wait for it. I know it’s coming—just like it does every time.
There it is.
I don’t know why, but I pick up my phone and read the response. The same response I’ve gotten ever since I started this nonsense. I don’t even think it’s helping.
Undeliverable.
I sigh and look back to my eyebrows to continue tweezing for my early-bird date.
Chapter 1
Pothole Season
Keelie
“I have roadside service. They’re on their way. Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
I look up from my phone where I’m standing in the ditch with my heels sinking into the dirt. They’re no Manolo’s, but I did drop a few hundred bucks on them back when I was a lobbyist. That was a lifetime ago, but they’re timeless and fancier than what I wear to work these days. When my bossy older sister, Stephie, came over this afternoon, she dug through my closet and unearthed them. I certainly didn’t plan on wading through a ditch on my first date in forever. I’m not sure it can get any worse.
Plus, I hit my head on the passenger window when sweater-vest man swerved from his tire blowing out. I feel a bump forming on my temple. I should’ve known this whole thing was a bad idea.
If I weren’t in heels, a white blouse, and my favorite jeans, I’d change the flat myself. I don’t know how to change a tire, but YouTube has become my right-hand man. I’ve learned how to do all kinds of things from that site. When one lives by herself in a ninety-two-year-old farmhouse with two kids, twelve goats, three barn cats, two dogs, and a donkey—there’s a lot of shit to fix. I’m becoming a rock star at you-tubing life’s problems away. It’s how I roll these days.
And what kind of man doesn’t know how to change a tire?
Stan, of course. He’s the kind of man who picks up his date at five o’clock instead of making reservations.
Like the idiot Stan’s turning out to be, he’s standing in front of his car that’s barely pulled to the side of the two-lane road we’re stranded on. There are no shoulders out here in the country—where the road ends, the ditch begins. I’m not standing in front of his car with others whizzing past us faster than necessary. I have two kids at home who need me. Getting run over on the way home from the worst date ever will not be the way I go. I’ll stand in the ditch all night if I have to.
I look up from my phone and don’t even try to smile. I quit fake-smiling around a quarter ‘til seven when Stan asked if I wanted to go back to his place for a drink and to watch Netflix.
I mean, really. It’s been dog-years since I’ve graced the dating scene, but I know what watching Netflix means—not to mention it’s ridiculously cliché.
That’s when I told him the truth. I don’t watch TV—Netflix or otherwise—and I especially wouldn’t be watching it with him.
Tired of faking it, I asked him to take me home. We were on our way when he hit a hole in the road, blew out a tire, and swerved to hell and back. That was when I bumped my head on the door window.
“I’m good.”
I toss my phone back into my purse and search around for some ibuprofen. For the first time in eons, I’m grateful I didn’t have time to clean out my purse because I have a half-bottle of Gatorade Knox asked me to hold the other day. It might be warm and days old, but I don’t give a shit. I take a swig and down the pills because I know my head will start throbbing any minute. I yank my purse strap back up my shoulder and cross my arms to keep warm. “You shouldn’t stand up there. Someone could hit your car and plow right over you.”
He shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his too-small khakis that he paired with a too-small sweater vest, worn over an odd-colored brown dress shirt. His loafers look like they cost as much as my heels, so I shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t want to attempt changing a tire, though, I do wonder if he even knows how to. I’m sure he’s lost all interest in wooing me—even if his idea of wooing is weird and unnatural—because he raises an eyebrow when he responds, “I’m not standing in the mud.”
I sigh and hope for his sake, and mine, that he doesn’t get plowed over. That would suck for him and I don’t want to see it. As boring and uppity as he is, I’d like to see us both go home tonight, albeit in opposite directions.
“How long did they say it would take?” I ask.
“It could be an hour-and-a-half.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts scrolling across the screen.
Fucking great. I must be in first-date detention, being punished for not trying harder. But in my defense, I didn’t want to go in the first place.
No problem. I’ll just change the fucking tire myself.
I’m two minutes into my how-to-change-a-tire video when a huge truck flies by.
I look back to my phone, but hit pause when I see brake lights, then reverse lights. Backing toward us, it settles to a stop in front of Stan’s Buick. I can’t see the driver from where I’m standing, but I hear a door slam right before a deep voice rings through the dusk. “You need some help?”
I maneuver my way through the ditch to get closer when I hear Stan, the dumbass, reject his offer. “I’ve got someone coming. Thanks, though.”
“Is it just a flat or did you do other damage?” the voice asks.
“I’m pretty sure it’s just a flat, but we’re good. I have insurance for things like this.” Damn him. He must want me to stand in this ditch all night.
“If you’re sure—” the voice starts, but I interrupt.
“No! Wait.” I try to skip in my heels through the dormant grass and weeds to where the voice can see me. “Yes-yes. We need help. I was just looking up how to change a tire on the internet. I bet we can figure it out together. Then I won’t have to stand here all night. It’s getting cold.”
When I get closer, I see the voice belongs to a large man—a man who’s tall and incredibly handsome.
No, not just handsome. He’s off-the-charts amazingly beautiful, in a rugged sort of way.
I haven’t seen a sight so fascinating in a long while. Not in real life, anyway. Sure, Stephie tags me in pics of hot guys who must be ten years my junior all the time on Instagram and Facebook. She even has me following Hot Guys and Hummus, which is just hot guys eating hummus. But none of them have anything on the man standing before me now.
This man is here in the flesh and needs no hummus to be hot. He shifts his weight and folds his arms across his wide chest, taking a wide stance in his worn jeans and work boots. His brown hair looks like it could use a trim, but unlike his hair, his beard is clipped short and neatly trimmed. I can’t tell what color his eyes are since he’s squinting at me, and I think he’s squinting because he’s smirking.
Oh, shit. He’s smirking at me.
“I don’t need a lady’s help to change a flat.”
“Like I said, thanks, but there’s no need,” Stan reiterates.
“Please.” I ignore Stan. “I don’t think he knows how to change a tire.”
Stan’s voice becomes sharp. “I know how to change a tire. I pay for roadside assistance so I don’t have to.”
I tip my head and raise my brows at Stan. I’m so over him and our date from hell. Throwing my hand toward the beautifully-rugged man smirking at me, I point out the flaw in Stan’s plan. “Meanwhile, we’re stuck here for the next hour-and-a-half when this gentleman has clearly offered his assistance.”
Our guest’s expression changes from a smirk to confused. “You two married?”
“No!” Stan and I both answer at the same time, but I keep talking. “Really, I’ll help. We’re almost out of light. If we hurry, we won’t be changing a tire in the dark.”
My knight in old jeans and work boots starts to move around Stan’s car and orders, “Pop the trunk.”
“Yes,” I agree, with a smile on my face. “Pop the trunk.”
Stan shakes his head and mumbles a string of curse words as I tippy-toe back through the ditch trying to save my shoes. When I meet my new hero at the rear of the car, I offer my hand. �
��I’m Keelie. Thank you so much. You’re saving me an hour and a half of having to stand out here. The sooner this day ends the better.”
He opens the trunk and I look up at him, but I’m used to looking up to most everyone. He’s got to be over six feet and his bulky work boots make him even taller. In bare feet, I squeak in at five-four.
He speaks as he rummages around Stan’s trunk. “The night is young. You never know—you could still salvage the day. Saturday’s the best day of the week.”
I try not to sound sarcastic because he is helping me get home faster, which is the only thing that could possibly salvage my day at this point. “I prefer Mondays.”
This gets his attention and he looks to me with a frown. “Mondays? Who likes Mondays?”
Even through his frown, I now see his eyes are dark, but have a hint of green lining his pupils. He’s got a few tiny lines framing his eyes that only add to his rugged package—a complete contradiction from the man who just took me on the first date I’ve been on in fourteen years.
I give my head a little shake. “I don’t know. I guess I like the comfort of a schedule and predictability.”
His frown turns incredulous. “Sounds like someone needs to show you how to appreciate a Saturday.” He lifts the spare tire out of the trunk like it’s a feather pillow and grabs a bunch of other gadgets I saw on my how-to-change-a-tire video. When he slams the trunk, he juts his chin toward Stan. “Looks like he needs to up his Saturday game.”
I look to where Stan is standing with his phone to his ear. He’s being a sour-flower, ignoring us. I don’t want to come across as a bitch, so I go for vague and fib, “No, no. Stan’s fine, it’s me.”
He widens his hazel eyes before I lose sight of them when he looks at the flat. “If you say so.”
I watch him bend to loosen the bolts with a big tool—thinking I could’ve easily handled this part—and for some reason try to convince him I’m not an oddball for liking Mondays. “The beginning of the week is a new start. I feel productive and sort of have a new lease on life. By the time Wednesday or Thursday roll around, I realize how much of what I needed to get done didn’t get done, and my new lease on life fades away. This happens weekly. Don’t even get me started on Fridays. By Friday, I’m exhausted.”
