by Kira Graham
SWEETHARTS
A Contemporary Romance (5-Books Bundle)
K I R A G R A H A M
Copyright © 2019
All Rights Reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to events, businesses, companies, institutions, and real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
WHAT'S INSIDE:
TROUBLE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
MISCHIEF
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
PEACE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
SIN
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
SAINT
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
TROUBLE
Chapter One
Cleo
Sex. Romance. Drama. Death. Fear. Laughter.
Every good story starts with something magical. Sometimes you hear a good one, and it’s super romantic. The kind of tale that makes you go awwww and sigh while you get stars in your eyes and dream of happy endings and all that romantic stuff you see in the movies. Some stories are filled with tragedy, the kind that makes you cry like a baby and sympathize with the poor saps that get left behind to face life with a broken heart.
There are funny stories that start off with a bang and have you laughing so hard that you snort-fart in front of company, and can’t stop because the story is that funny. There are horror stories that make you bite your nails and cringe and ask yourself, “If that happened to me, would I survive it—and, if I did, would I ever be okay again?”
I’ve heard a lot of stories in my time, and, to be quite honest, I’m pretty jaded about “good stories” by now. Just plumb tuckered out to the point that I ask myself who the hell cares who did what, or who loved who—or whom, whatever. I guess the problem is, I’ve heard all these stories and listened to people tell me tales that are adventurous and sad and every other thing in between—but I’ve only ever heard them.
I’ve never lived through a mountain-climbing adventure gone wrong, or sailed on crystal blue waters while some foreign hunk in a Speedo leers at me. I’ve never had some creeper call me in the middle of the night threatening to burst out of my closet.
I haven’t done anything that in any way qualifies me to tell a good story, because the truth is, I’m just plain old Cleo Sweet, the girl who grew up with a sister and three cousins all a year apart, because my parents are one of those sickly sweet romance stories I’ve never lived. Mama met Daddy, and Daddy fell in love and woo-stalked her. They got married and haven’t stopped having sex ever since—admittedly, three of those babies aren’t really theirs, which is a long story—which turns my stomach because my mom looks like a red-haired Betty White, and my dad looks like a taller version of one of the President Bushes.
But that stomach-roiling point is not the one I want to make. To put it frankly, I’m one of five, and in the grand equation of the Sweet Five, I’m just Cleotapra, the girl whose mom spelled her name wrong at the registrar’s office and never quite lived it down.
If I had any story to tell, it’d be about being ridiculed in school, getting expelled for beating up the bully, and then spending every day since being homeschooled by my mom while I planned a murder-suicide that would definitely give me a story, even posthumously.
“Stop whining into that tape recorder, and eat your eggs, Cleo! I didn’t slave over those things just to sit here listening to you talk drivel,” Mom yells, her raspy voice turning into a squeal when she walks past Dad’s chair and he pinches her ass, throwing her a wink that makes the contents of my gut curdle.
“Mama! I’m trying to lay down some ideas for a movie!” I grumble, curling my lip when I fork up a bite of scrambled eggs and half of it slides off the fork in a raw, congealed mess that confirms that, after twenty-six years, Mama still can’t cook.
How we all lived this long, I don’t know.
“These eggs aren’t—ow, Dad! What the flavor?” I grumble, rubbing at my right shin where he’s kicked me.
It’s a wonder that I don’t have a damn hole in this part of my leg by now.
“Hush. Here’s twenty bucks. You can buy yourself breakfast. Don’t be mean to my honey,” he mutters, smiling in a sickly way through another forkful of slimy eggs.
I shudder, then do what I always do and pile my food as high as it’ll go so that it looks like I ate something. I won’t actually eat any of it, though. One time, I ate a piece of chicken that Mama made for my birthday dinner, and I was so sick the next day that I had to sit on the toilet with a bucket on my
lap. You know that things are bad when you heave, and vomit comes out both ends.
“So, Honey tells me you’re still refusing our help,” Dad grumbles through another bite, humming as if it tastes good.
See, that’s the thing with Dad: to him, it probably does. My mom could take a dump right on this table, and he’d ask if he could help her in any way. That’s just Mom and Dad. He literally worships the woman, which is weird because my mother is a red-haired version of Betty White. Have I said that already? Well, if I have, then you know how true it is. She’s not old-looking. More like how I imagine Betty would have looked in her fifties. But her hair is super red, and her eyes are two blazing orbs of…something. We don’t quite know what it is, but I swear to you, if we ever do find out what lurks inside Mom, the world will end.
“Dad, I told you guys I needed to do this on my own,” I huff, my stomach twisting at the thought of doing this on my own.
I’ve had my candy business for the better part of seven months now, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep telling myself that everything is going to be okay. I haven’t broken even for a single week out of all those months—not one measly week out of the twenty weeks that I’ve been up and running—and it’s getting worse the longer it runs. The rent for the shop is eating away at my savings hella fast, and my operating costs are over and above what they should be. Mostly because I keep making stuff that doesn’t sell.
At this point, I’ll be lucky if I can buy a bag of sugar next month.
But it’s going to get better. It is. I believe that it will get batter. Better. Dammit, I need to stop thinking about new recipes when I can’t afford to make them.
“Cleo, sweetheart, I told you that I wanted to help, and I meant it. Just let your dad give you a few extra bucks until your shop catches on,” he whines, pouting back at me until I find myself laughing.
My dad’s a goof, a true softy, and he’s spent all my life being this big cuddly bear of a man who never lets a day go by without making his girls feel loved. Five daughters would have made almost any man insane by now, and I know a lot of men who would shit bricks and cut off the baby factory after the third girl came out of production. But not Dad. He loves that we’re all girls, and he hasn’t stopped thanking Mom for the gift of his “daughters” at any point within the last twenty-six years.
He’s also a member of that disgusting breed known as the hot dad. At almost sixty, he’s got some salt and pepper in his golden blond hair and a few laugh lines that tell the tale of his life, but that’s it. With sky blue eyes and a stomach that hasn’t caved or pudged out with time, I’ve had my fair share of comments from friends. Or ex-friends, as the case may be. Ew! They can’t perv out over Dad. Or threaten my mom that way. I just won’t have it.
“Cleo—”
“Dad, stop pouting and trying to make me feel guilty. I’ve got this,” I insist, giggling when his lip juts out and his eyes go misty.
“But baby doll, just let Daddy pay off the mortgage on the shop. It’s such a small little thing, and Daddy would be so happy to do it.”
Rolling my eyes up to the ceiling, I find myself struggling not to lose my temper. Not that I would ever yell at my sweet dad or say anything to hurt his feelings, but come on! I need to do at least one thing for myself. Just one. I’ve had to deal with this level of nuts since I was five years old and finally got let out of the crib. True story. I swear.
Mom and Dad are stinking rich, like money in the swimming pool—if they were that vulgar—kind of rich. Like they could wipe their asses with hundred dollar bills for the rest of their lives and still be rich when they died, kind of rich.
And I’m one of their five daughters who will never be an adult, because they keep trying to rush in and save me from life. I don’t want to be saved from life, guys! I want to experience it. I want a story to tell, chapters to type out and bind into a book one day. I want the whole adventure-love-horror-sorrow thing that other people get, but dammit, I won’t ever get anywhere near any of that if, every time I try to ride the bike of life, Dad rushes in with training wheels.
“Daaaad. I’m a grown woman. Twenty-six, Dad. I am twenty-six years old, and I need to do something on my own, or at least try to do something on my own,” I grumble, whining in my throat when Betty bustles in with another pan of eggs and starts to load my already groaning plate. “I’m done, Mom!”
“Oh, nonsense! If you don’t eat more, you’re going to waste away, Cleo. God said let there be food, Cleo. And there is food. For you to eat. So you can fatten your bony butt and attract a man. I want grandchildren, Cleo! At least one,” she snaps, her shoulder-length hair twitching as if it’s got a life of its own to draw from.
“Mom. I don’t want kids—”
“You hush up! Of course you do. All women want kids. It’s in our DNA,” she grumbles, making the sign of the cross, as if my words are blasphemy to her.
I’d like to point out that God didn’t mention food in his creation story, and that she’s the one who’s blaspheming, but I know better than to argue over the Bible with Mom. I don’t have six hours of my life to waste today.
And as for the kid thing? Listen, it’s not that I don’t like kids. I mean, the ones I’ve seen on commercials are cute, and they seem all right. I just don’t want them now. Or, ya know, anytime soon.
Not that Mom will listen, because to her, every moment I go unfertilized, I’m drying up inside and running the risk of having a husk for a uterus. Her words, not mine, and yes, I did get so creeped out when she said them that I drank myself into a stupor that night. She had pictures, people, and while I am not sure that those dried-up brown specks were eggs from someone’s actual ovaries, the whole thing scared me enough that I’ve been giving serious thought to freezing some before I lose them.
If I would ever use them is another story. Like I said, kids are cute, and I have nothing against them; I just don’t want any, any time soon. Or, possibly, ever.
I snort because Mom is still standing beside me with a hot pan, fixing her icy blue eyes on me the way a Rottweiler does when it’s staring at a smaller dog breed. Gulp.
“Honey, stop teasing the girl, and get serious. She’s refusing our help with her little shop,” Dad whines, changing the subject, thank God.
Not that this is any better. If you think that Dad is a clingy, crazy, completely unstoppable force of parenthood, then you should see Mom. Last week, she showed up at my sister Tee’s job with a full lunch—which you already know wasn’t ever going to turn out well—and a wedding planner.
You’re thinking that Tee is getting married, and you’re probably a little thrilled and horrified at the same time that Mom is shoving her way in and taking over. I’d agree and even be a little reluctantly amused by those kinds of “monster of the bride” antics. The problem is, Tee isn’t engaged. Or even seeing anyone right now. Unless you count Fantastic Frank, her vibrator. Somehow, I doubt Mom would be thrilled to see an eight-inch, hot pink “groom” waiting at the end of the aisle for Tee.
Giggling because I can’t stop that image from popping into my head, I meet Mom’s gaze and groan out loud, preparing myself for the lecture I know is coming.
“You’re under a lot of stress, Cleo—unnecessary stress that will age you prematurely and cause your hormones to go wonky. Let Daddy pay for your little hobby,” she croons, her mouth already smiling as if it’s all taken care of. Like hell it is.
I went through three years of college with my father turning up at all hours of the day with self-defense paraphernalia, not to mention Mom’s picnic baskets that my fellow students soon learned to avoid like the plague, and earned the nickname Pet because people would laugh about how coddled I was. Like a little lap dog that gets fed from its owner’s plate.
Now that I’m twenty-six, I’m not letting these two horn in on another one of my life plans, and I most certainly am not okay with Mom calling my dreams a hobby. Then again, to Mom, my real job—and what she likely assumes is my dream�
�is to be a wife and a mother, and to give her a football team of little ones to poison with her cooking.
“My hormones are just fine, Mom. And I’m not letting you two pay for my shop. CandyCane’s will either succeed or not, but it’ll do either of those things all on its own—”
“Oh my God! You will not believe who I saw just now!” a voice yells from the hall, the slamming of the front door and the clip-clop of heels prompting me to breathe a sigh of relief when three of my four sisters rush in, all jabbering so loudly that I consider using the eggs as earplugs.
I love my sisters, but I swear, they’re a trip on a good day. We’re all loud, opinionated and…loud. I said it twice, so you know it’s true. And my sisters are even louder than I am, which is saying something, because I once got kicked out of a drama club production because my stage aside was “like the boom of a cannon.” Damn you, Mr. Flood, I could have been a star!
“Naomi Carrington was for defs sneaking out of her brother’s best friend’s house down the street. Doing the walk of shame!” Rose yells, her eyes gleaming wickedly.
Rose hates Naomi Carrington, and I bet she hates even more that Achilles Hart is feeding her his salami. Oh, to experience unrequited love, I muse, my lips twitching when Rose goes into an extended diatribe that involves calling Naomi a few names that definitely do not fit. And I’m not entirely sure, but I’m betting that Naomi can’t get her head that low and that, even if she wanted to, she probably doesn’t need to eat her anything, when Achilles Hart is willing to eat it for her.
“Rosetta! Would you hush your mouth, you little heathen? The Lord is listening to you say those evil words,” Mom yells, crossing herself so repeatedly that it looks like she’s feeling herself up.
“And he must agree, because Naomi Carrington is a total hussy, Mom,” Rose hisses back, reaching over to grab a scone before she realizes what she’s done and turns white.
Rocks, I tell ya. Rocks on the outside, and oozy, uncooked batter in the middle. I just don’t know how Mom does it, but she manages to turn everything to concrete on the outside and leave it oozing and uncooked on the inside.
“Shit! Uh, I’m so upset that I can’t eat,” Rose whines, lying through her teeth as I hear her stomach growl.
