FLOWERS ARE RED
Page 21
"It feels good to know that gaudy piece of crap will help so many women. It almost makes the engagement worth it."
"The hell you say." Ashe stretched out on the sofa, maneuvering until he was on his back, Belle tucked under his arm.
"Almost." This was nice. Better than nice. Here, with Ashe, the world was a hazy blip. Theo a distant memory. Belle didn't know if perfection existed. But this was close enough for her.
"I love you."
Belle gasped. There was her answer. Ashe loved her. Perfection did exist.
"It took you long enough."
"Thirty-nine days is too long?"
"I've loved you since I was a teenager. A very young teenager."
"I didn't realize this was a contest." Ashe grinned. "Okay. You win. Wait." He moved to his side, sliding down the sofa until he and Belle were face to face. "You love me?"
"Yes."
"Say the words, Belle."
Belle cupped his face with her hand, her gaze unwavering. "I love you, Ashe Mathison. In one way or another, I always have. I guess that makes me a one-man woman."
"One man. One woman." Ashe brushed his lips across hers. "For the rest of our lives."
"That sounded like a statement, not a question."
"Not a statement. Or a question. It's bona fide, set in stone fact. I love you, Belle. Get used to it."
Belle rolled onto Ashe, her body blanketing his. So handsome. So strong. He was hers.
"Say it again."
"I love you."
Belle touched her lips to his. A sweet kiss quickly turning hot, she moaned when Ashe's hands began an intimate exploration. Up her thighs. Cupping her butt. At the small of her back, teasing the sensitive skin as his fingers traveled up her spine, slipping around to her breasts.
Slipping into a fog of pleasure, Belle protested when Ashe's touch suddenly vanished.
"Hey," Belle complained, reaching for Ashe as he moved from the sofa to his feet. "Things were just getting interesting."
"Which is why we're moving to the bedroom." Ashe lifted her. "Any objections?"
"Can I expect more of this?" Belle rained kisses over Ashe's face. "For the rest of my life?"
"Most of it. There may come a time—many, many years down the road—when you may have to settle for walking to bed. Hand in hand. How does that sound?"
Belle was in love. And loved in return. How did it sound? She put her lips close to Ashe's ear, whispering her one-word answer.
"Perfect."
EPILOGUE
"IF THINGS PROGRESS at the same rate, we will see a profit within the year."
Belle waited for the punchline. When none came, she grabbed Mahalia Blanc in her arms, dancing a jig around the office. Out of breath, the head accountant for Strive fell into the chair behind her desk.
"A small profit." Mahalia laughed as Belle continued to celebrate by pumping her fists into the air Rocky style. Sylvester Stallone in his prime had nothing on her boss.
"I don't care if it's only a penny." Belle didn't sit in a chair. As was her usual practice, she sat on the edge of Mahalia's desk. "Scratch that. I hope it's more, but a profit of any kind will be a huge victory."
Strive had been up and running for six months. With the money Belle's father had provided, some substantial donations, and the sale of Theo's engagement ring, the company had a strong start-up base. But the reason they were doing so well was for one reason. The hard work of her staff and the women who produced the products they sold online. Belle was so proud she felt like bursting.
"If I may make a suggestion, Madam President?"
It had taken some time, but Belle was finally getting used to her new title.
"You know I value your opinion."
"Go home early—for once. Go out to dinner. Have a nice bottle of wine. And stay out of the kitchen." Mahalia patted her well-padded hips. "If you bring any more goodies into the office, I may sue for abuse by baked goods."
Mahalia had become a good friend. Then there was Pru—her right-hand woman. Between finding office space, hiring a staff, and the general headaches involved with starting a business, Belle didn't know what she would have done without them.
"You know that cooking relaxes me," Belle said. "But not tonight. I think I will take your advice. If I can talk a certain man into joining me."
"When has he ever turned you down?"
Smiling, Belle walked to her office. She had her phone out and dialing before she shut the door.
"Belle." Ashe answered on the second ring. "Perfect timing. We just finished rehearsals."
The decision to move to Los Angeles had been an easy one for Belle. Her father had been disappointed when she handed in her resignation, but she left with his blessing. Boston had always been her home. She would miss it—and her family. But making a fresh start felt right. The fact that Tracy followed close behind made the transition that much easier for Belle. Her best friend was tired of the New England winters. Besides, she had run through all the decent men in Boston.
Then there was Ashe. He was based in Los Angeles. She could start her business anywhere. Why not in the same city as the man she loved?
"What are the chances I can talk you into dining out? My treat."
"That depends. What's on the menu for dessert?"
"Let me see." Belle pretended to mull over his question. "Me?"
"My favorite." Ashe's voice had lowered, sending tingles of anticipation across Belle's skin. "When are you leaving the office?"
"I'm out the door."
"Then I'll see you at home." Ashe's downtown condo was now their home. "And Belle?"
Belle knew what was coming, but that didn't temper the thrill of anticipation. She was certain it never would.
"Yes?" she whispered.
"I love you."
"I love you too. Drive safe."
"With you waiting to greet me? I would be a fool not to."
Ashe was no fool. Neither was Belle. She finally had the man of her dreams. And she was never letting go.
COMING SOON
Flowers for Zoe (Hart of Rock and Roll Book Four)
AFTER THE RAIN
(One Pass Away Book One)
PROLOGUE
LOGAN. LOGAN. LOGAN.
Logan Price closed his eyes, taking it all in.
"Hear that, kid?" Starting quarterback Gaige Benson slapped him on the back. "Two games under your belt and you're a star. Now let's go out there and add super to the front of it."
The announcer for the team set them in motion down the tunnel with his familiar introduction.
"And now, let's hear it for your division champion SEATTLE KNIGHTS."
The roar of the crowd. There was nothing like it. A packed stadium. Fans chanting his name. Few people would ever experience what it was like to take the field in a professional football game.
Logan Price had been working for this his entire life. He could still remember in exact detail the first game he ever saw. Too small to climb onto the stool in his father's bar by himself, his old man had lifted him onto the seat.
Stay and be quiet.
Not an easy order to follow for an active, inquisitive little boy. One look at the game and for once, Logan had no problem following his father's command. The old TV transported him to a foreign world filled with bright lights and shiny helmeted warriors. Logan didn't know what he was watching. He did know he wanted to be one of those men.
A Sunday afternoon in rural Oklahoma. Lefty's Pub was filled with after-church drinkers who figured they had done their duty to God and family. The rest of the day was their time. A beer. Or two. Or six. Cronies who understood a man's need to unwind before the start of another workweek.
And football.
If the Friday night high school game was their true religion, the Sunday afternoon games were a close second. As Oklahoma boys, they hated anything Texas. The men of Denville gathered every week to root for whichever team was pl
aying the Dallas Cowboys.
No matter how the games ended. Whether the crowd was happy or disgruntled. It meant more drinking. Hours later, husbands, boyfriends, and sons would stumble out, pile into beat-up trucks, and weave their way home to frustrated wives, girlfriends, and mothers.
As he grew older, Logan's view changed. He moved from the stool to behind the bar. And he promised himself one thing. He would never become one of those men. He wouldn't spend the week at a job he hated. His home wouldn't be a semi-wide trailer filled with hand-me-down furniture and a wife to whom he couldn't face going home.
His Sundays were going to be spent playing football, not watching it.
"Ready to take down this vaunted Arizona defense?" Gaige yelled at him, butting helmets.
Vaunted. Good word, Logan thought. His QB liked to use what his granny called highfalutin talk. Must have been that Ivy League education. He knew that Gaige Benson didn't grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth. He came from the mean streets of Brooklyn. He had the scars to prove it.
Like Logan, Gaige had vowed to get out of the life into which he was born. In the process, he polished himself up like a new penny. He took advantage of his full-ride scholarship to Yale. He didn't spend all his time on the football field. Fancy vocabulary. Fancy clothes. Fancy women. They were all part of the package Gaige purposefully fashioned for himself.
Seventeen years after clawing his way out of the tenement that he grew up in, very little of that borough-rat remained. Until game time. No one was tougher than Gaige Benson. Three-time league MVP. Considered one of the best ever to play the game. No one stood in his way when he was playing the game. He had the scars to prove it.
"Gather round."
Knights head coach Harry Coleman gathered the team close. He had to yell over the crowd, but he had the voice to do it. Booming was putting it mildly. The first time Logan heard it, he stood right beside the man. The ringing in his ears didn't go away for three days.
"Divisional game. If I have to say any more than that, you shouldn't be out here. Go kick some ass."
The defense took the field to start the game. Arizona had a rookie quarterback drafted in the second round from a small college in the Midwest. The only reason he was out there was because the regular starter suffered a concussion in last week's game and the regular backup had food poisoning. Thrown into action at the last minute, Logan swore he could see the guy’s hands shaking before he took the first snap. When the ball went sailing between his legs, Logan shook his head.
The moment was too big for some people. For Logan, it wasn't big enough. He aimed for the biggest stage of all. The Super Bowl. It wasn't a matter of if he would get there, but when.
"Three and out." Gaige grinned, pulling on his helmet. "Come on, kid. Let's go show them how it's done."
Logan ran onto the field. Kid. He shook his head, grinning. From the first day of training camp, Gaige had hung that moniker on him. Ironic since he was almost twenty-five, a good two years older than most of the other rookies. However, he supposed when someone had been in the league as long as Gaige, all the new guys seemed like kids.
"We're starting on the ground," Gaige instructed them in the huddle. "Sweep out left. Basic. Got it?"
Lining up as he had a thousand other times, Logan checked the defense. He knew he was fast. One of the fastest in the game. What set him apart was his anticipation. He had the uncanny ability to read the guy covering him. He knew when to fake left or when to fake right. Stutter step or flat out, in your face, catch me if you can.
His speed got him out of Denville, Oklahoma. His brains and determination got him to the NFL.
The sounds of the game were as familiar to Logan as the back of his own hand. The call from scrimmage. Each quarterback had his own unique cadence. Gaige was a master of mixing his up. Study him all you want. Good luck figuring it out. His teammates knew. A signal just before they broke the huddle.
Pay attention, you were golden. Slack off even once? Gaige could ream a guy out with the best of them. And he had no problem doing it in the middle of the game.
An entire YouTube channel had been devoted to Gaige and his rants. They were as legendary as the man himself. With a ball in his hand, he was cool as ice. The rest of the time, watch out.
No one would ever accuse Logan of lacking focus. Today was no exception. They were driving down the field. First and ten from the Arizona twenty-yard line. He already had three carries of thirty-five yards. It was going to be a good day.
"Ready to take it in?" Gaige asked.
"Always."
"Then show them what you've got."
A quick snap later, Gaige handed the ball to Logan. The offensive line created a seam. Not a big one. Just big enough. Using the push of his powerful legs, Logan surged through. One more step. They wouldn't catch him. No one could.
Like everything connected with the game, Logan heard the snap of the bone with total clarity. The agony that surged through his body was so intense he almost passed out. In the next few minutes, he was going to wish he had.
"Get back." Logan heard Gaige through the haze of pain. "Goddamn it. Move the hell off."
The three-hundred-and-fifty-pound linebacker didn't get off by standing. He rolled. Crushing Logan's broken leg as he went. He would never know if the move had been deliberate. Now, it was the last thing on his mind. He only cared about two things. How bad was the injury and when would he be able to play again.
"Hold on, kid." Gaige took his hand. "They're bringing the stretcher."
The team doctor checked his eyes. Logan knew he was asked some questions. What they were and how he answered, he would never remember. By the time they carted him off the field, Logan knew the break was bad.
"Gaige." Logan reached for him.
"I'm here, kid."
"Is it over?"
"The game?" Gaige walked with him, his head bent toward Logan. "No. But I promise we're going to win the bastard."
They loaded him onto the open cart. They had him secured and the vehicle rolled away before Logan had his answer. He wasn't wondering about the game. It was his career.
To no one in particular, he whispered the question again.
"Is it over?"
CHAPTER ONE
LOGAN SAT UP in bed, his body covered with a fine coating of sweat.
He glanced at the clock. Three in the fucking morning. On the one night he managed to get to bed at a reasonable hour, he was plagued by the nightmare that had haunted his dreams for the past two years.
Running his hand through his long, damp hair, Logan fell back onto the mattress. His sheets were as wet as he was. With a grimace, he rolled onto the floor. Flexing his stiff knee, he stripped the bed, tossing everything onto a pile of dirty clothes he planned on taking to the laundromat on his day off.
There was an alternative. He could always take Linda Sue Hemmings up on her offer. She would do his laundry anytime. Payment. On-call stud service whenever her husband Darryl was out of town on business. As much as Logan hated folding socks, he decided the price was too high. He had lost a lot in the last few years. He still held onto his dignity. Just barely.
Still groggy, Logan shuffled to the bathroom. Flipping on the light, he grimaced at what the mirror reflected.
Too many late nights followed by not enough sleep. As patterns went, it wasn't a healthy one. Perpetually bloodshot eyes. Dark circles on his dark circles. He needed a haircut. Logan ran his hand over his face. Even more, he needed a shave.
He had to hand it to himself. When he let himself go, he went all the way. All he had to do was stop showering. If he wasn't worried about driving the customers away with his smell, he might have considered it.
The old plumbing rattled with protest when he turned on the faucet. It wasn’t a bad place. There were worse. Logan splashed some cold water on his face. He didn't bother with a towel. It would dry soon enough on its own.
He had two choices.
Or lose himself with an old friend.
Sleep wasn't coming which made the choice an easy one.
Logan pulled on a pair of old shorts, a faded t-shirt and sweatshirt that was too ratty to be called anything as fashionable as a hoodie. After lacing up his sneakers, he hit the road. When he was a kid, he ran for the fun of it. In high school and college, it strengthened his legs and improved his stamina. Now, the only thing it accomplished was getting him a reputation as that half-crazy Price boy. Running the deserted streets at all hours? Maybe his head had been permanently injured along with his leg.
Logan jogged past Lefty's Pub. The place where he spent most evenings tending bar. The day he left for college he swore to anyone who would listen that he had served his last beer. Eight years later, here he was, washing glasses and putting up with not so subtle jabs about how the mighty had fallen.
Coming back to Denville was more of an adjustment than Logan anticipated. He expected the cracks about his failed NFL career. Any kind of success tended to breed a certain amount of jealousy and resentment. There were those who reveled in his injury.
Logan Price always thought too much of himself. Denville wasn't good enough for the high school's star running back. He forgot all about us when he made it big.
The sound of his feet pounding on the unpaved side street couldn't keep the usual thoughts from creeping back. Some of what those people said was true. He had been full of himself. At seventeen, one wasn’t written up in national magazines without it going to his head.
Logan never tried to hide his plans. A full-ride scholarship to the college of his choice. Then the pros. MVP awards. Super Bowl rings. The cocky attitude of a teenager wasn't any easier to take than if he had been an adult. Most of Denville embraced their golden boy.
AFTER ALL THESE YEARS