by Julie Cannon
Shut Up and Kiss Me
Lowe Carter and Faith Williams could not be more different. Lowe comes from money, very old money. Faith scrapes by, living paycheck to paycheck, sending what little she has left to her mother and little sister. Lowe is just starting her obligatory two-week visit with her parents when she collides, literally and figuratively, with the beautiful Faith. What better way to spend two weeks of hell than in the company of a hot, sexy woman? The only problem is that employees like Faith are forbidden to fraternize with residents and their guests. Join Lowe and Faith as they sail on The Escape, the world’s largest private residence on the water.
What Reviewers Say About Julie Cannon’s Work
Wishing on a Dream
“[The main characters] are well-rounded, flawed and with backstories that fascinated me. Their relationship grows slowly and with bumps along the way but it is never boring. At times it is sweet, tender and emotional, at other times downright hot. I love how Julie Cannon chose to tell it from each point of view in the first person. It gave greater insight into the characters and drew me into the story more. A really enjoyable read.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Review Blog
“This book pulls you in from the moment you pick it up. Keirsten and Tobin are very different, but from the moment they get together, the heat and sexual tension are there. Together they must work through their fears in order to have a magical relationship.”—RT Book Reviews
Smoke and Fire
“Cannon skillfully draws out the honest emotion and growing chemistry between her heroines, a slow burn that feels like constant foreplay leading to a spectacular climax. Though Brady is almost too good to be true, she’s the perfect match for Nicole. Every scene they share leaps off the page, making this a sweet, hot, memorable read.”—Curve
“This book is more than a romance. It is uplifting in a very down-to-earth way and inspires hope through hard-won battles where neither woman is prepared to give up.”—Rainbow Book Reviews
I Remember
“Great plot, unusual twist and wonderful women. …[I Remember] is an inspired romance with extremely hot sex scenes and delightful passion.”—Lesbian Reading Room
Breaker’s Passion
“…an exceptionally hot romance in an exceptionally romantic setting. …Cannon has become known for her well-drawn characters and well-written love scenes.”—Just About Write
“Cannon writes about Hawaii beautifully, her descriptions of the landscape will make the reader want to jump on the first plane to Maui.”—Lambda Literary Review
“Julie Cannon brilliantly alternates between characters, giving the reader just enough backstory to entice, but not enough to overwhelm. Cannon intertwines the luscious landscape of Maui and it’s tropical destinations into the story, sending the reader on a sensuous vacation right alongside the characters.”—Cherry Grrl
Power Play
“Cannon gives her readers a high stakes game full of passion, humor, and incredible sex.”—Just About Write
Just Business
“Julie Cannon’s novels just keep getting better and better! This is a delightful tale that completely engages the reader. It’s a must read romance!”—Just About Write
Heartland
“There’s nothing coy about the passion of these unalike dykes—it ignites at first encounter and never abates. …Cannon’s well-constructed novel conveys more complexity of character and less overwrought melodrama than most stories in the crowded genre of lesbian-love-against-all-odds—a definite plus.”—Richard Labonte, Book Marks
“Julie Cannon has created a wonderful romance. Rachel and Shivley are believable, likeable, bright, and funny. The scenery of the ranch is beautifully described, down to the smells, work, and dust. This is an extremely engaging book, full of humor, drama, and some very hot, hot sex!”—Just About Write
Unchartered Passage
“Cannon has given her readers a novel rich in plot and rich in character development. Her vivid scenes touch our imaginations as her hot sex scenes touch us in many other areas. Uncharted Passage is a great read.”—Just About Write
Heart 2 Heart
“Heart 2 Heart has many hot, intense sex scenes; Lane and Kyle sizzle across the pages. It also explores the world of a homicide detective and other very real issues. Cannon has given her readers a read that’s fun as well as meaty.”—Just About Write
Descent
“If you are into bike racing, you’ll love this book. If you don’t know anything about bike racing, you’ll learn about this interesting sport. You’ll finish the book with a new respect for the sport and the women who participate in it.”—Lambda Literary Review
“Julie Cannon once again takes her readers somewhere many have not been before. This time, it’s to the rough and tumble world of mountain bike racing.”—Just About Write
Shut Up and Kiss Me
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Shut Up and Kiss Me
© 2019 By Julie Cannon. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13:978-1-63555-344-4
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
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First Edition: February 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Credits
Editor: Shelley Thrasher
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Come and Get Me
Heart 2 Heart
Heartland
Uncharted Passage
Just Business
Power Play
Descent
Breakers Passion
Rescue Me
I Remember
Smoke and Fire
Because of You
Countdown
Capsized
Wishing on a Dream
Take Me There
The Boss of Her
Fore Play
Shut Up and Kiss Me
Dedication
For my Family
Chapter One
Day Zero
Phoenix to Sydney, Australia
“You’re going to need these.”
I accepted the handful of Valium my BFF Charlotte dropped into my hand just after she stopped at curbside check-in at Sky Harbor Airport. I was two hours from boarding a flight to the other side of the world to spend the next three weeks with my sister and our parents cruising the high seas. Why? Because I’m a good daughter and it’s that time of the year again. Time for me to show my respect, pay my dues, and not have to deal with my mother’s nonstop guilt trip for the rest of my life if I didn’t.
“So, what’s the problem?” my neighbor Beth had asked innocently last week. “Sounds like the perfect getaway.”
I didn’t bore her with the details, but the problems are plenty. First, I hate my sister. She’s manipulative, obnoxious, pretentious, and a S-N-O-B. She’s shallow, has her therapist and yoga instructor on speed dial, and has never been called anything other than Victoria in her life. She’s five years younger than me, making her thirty-one, yet she
often forgets I’m the big sister. Victoria is married to Everett, an equally boorish man with impeccable manners and zero personality. But he’s filthy rich and the only son in a long line of only sons whose ancestor was some bigwig in the signing of the Declaration of Independence, or came over on the Mayflower, I forget which. Everett represents exactly what Victoria sought in a mate—position, prestige, and money.
Second, Victoria and our mother, Francis Lowe Carter, are two peas in a pod, mirror images, and any other cliché that describes two people so much alike, they could be a scientific study. They have similar mannerisms, serve on various boards of charitable associations, and finish each other’s sentences. Did I mention that they both sit in judgment of those who, in their prehistoric opinion, dare to venture from their place? That place being in a social circle that is not theirs. My mother comes from money, what was once called old money. In today’s terms it’s known as Bill Gates and Richard Branson money. Neither she, nor her father, nor her grandfather ever worked. Work was something somebody else did. Somebody was the doorman, bellman, and pool man.
Third, my father, Landon Philip Carter, retired three years ago as a named partner in the most prestigious law firm in the country. Until he retired, I could count on one hand the number of times I saw him not wearing a tie, his Windsor knot so tight I was surprised he could even swallow. Now, his Bermuda shorts are pressed and his matching polo shirt buttoned up to the first button regardless of the temperature. He’s not quite as bad as my mother, but he doesn’t socialize outside his circle either, which revolves around golf, personal investments, and vintage cars.
My job, as the firstborn in a long-legacy family, is to carry on the obligatory family name no matter that I was a girl. The name Lowe Carter has gotten me into more boys’ gym classes, Boy Scout advertisements, and confused double takes than I care to admit. It never bothered me, because I preferred to play with the boys, but my mother would hear nothing of it. Her daughter, as she was, and her mother was before her, would be the perfect young lady. Unfortunately, I never got that DNA gene.
According to my mother, she is responsible for giving me life after enduring eighteen hours of hard labor before I entered the world screaming and demanding. She never said so, but she probably holds me responsible for her stretch marks, hemorrhoids, and sleepless nights while carrying me. I was constantly moving around like I had someplace important to go. I’m probably to blame for the fact that she leaks a little down there whenever she coughs or laughs too hard. She would absolutely never, ever discuss bladder control in polite company, or any company for that matter, but, when her eyes get big and the look of sheer terror covers her face, it’s pretty evident what’s going on below her beltline.
As tight as my mother is, I have a tough time picturing anything happening south of her trim waistline that would’ve produced me and my sister. I’m sure once my mother recovered from fainting at the sheer audacity of me even asking, she probably would have called it something akin to “wifely duties.” Now I’m not married, never been a wife, and am certainly not a virgin, but I would never call the pure physical enjoyment of two people together a duty.
If not for the fact that I look exactly like my father, plus and minus a few critical anatomical appendages, I would swear I was adopted. Many times, in my youth, and, occasionally now that I’m a full-fledged adult, I prayed I was. The only thing I share with these people is a last name and the first eighteen years of my life at the same address in the largest house in Eagle Ridge Estates. I own my own business, much to the chagrin of my parents and my sister, and I have numerous friends who are considerate, kind, giving, and probably couldn’t even spell the word pretentious. I volunteer at several homeless shelters, and I often drop a twenty into the torn paper cup of the woman who sits quietly on the corner near my building. I drive a twenty-year-old Toyota 4 Runner, not because I can’t afford anything better, but because I love it. It’s white with a tan interior and in immaculate condition. With regular maintenance according to the owner’s manual and my favorite mechanic, she has over three hundred and fifty thousand miles on the odometer. I could walk into just about any car lot in America and pay cash for anything in their inventory, but driving a new car is not what I’m about.
I’m about common sense, existing on what I earn, honesty, and respect. I live in a normal-sized house in a modest subdivision, surrounded by minivans parked in the driveway because the garage is cluttered with bikes, skateboards, and treadmills. Jon, the fourteen-year-old who lives next door, keeps my pool clean and my yard mowed for twenty-five bucks a week. I could do it myself, and I did for many years, but Jon needed some responsibility. According to his mother Beth, while we were sitting on my patio drinking a beer, Jon needed to learn to earn money and not expect it to just be given to him. After a rough start, he’s been doing a good job for the last year. Jon was supposed to keep an eye on my house while I was gone, but when he came over yesterday to get the key, I noticed a bright-red hickey on his neck. I gave the key to his mother instead.
However, I digress. The problem I earlier referred to is that I am the opposite of every member of my family. So, back to why I’m spending my precious free time in their company? At this point in my life, I have no fucking idea.
My parents live on a boat. Well, actually, it’s a ship—a very large ship. At over seven hundred feet, the Escape is the largest private residence on the water. A combination of private yachting and luxury vacation home, she has one hundred and fifty-five luxury apartments. The ship has all the amenities of an upscale community, with shopping, restaurants, a health club, movie theater, medical facility, full-service laundry, two pools, nine Starbucks, and six Peet’s Coffee locations. It has approximately three hundred crew members, including those working in the shops and businesses on board.
After construction began on the Escape, she was launched two years later with every unit sold. It’s not a large ship, as cruise ships go, at just over forty-four thousand tons with a length of six hundred and sixty-two feet, and a beam, or width, of one hundred feet four inches. She has fifteen decks, not including the top deck, which contains a full-size tennis court, a pool, and a large patio all surrounded by a well-cushioned running track. Or, for the use of most of the residents, a walking track. Several of them are so wealthy they arrive and depart from the heliport on the stern of the main deck. The ship’s top speed is twenty knots, or twenty-four miles per hour, but no one is in a hurry to get anywhere.
My parents’ apartment is larger than my house. They have over four thousand square feet of plush, custom-designed, and decorated luxury. They live on deck fifteen, i.e. the deck just below the bridge, their huge living room filled with natural light and views of one hundred and eighty degrees; however, entering their apartment is like stepping into a sterile habitat. Everything is decorated in light colors, chrome, and glass so bright it hurts my eyes. The main living area features an open floor plan with a formal dining room, a piano that nobody plays, a library nook containing books nobody reads, and a large seating area. A leather couch with two side chairs face the windows looking out over the bow. Sliding glass doors, which I’ve never seen open, run the starboard side of the room. A rarely used kitchen with an oversized breakfast bar, and the master bedroom and bath is located on the opposite side. The veranda is about ten feet wide and runs across the front and side of the apartment, giving a spectacular view, if anyone cares to look at it. If this were my place, it would be completely different.
Each year, the residents plan the itinerary, including bringing on board expert guides and lecturers to prepare residents for each port they visit. Last year the Escape traveled to Antarctica, the Solomon Islands, East Asia, the western United States, Canada, and Alaska. This year, my part of their voyage consists of Australia and New Zealand. Every three or four days, the ship docks, and I leap at the chance to escape the judgmental looks of my parents and Victoria. I’m virtually guaranteed that my family will not accompany me on my excursions, Victo
ria and my mother preferring to spend their time in the spa or shopping, my father on the local golf course.
I love my parents and my sister, but I can tolerate them only in short bursts. We don’t have much to talk about, and we stay away from controversial topics, which are most of them. We definitely have a don’t-ask, don’t-tell relationship, which is not applied equally to Victoria. They ask her about Everett, whom my parents adore, but never pose any questions about anyone I might be seeing. Currently, I’m in-between, as they say, so there’s nothing to talk about, but that’s not the point.
The flight from Phoenix to LAX to Sydney is at least eighteen hours long, give or take two or three for delays and whether the jet stream is in our favor. I treated myself to a seat in business class, where I could decompress over several glasses of free bourbon and one of the unread lesbian romances from the neat stack on my bookshelf at home. By the time I landed in Sydney, passed through customs, and caught a cab to the port, I had shifted my mindset to endure this trip.
Chapter Two
Day One
Port of Sydney
“Oh my god. Why did I volunteer to work the cleanup shift last night?” My sleep-deprived, scratchy voice filled my small cabin. Between the cold I’ve been fighting for a week, my early shift at The Club, and the typical confusion on board when we docked, it was going to be a very long day.
