by Sara Hazel
Will (Goodman Brothers Book 1)
Alpha Security Romance
Sara Hazel
Katy Winters
Contents
Title Page
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About the Authors
Copyright © 2020 Sara Hazel and Katy Winters. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the authors. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter One
Steph
The daisies aren’t as big as I want them to be. I sigh in frustration, putting my dirt-stained hands on my aproned hips, and stare at them as if that’ll somehow prompt them to grow. It’s spring, and spring means daisies. These were closer to dandelions.
Contemplating the downfall of my daisy-selling skills for this season, I close my eyes for a moment, only to hear a knock on the door. It’s Mr. Charles, my next-door neighbor. I brighten immediately, wondering if he’s come over to talk shop or talk shop—literally. He has a tool sharpening shop that he runs out of the shed next to his barn. Either way, he always has a smile for me, and I always have a carnation for him.
Handing him my tie-dyed creation of a blue and green carnation, I smile, leaning over the opened greenhouse window. “How are you doing today, Mr. Charles?”
He squints in the bright sunlight. I always admonish him to wear sunglasses, worried for his aging eyes, but I don’t think the man’s ever listened to anyone a day in his life. “Just fine, Stephy,” he boasts. He’s the only one allowed to call me that. Hell, he’s the only one old enough to call me whatever he wants.
“What can I do for you?” I dust off my hands and gaze up at the tall man. His pure white hair fairly glows in the sun, and his bushy eyebrows nearly hide the blue of his eyes. “I was just thinking that my daisies might need a little of your special help.”
This time he brightens. “I’ve got a whole bucket of manure for you,” he laughs. “Stinks to high heaven, but I’ll bring it over tonight. No ma’am, I came over to tell you not to be alarmed if you see a stranger or two working on my barn.”
His barn is directly across from my greenhouse. It has a tarp over the roof to shield the horses from rain, and I’m glad he’d finally decided to do something about it. “I’m happy to hear it,” I say. “It’s been what, six months and it’s getting to rainy season? I was afraid your horses would have to swim before long.”
He laughs, showing aging, yellow teeth, and I grin until I see a darker man come up to the fence behind him, wearing a loose white shirt and dirty blue jeans. His skin is the color of perfect toast; a beautiful colored rosary tattoo adorns his right bicep. Brilliant brown eyes gaze at me seriously. I stop, staring, forgetting how to speak.
“This is Will Goodman,” Mr. Charles says, oblivious to my stare. “He’s the contractor who’s been hired to help with my barn and a few other projects around the house, and the shop that I just can’t get to. He has a man or two that might be doing some work with him, but for the most part…”
I can’t hear the rest of what Mr. Charles says as I gape at Will. He’s a beautiful specimen of a man. I feel something inside of me tighten that hasn’t been awake for a long time. I find myself blushing, turning to hide my curves, only to find his eyes watching every move I make.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says softly. His voice is deep. “What’s your name?”
Mr. Charles blushes this time, looking embarrassed. “Look at me, not even introducing my neighbor! This is Stephanie, she’s a florist. She works this greenhouse all by herself,” he says proudly. “Puts all the work into the flowers and sells them herself. Her flowers are beautiful. Look at this carnation she brought me! She always…”
Mr. Charles’ voice fades out again as Will continues to examine me, eyes lingering on the thick curve of my hips, a smile curling on his lips. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says in that low voice, under the words of Mr. Charles. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
I’m drooling. I know I’m drooling. He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen, and I get to stare at him while making flower arrangements for the next few weeks.
Sometimes life really is better than TV.
Chapter Two
Will
The girl next door. It would be such a cliché if it wasn’t someone else’s girl next door; the florist, the flower shop girl. The beautiful girl in the hot house with the winding brown hair down to her waist and curves that just won’t quit. Her eyes are the deepest blue that I’ve ever seen, and her breasts…
I know she probably dresses for comfort working in such a hot place, but damn, does she have to show so much cleavage?
As Charles and I walk back the few steps to his barn for some quotes and conversation, I can’t stop thinking about her. There’s something about her eyes that makes me feel like I already know her, and I want to get to know her better, to get under her skin, to make her think about me as much as I’m thinking about her. I’m surprised by the strength of my attraction to her, but I remembered something that my oldest brother told me and my two younger brothers back in high school: when it’s right, you’ll know, and nothing can change your mind.
Nothing is going to change my mind. I don’t know what it is about Stephanie, but something about her calls to me soul deep. As I start to get my ladder off my truck, I turn to Mr. Charles, who’s smiling at me.
“You like her,” he states bluntly.
I blink warily. I’m not used to someone being able to read me as easily as this man is reading me, and I’m not sure that I like it. “Why do you say that?”
He laughs, a braying that turns into a cough. “Because if you looked at her hips any longer your eyes would’ve come glued to her,” he says, patting me on the back. “She’s a beauty. And the sweetest girl I’ve ever met.” He looks at my truck, feigning a casual air that didn’t suit the intense old man. “But she’s sensitive, Will. And I won’t take to anyone hurting her.”
He says nothing else as he turns toward the house and toddles away unsteadily. I haul my ladder up onto my shoulder and make my way back to the barn. I can see her dark hair moving around in the greenhouse as she works. The soft sound of an alto voice singing drifts out of the greenhouse windows. I stop to listen and almost drop the ladder at the beautiful rendition of “Amazing Grace.”
Her fa
ce is aglow in the light as she arranges flowers, gently trimming leaves and moving petals to make something incredibly complex that looks breathtaking. The flowers wind and weave within each other, stalks twisting like a bonsai tree; the whole is even more beautiful than the parts.
I look back at the old man still walking toward his house and close my eyes for a moment, leaning the ladder up against the barn wall. “I’m in trouble,” I murmur to myself, and laugh. As I watch her through the window, I see a gentleman in a suit and tie out front walking toward the front door of the greenhouse. I feel something protective and fierce within me. It takes everything I have not to walk into the greenhouse and demand to know what he’s doing here and what he wants with her.
Oh, yeah. I’m in trouble.
Chapter Three
Steph
I lock the door to the greenhouse and make my way to the backyard to look at my own little garden—my reluctant peas, an overabundance of tomatoes, and strawberries in the upside-down grower that I bought off of late night TV.
I may grow flowers for a living, but my passion is this: watching little herbs poking out of planters, vegetables blooming, my apple trees blossoming and smelling so heavenly.
I sigh, sinking down to the grass, crossing my legs. I inhale slowly, enjoying the moment where I don’t have to be the bubbly florist girl, the outgoing flower woman, the businesswoman. This is where I can indulge in my normally shy nature, my reclusive self, my desire to be alone.
Of course, it’s then that I realize I’m not alone. Because of course I’m not.
I open my eyes slowly, blushing as I find Will leaning against one of my apple trees near Mr. Charles’ property. His gaze sweeps up and down my body and I feel myself shivering. “Hello, Will,” I say, more calmly than I feel.
“Hello, Stephanie.”
“Steph,” I offer, moving to stand up. He’s at my side before I realize it, offering his hands, helping me balance and get up. I’m a very curvy woman, but he somehow makes me feel small and dainty as his muscles flex to pull me to my feet.
“Steph. Did I interrupt something?” His brown eyes sparkle in the dying sunlight and I see a hint of gold in them.
“Oh! No. I just… meditate after work sometimes. I like to sit in my garden and relax from the day…” I start to walk toward my house, hoping he’ll follow me.
His hand brushes against mine and I shiver again, sighing as he comes with me. “I noticed you don’t have a lot of flowers in your garden,” he offered. “Too much of them at work?”
“I’m surrounded by beautiful things all day long,” I explain, and offer him a seat in the rocking chair on my covered back porch. “Sometimes something more functional and useful soothes me. Makes me feel like something functional and useful like me can be beautiful, too.”
I blush immediately. I can’t believe I said that! I don’t exactly have poor self-esteem, but I know that I’m not the ideal beauty model that some women are. It doesn’t take more than a second for Will to shoot out of his seat, his hand on my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes.
“I don’t want to hear you say anything like that ever again,” he says matter-of-factly. As if he’ll be around to hear it or not. As if he has plans somewhere in the back of his mind to correct me every time I’m wrong. His voice is soft, husky, and I almost moan at the strength of his hand against my skin.
“What?” I ask.
His fingertips stroke my cheek before he drops his hand, looking away. “That you’re not beautiful. It’s ridiculous.” Will sat back down in the rocking chair, staring toward my mini orchard. It’s clear that he’s lost in thought, so I take my embarrassment and go into the kitchen to get us some lemonade.
I don’t know why I semi invited him into my house, why I’m sitting down for a drink with him. But it’s like I’ve known him forever as we sit together watching the sun setting over my trees. “How did you become a florist?” he says finally.
I lean back in my own rocking chair, sipping lemonade. “My grandmother,” I say finally. “She raised me and worked at a local florist’s in town. I grew up in that flower shop, and knew it was what I wanted to do. I went to school for interior design, but I just kept coming back to flowers… so when I could, I bought this house, I built the greenhouse, and here I am.” I pause, looking up at his serious eyes. “What about you? Did you just fall into being a contractor, or what?”
“Sort of,” he muses. “My dad was always building things, and me and my brothers grew up handy. I just took it to the next logical step and decided to make a career out of it.” He takes a sip of his lemonade. “I like working with my hands. I like seeing what I can build, what I can make from nothing, what I can fix that was broken.”
It sounds so romantic, the way that he phrases it; something so mundane—fixing the roof of a barn—sounded like mending broken hearts. Briefly, I wonder if he can mend a heart that’s only broken because it’s never truly been loved.
“I understand,” I say wistfully. “I think that’s what I like so much about flowers, honestly. They can fix so many things. People use flowers to try to mend sadness, to express happiness, to wash over anger…”
He crooks a grin. “I’ve used flowers more than once to say I’m sorry,” he says slyly. “But what else do flowers say? I’ve heard there’s a whole language of flowers. That they can say almost anything.” Pausing, he swirls his lemonade in his glass, and pulls out his phone with the other hand. “For example, what would you say if I gave you camellias?”
I blink, laughing. “That I’m a little too old to be called adorable,” I say, and blush. I’ve never known a guy to be so quick-witted; he must have known exactly what he wanted to say to Google it that quickly.
“What about…” I can see him scrolling. “Clovers? Are clovers really a flower?”
“Anything’s a flower if you have the right point of view. You want me to think about you? What do you want me to think?”
His eyes were serious, glowing gold over the screen of his phone. “Anything,” he says slowly, the word rolling off his tongue. “Everything.” His eyes sweep down my body and back up again, taking in my dirt-stained shirt, my pink and white skirt, the pumps I insist on wearing even though I’m on my feet all day.
“I feel like I know you,” I admit slowly. “Like there’s something…” I almost say ‘like there’s something between us,’ but good sense stops me. I’ve just met this man, and there’s no reason for me to be flirting with him like this; there’s no reason for me to think that he could be more than passively interested in me.
He watches me then, for a long moment, a secret smile gracing his thick lips. He licks them, a long, slow lick, and a shiver runs down my spine. I look at the way that his tattoo ripples with the way his muscles contract, the way his chest tightens and flexes under his shirt as he looks at me. I sigh, longing to run my hands down his skin.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I whisper finally, and I can feel a blush running down my neck to my chest.
“Because you’re beautiful,” he says simply. He stands up, offering me his empty glass, and slides his phone into his back pocket. “Maybe I’ll come back with orchids,” he offers over his shoulder with a grin, walking away.
Orchids.
A message of seduction.
Chapter Four
Will
It’s late as I lay in bed across town; Steph is on my mind. I can’t stop thinking about her: the way she gasps a little when she breathes, anxious to talk. The way her shirt dipped low and showed off her soft, full cleavage. The way she smiled at me wearing perfect copper lipstick that only accentuated her brown hair. She’s so fucking beautiful. I can’t deny the attraction I have to her.
I know that she felt it too; I knew by the way she squirmed a little in her seat every time I smiled at her. She’s not stupid; I also know she’ll realize exactly what I meant about coming back with orchids. I want to make her mine and she knows it.
I groan as I
listen to the rain pouring on the tin roof over my apartment, lying on my stomach, pressing my erection into the hard mattress. I can’t stop thinking about her and it’s killing me. I’ve been hard from the second I left the damn backyard. I was already thinking about her as I set up all my equipment for tomorrow. The drive home was pure torture.
Now I lay me down to sleep and instead of sweet dreams, I’m grinding myself into the bed, groaning her name. I’m thinking about things she told me: she wants to expand her greenhouse, to buy the plot of land behind her orchard and get even more fruit trees. She wants to have apple picking in the autumn for local preschool kids as a field trip. She’s the most damn wholesome girl I’ve ever met.
I told her my secrets: I want to open a woodworking shop on the outskirts of town and make toys, and wooden chests, and carvings. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that. We talked about families, and how I think I’m too old for anyone to want to have kids with me at this point, no matter how badly I want them. She talked about how she wants as many as she’s given. And I thought that that sounded perfect.
The rain intensifies, pounding on the roof—a staccato of cacophony. I can feel the pressure of the storm in my bones, can feel the pressure of wanting her in my veins. I want to hear all her dreams, want to give her all of me. We talked for hours on that porch, and I’ve never felt closer to anyone in my life.
Thunder crashes loudly and I groan again, rolling over onto my back. I can’t take it anymore. I have to see her. I throw myself off the bed and pull on my jeans, shoving my throbbing cock behind my zipper, and toss on a t-shirt. The rain soaks me instantly as I charge out of the apartment toward my truck, yanking the door open and growling as I climb into the seat. I feel primal, animalistic; I want to claim this woman as mine, to make sure that no one else can ever have her.
