Last but never least in heart is my own tight-knit community—the Dunbar clan—Mr. Dunbar, MD, MK, JR and A. For going along with Mom trying to make her way over forty (actually over 50!).
About the Author
Love Notes
www.lbdunbar.com
L.B. Dunbar loves the sweeter things in life: cookies, Coca-Cola, and romance. Her reading journey began with a deep love of fairy tales and alpha males. She loves a deep belly laugh and a strong hug. Occasionally, she has the energy of a Jack Russell terrier. Accused—yes, that’s the correct word—of having an overactive imagination, to her benefit, such an imagination works well. Author of over two dozen novels, she’s created sexy rom-coms for the over 40; intrigue on an island; MMA chaos; rock star mayhem, and sweet small-town romance. In addition, she earned a title as the “myth and legend lady” for her modernizations of mythology as elda lore. Her other duties in life include mother to four children and wife to the one and only.
www.lbdunbar.com
Stalk Me: https://www.facebook.com/lbdunbarauthor
Instagram Me: @lbdunbarwrites
Read Me:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8195738.L_B_Dunbar
Follow Me: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/l-b-dunbar
Tweet Me: https://twitter.com/lbdunbarwrites
Pin Me: http://www.pinterest.com/lbdunbar/
Get News Here: https://app.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/j7j2s0
AND more things here
Hang with us: Loving L.B. (reader group): https://www.facebook.com/groups/LovingLB/
Find Smartypants Romance online:
Website: www.smartypantsromance.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/smartypantsromance/
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/smartypantsromance
Twitter: @smartypantsrom
Instagram: @smartypantsromance
Read on for:
1. Sneak Peek: Love in a Pickle,.By L.B. Dunbar
2. Sneak Peek: Been There Done That, Book #1 in the Leffersbee Series by Hope Ellis
3. L.B. Dunbar’s Booklist
4. Smartypants Romance’s Booklist
Sneak Peek: Love in a Pickle by L.B. Dunbar Coming in 2021
[Scotia]
A heaviness presses over me, but not as heavy as my head feels.
Lord have mercy, I drank too much last evening.
My brain weighs fifty-million tons as does my tongue, pasty and swollen, behind teeth that feel as fuzzy as a cat’s tail. I roll said tongue, dry lips smacking as thirst seems to be evading me.
You sure were thirsty last night, my stomach roils, and I discover something resting over my side, just above my hip. I squirm under the weight, pressing back into something long and thick and protruding into my backside.
“Karl,” I mutter. “Get off me.”
My hand reaches for the arm over my mid-section, the movement taking all my strength until I touch something else thick and long and slightly coarse and curly.
Karl? I’m slow to register the silliness of my thoughts. My husband has been dead for nearly seven years.
“Who’s Karl?” A rugged, rumbly voice asks, and two things surprise me at once: the depth of his tenor and the unfamiliarity of it. I twist, knocking my shoulder into a solid wall of male chest. I don’t put a dent in his position, but instead bounce off of him, making my head ache more.
“Who are you?” I squeak, wondering however in tarnation did a man get into my hotel bed.
“You answer me first,” he mumbles, his voice still sleep-rough and with his eyes closed.
“He’s my husband.”
I don’t know how fast a big bodied man can typically move but the speed with which this man scrambled from behind me was record-breaking. He stood at the end of the king-size bed staring back at me a long moment, eyes blinking until I came into focus to him and the reality of who he was became clear to me.
“You have a husband?” He chokes, swiping a hand the size of a dinner plate through thick, wild locks of midnight. With several swift wipes, I notice it refuses to go back into place and I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through those waves.
The silence settles between us and I remember he’s waiting on an answer from me.
“Had. My husband is dead.”
He blinks, eyes dark as rich chocolate reaching for mine. “I’m sorry.”
“It was mistaken identity. He was murdered.” I don’t know why I offer this information to a complete stranger, but there it is. My husband Karl Simmons was wrongfully killed.
Is there a rightfully killed?
Shaking my head, I dismiss both my crazy question and my sorrowful memory. Karl and I might not have had the best marriage, but we had an understanding.
The stranger nods, and I take a second to assess him. Broad shoulders under a white tee. Black dress pants minus a belt. A well-trimmed beard that looks as if it would be wild and reckless like his hair within another day.
“You’re Chester Chesterfield,” I blurt.
The corner of his lip tweaks upward, crooked and sarcastic. “That’s right. Thanks for remembering.”
How could I forget? Chester Chesterfield was the esteemed guest and keynote speaker at the Tennessee Entrepreneur Conference yesterday evening in which the honor for outstanding female-led, small business owner of the year was awarded. I was a nominee. I didn’t win.
Chester Chesterfield, however, is a prize in and of himself. Rumored to be a petroleum oil tycoon, and not to be confused with petroleum jelly—the moisturizing kind—he spoke about the benefits and necessity of locally-owned, small businesses to a community and Tennessee as a whole. Easy for him to say, though, as he’s worth millions of dollars from a business I can’t imagine remains small.
“I’m Scotia Simmons,” I tell him, as if he might not know. Then again, he was in my bed. I hope he knows my name at least. My eyes travel to his belt region, noting once again the lack of one.
“Did we?” I clutch the sheet I’d already been clutching higher up my chest, realizing how very naked I am underneath the scratchy material. Minus all clothing but my underwear, I’m almost as bare as the day I was born.
He shakes his head, and relief washes over me. Thank goodness.
Then another thought occurs.
“Why didn’t we?”
I mean, he’s Chester Chesterfield, known rogue lover at this event. The night started as I met up with a few other female entrepreneurs and the first round of drinks included a discussion on the famous one-night lover.
“Who will be his lucky conquest this year?” one woman snickered.
“Oh Sharon, you only wish it could be you,” another snarked.
“If only he was a repeat offender,” the last one sighed, and the other two turned on her wanting details.
I didn’t know if any of their remarks were true, but somehow Chester became my mission for the night.
Get laid. It’d been a long time. Recalling the stiff length pressed into my backside only moments ago, I should have immediately known it was not Karl, not in girth or solidness or enthusiasm. Karl rarely got it up for me. Ironic, considering where he was when his death occurred, but that’s neither here nor there in this moment.
I’m staring at Chester as all these thoughts race through my head and I’m waiting on an answer.
“Your art of seduction needs some polishing.”
“And just what might that mean?” My art is just fine. I work out six days a week. It takes dedication to be this physically fit at almost forty-eight.
“Puking on a man’s boots isn’t sexy.”
“I did not,” I huff, my voice rising in octaves as I admonish the thought. I do not puke. And I did not vomit on his boots. “And where’s my dress?”
Becoming overly aware of my nakedness under the sheet, I glare back at him as his left brow rises higher and a spark comes to those cool brown eyes.
“No,” I whisper.
“It’s hanging over the r
od in the shower.”
“You washed out my dress?” That was…kind of sweet, although it is dry-clean only.
He shrugs, looking away from me and I take in his profile once again. Strong. Burly. I remember a tux, though, and slicked back hair which has me gazing at that glorious riot on his head, and I surmise it can only be contained for so long.
“But we didn’t…you know…” I’d whistle what I mean if I could whistle and if I didn’t think it crass, almost vulgar, to whistle in such a manner. However, I imagine three gin and tonics in, and my seduction skills might have lacked a little finesse. Then again, it’s been almost three decades since I’ve tried to seduce anyone. Why can’t it happen naturally? Why can’t a man just look at me and want me? Why don’t men hit on me?
“Doesn’t anyone want to sleep with me?” I fling myself backward, the heaviness in my head thumping as I hit the pillow and stare up at the ceiling.
What’s wrong with me? I’m successful. I’m wealthy. I’m physically fit. I’m perfect.
“Maybe it’s your approach, darlin’,” he states and I’m ready to scold him for calling me such an endearment. Dropping that g makes him sound like a hick and he’d seemed so refined last evening—surely darling is a word he’s used with others.
But forgetting all that, I swirl my hands around my mid-section, talking to myself in my head but acting as if I’m speaking aloud. I don’t want him calling me darlin’ or anything.
I just wanted him to sleep with me.
One night.
It’s been so long.
My head lifts, noting he’s still standing at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, gazing down at his feet. I throw back my head one more time. I hear him rustling around the room and I roll to my side, staring at the window. The sun beams through the sheer curtains. We never closed the room darkening ones, and I can see it’s going to be a glorious Tennessee spring day here in Nashville. Soon, I’ll need to make the trek back to Green Valley, my hometown, but I’d give anything to remain in this bed and curl into myself.
More rustling. The sound of a shoe tapping the floor like he’s struggling to place his foot in it. The clink of a belt. He wore a tuxedo jacket and a bow tie last night. Where were his clothes? I don’t look. I just stare at the window.
The women said he wasn’t selective. I wasn’t too old. Too graying. Too anything. He’d do me, they teased.
“Who said such a thing?”
I still as if I’d been moving which I wasn’t. I’m even holding my breath.
“Uhm…” Did I say all that out loud?
“Those biddies you were sitting with, is that who spoke such a thing ‘bout me?”
I roll to look at him over my shoulder, meeting his eyes which toss axes back at me. I don’t have the strength to spar with him although fighting is one of my strengths. I can pick and poke at the best of them, making certain I always have the last word. But not today.
“They told me you weren’t discriminatory, and I would be good enough for you.”
He huffs, shaking his head and I notice he holds his tux jacket over his arm. The belt and tie drape his forearm as well. His hand curled into a fist at the edge of his belongings is huge and I wonder for a second if he liked holding me last night. Did he even know he did it?
“What does it matter?”
“Forget it,” I snort-huff, knowing it’s unattractive and realizing I didn’t care. I don’t care because I’ll never see Chester Chesterfield again and he isn’t attracted to me anyway.
“No, I want to know. Who cares what those ninny-know-it-alls think?”
My head rolls back to peer at him over my shoulder once again. “It isn’t that I care what they think. It’s that I cared to have sex with you, and you didn’t care to have sex with me.”
“Who said that?” he huffs.
“Well, you…” I stare back at him. He said we didn’t have sex. Isn’t that what he means?
“I want a real answer. Why sex with me?”
“Because I haven’t had it in over a decade, okay? Not with a real man. A man who wants me. One virile and brooding and solid thick in the…you know…” I wave a hand toward the general direction of his…you know.
“Say the word?”
“Pardon me?” I blink at him, but he’s holding firm. One word.
I’m not saying that word.
Well, what does it matter?
Fine, I’ll say the word.
“Dick. Fine, there. Satisfied? I wanted your dick.”
He chuckles with a shake of his head, and I close my eyes, mortified. I have no idea what he looks like underneath those tuxedo pants. He could be all of a pencil, sharpened down to just above the eraser for all I know, but the description from the ladies got out of hand and then I wanted him in my hand. I wanted to know what it would feel like to hold and be held. To caress and be caressed. To be penetrated by a man—not someone like Karl—and Chester seemed like the perfect specimen.
Suddenly, I hear the drop of the belt and feel the strain of the mattress near my feet. My eyes open and I watch as he tugs his t-shirt over his head by the back collar, removing the white material like a curtain for the opening act. On display before me is a broad chest with a bit of dark hair and a thick trail leading lower. He tosses it on the floor, and I want to admonish him for being untidy, but I can’t think as he begins to crawl over me.
His brawny body blocks out the sun like a thunderous cloud and I want him to rain down on me. He covers me but doesn’t press down. His body remains on all fours, a predator over his prey, and I’m ready to scream devour me. I’m so turned on and he hasn’t even touched me. It’s just the look of him, the feral appeal of him. His nostrils flare, and he licks his lips. My heart races and my breasts heave under the sheet hardly covering me.
“You sure about this, darlin’,” he attempts to whisper but that rugged sleepy tone returns, and the depth thunders down to my toes.
Yes. No.
I shouldn’t do this.
But who am I kidding, I’m Scotia Simmons. I want to do this, and I always do what I want. Holding my head higher, despite the throbbing, I answer.
“Definitely.”
** End Sneak Peek **
Sneak Peek: Been There Done That by Hope Ellis, Book #1 in the Leffersbee Series
Available Now!
NICK
12 Years Ago
“They should be here soon,” Sheriff James said.
The hospital intercom overhead came to life, squawking something undecipherable.
I didn’t stir. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, I was numb. Numb to the squeaking of nurses’ soft-soled shoes that passed outside the open doorway of the family consultation room. Numb to the dreaded hospital smells—both the antiseptic and what they wiped away. Numb to the updates from the doctor with the pitying eyes and the heavy weight of Sheriff James’s stare.
Even the torn, bleeding flesh of my fingers and knuckles no longer stung. I’d entered an alternate universe, a different reality that mercifully blunted the pain of this one. I could almost believe that my mother wasn’t several hundred feet away in a hospital bay.
Maybe the past three hours hadn’t happened . . .
It was an empty hope.
Just as well. It would be a shame if I had no recollection of the first and only time I’d gone apeshit and done exactly what I wanted to do.
I could claim I hadn’t known what I was doing—temporary insanity—but the truth was I’d relished every downward swing of that bat as it shattered mirrors, bent chrome, dented metal. I’d been euphoric as I braced myself and tipped over the row of motorcycles, using my legs to finish what the bat started.
The jarring impact of each blow singing through my arms had almost compensated for an entire year of feeling helpless as I watched my little family capsize into dark waters.
“They should be here soon,” Sheriff James repeated. He’d sat in the corner for the last hour or so, mostly silent. His face was
expressionless, but his voice was warmer than I would’ve expected considering he’d had to fish me out of an enraged mob of Iron Wraith bikers.
I grunted. I didn’t have the energy to work up any other response. All-consuming rage and sorrow had wrung me out, left me empty.
As if on cue, there was a flurry of activity in the doorway.
Ezra and Ellie Leffersbee, faces full of worry, skidded to a stop. They were bizarrely dressed. Mrs. Leffersbee was as undone as I’d ever seen her outside her home. A dark scarf covered her usually perfect hairdo. Grooves from the fabric of a pillowcase imprinted across one cheek. The hem of a frilly nightgown peeked out from under her coat. Mr. Leffersbee wore mismatched sweats, socks, and sandals. It was not the attire anyone would expect for a bank owner and one of the richest men in the county.
Seeing them here, people who knew me and cared, brought huge relief. And shame.
Mrs. Leffersbee said my name in a sleep-roughened voice and started forward, but Sheriff James stood up, raised a hand.
“Ezra. Ellie. If I could have a minute with you first.”
Both Leffersbees shot one last glance in my direction before they followed Sheriff James out into the hallway. I lowered my head, unable to meet their gaze. The sight of my bloodied hands filled my vision again. Revulsion churned in my gut. A distant memory pulled at the back of my brain, then registered.
My father.
I hadn’t seen him in many years. Not since my mother had finally had enough of him and the tirades that usually accompanied the end of his workday at the mill. Since then, it had just been us, thank God. But I could remember my father in this very position, head bowed with regret, fists bruised. Telling us he’d finally lost his job after getting into a fight with another millworker. Again.
I spent my entire life fighting against any comparisons to that man and his temper, proving to myself that I would be a better man, was a better man, and had a better future in store.
Love in Deed: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 6) Page 34
