by Snow, Nicole
Accidental Rebel
A Marriage Mistake Romance
Nicole Snow
Ice Lips Press
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in September, 2019.
Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Wander Aguiar Photography.
Contents
About the Book
1. Ring-a-Ling (Gwen)
2. Holding Out (Miller)
3. It’s Only A Week (Gwen)
4. Fine Print (Miller)
5. More to Chew On (Gwen)
6. Like a Hawk (Miller)
7. Time to Fly (Gwen)
8. Heart of the Matter (Miller)
9. The Deep End (Gwen)
10. Get A Room (Miller)
11. The Cost of Lemonade (Gwen)
12. Truth or Dare (Miller)
13. Closing In (Gwen)
14. Promises Made (Miller)
15. Winners and Losers (Gwen)
16. Eye to Eye (Miller)
17. Splash (Gwen)
18. Just Rewards (Miller)
19. Pearl Diving (Gwen)
20. No Place Better (Miller)
21. That’s My Hubby (Gwen)
Accidental Knight Preview
About Nicole Snow
More Books by Nicole
About the Book
Accidentally hitched to a dream. Now for the catch...
I didn't even say "I do."
One crank call and I'm insta-wife to a tattooed behemoth and mother to his kids.
He's paying my idiot boss a fortune for the perfect lie.
Because trouble found Miller Rush, and he found me.
A rock hard, overprotective rebel with a cause.
Father of the century.
Abs wound tighter than his attitude.
A broodylicious bull stomping around my house, barking orders.
Something's got to give, okay?
But it won't be me.
Not my courage, even when my nosy mother smells drama.
Not my heart set on helping two little angels and their perma-grump dad.
Definitely not my body screaming Mayday because his bedroom eyes are magnets.
Deep breath.
It's only a few weeks.
It's only a whole mess of freaky secrets.
It's only pretend and I'm so not letting Miller run off with my heart.
Riiight. Why didn't anyone warn me some knots can't be untied?
1
Ring-a-Ling (Gwen)
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” I slap my desk with both hands so hard the round plastic holder full of pens and pencils nearly topples over.
This damn ringing is officially driving me nuts.
With writerly things still clinking together, I shove my chair back, letting out a loud huff. Remind me why I’m here again?
All the hours of unpaid overtime recovering data from a computer that must’ve been on Noah’s Ark is punishment enough. I’ve put up with rudeness, last minute requests that add on hours to my day, every nuisance imaginable since working here, but this...
This constant freaking ringing? I think I’d rather spend all day spraying nests of angry hornets.
I’ve had it.
Standing, I stretch angrily and march across the room to yank open Manny’s office door.
Every room of this oh-so-prestigious – gag me – law office is smaller than most broom closets. But that’s life. It’s also my tragic joke of a job.
I’m an ‘ass-ociate’ of Stork, Storkley, and Associates. A place where the Storkley part is fictitious and so are the associates.
Manny Stork, Esquire, is the only real lawyer here, and it’s a stretch to say that. And, well, as the only other soul here who could be called an ‘associate’ in the vaguest sense, I haven’t done anything but kept my nose shoved in an ancient computer for weeks doing data recovery.
Beggars can’t be choosers, they say.
But I’m wondering if I’d be getting better job experience rattling a cup for loose change on the street. Too bad this was the only legal job available in Finley Grove, Minnesota, one more small town among the pines.
Unless I wanted to sell out waiting tables, playing overnight cashier at the gas station, or working a fast food drive through, the choice was clear.
This is the part where I wish I’d taken a better look at my choices. Because right the heck now?
I think anything would beat Stork, Storkley, and Associates.
Growth pains. I could blame it on them.
Apparently, I’m still 'growing into my feet.' A phrase Mother loves using to describe my almost comical mess of a life and six-foot-tall height.
So I’m not the most graceful person.
Waitressing? Been there, done that. It didn’t work. My one and only paycheck went to cover all the dishes I’d broken.
And I think those little drive-thru gas pumps are even more claustrophobic than Manny’s law offices. They can also be dangerous.
I may be tall with a head full of untamable red hair that at times could scare the pants off any would-be robber, but I’m a chicken at heart. So cashiering overnights at a convenience store wasn’t up my alley either.
Then there’s that pesky paralegal certificate on my resume. The thing I’d shelled out good money and years of my life for, telling myself law would be stable. Glamorous. Exciting.
Right. Let’s just blame it on too many Law and Order reruns and cut our losses.
My losses. Anyway...
So here I am, following an obnoxious nonstop ringing in the stuffy office of a lawyer who has more side gigs than real clients on the books. That much I’ve figured out from the data I’m recovering.
Part of me wonders exactly what some of his gigs are all about. Admittedly, I’m intrigued, which is probably the only reason I haven’t handed in my resignation yet.
The noise is coming from Manny’s desk. Just a constant, steady basic bitch ringtone that only goes quiet for a few seconds before it goes off like an air raid siren again.
Sighing, I pull open the desk drawer. My brows knit together as I glare at the obnoxious phone that’s been blaring for the last hour.
The rest of the metal drawer is empty. God.
No wonder this thing sounded like an elephant stampede echoing off the walls.
Odd. It’s one of those disposable pay-as-you-go cell phones. Some off-brand I’ve never seen or heard of before. I frown.
This isn’t like my illustrious boss. Manny has a sleek new Android phone that’s larger than his palm and forever glued to it.
I lift out the phone just as it quits ringing again.
Honestly, I don’t know if I’m happy or disappointed.
The stupid plastic device just shattered my last nerve. To think I was looking forward to planting the tip of my heel in the screen, pressing down with a satisfying crunch, and putting an end to this insanity.
My finger taps the button on the front, turning it on.
“Seventeen missed calls?” I whisper out loud, reading the screen. “At least seventeen. More like seventeen hundred.” I scroll down. “Twenty-two text messages? Again, at least.”
All from Unknown. Damn spammers.
I flip the phone over, looking for the off button, when it buzzes in my hand again. My fingers shake so violently I feel like I’m holding on to a restless frog trying to leap away.
It’s another text. Mr. or Mrs. Unknown again.
Confirmation needed on tomorrow’s meeting ASAP. Answer me.
I shake my head, pursing my lips and staring at the message. I almost feel sorry for Unknown.
Whoever they are, they’ve put an awful lot of confidence in this firm. And if they’re stupid enough to believe Manny Stork is as good a lawyer as he believes he is, that’s their problem, not mine.
The message disappears, and I notice the time. “7:15? Christ. Maybe I’m the stupid one. There goes another four hours I’ll never be paid for.”
Saying it confirms how done I am with this day.
I’ve been here since seven this morning. I grit my teeth. As my boss, Mr. Asshat, Esquire himself, has said in the weeks since I’ve been here, ‘working long hours doesn’t always equal smart hours.’
He doesn’t have the saying quite right, but the meaning’s there. For me, I think it means one more day shot in the head.
But tomorrow’s another day. There’s always a teensy-tiny chance it might suck a little less than this one.
It might even be the day I’m done with this shady data recovery crap so maybe, just maybe, I can actually start working on a real case like Manny promised. Something I can sink my teeth into and hopefully, enjoy. Not to mention make my education pay off.
Hopefully I’ll remember what I supposedly learned. I graduated with a degree in marketing and went back for a paralegal certificate later, but have to admit, writing was always the one thing on my mind, which didn’t make me the best student.
The phone buzzes again.
Another text.
Confirmation ASAP!
I stare at the words until they disappear, feeling a tug of anxiety. Should I, or shouldn’t I?
Obviously, it’s a total invasion of privacy to play with a mysterious stranger who wants to reach my boss really badly over the phone. But it’s an invasion of a girl’s sanity to have no fun ever at work.
What the hell? I am an associate, after all.
Manny keeps his schedule in his phone, but I’ll be here all day tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that, searching through old computer files that barely hint at anything. This could be one of his side gigs where I can get some answers.
I click on the text icon, and then type fast, before I lose my nerve.
Confirmed.
Then, practically shaking in my heels with a snicker, I jet for the door.
When I reach to click off the light, I realize the phone’s still in my hand. I consider putting it back, but probably should scroll through the messages so I know what time this meeting is that I just confirmed.
Manny won’t miss the phone.
He won’t be back until nine a.m. tomorrow morning. I’ll be here by seven. Besides, if he wanted or needed it so badly, he’d have taken it with him.
Since my wonderful boss has been so amazing to me, I’m glad I could return the favor.
* * *
At my desk, I drop the phone into my purse, turn off the old dinosaur computer and the newer laptop, and then lock the office door. I lock up the outside door of the small brick building as well, and then climb in my Buick Regal.
Don’t laugh. It’s an old boat of a car, but I need the head room. In all honesty though, the old girl’s showing her age.
A decade of savage Minnesota winters, driving on ice and salt covered roads, is always hard on cars. I’m going to miss this beast if and when I can ever afford a new one. She’s never failed me.
The old US Mail slogan comes to mind: neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom...
She delivers. And I’m thankful I have one thing in my life I can count on.
Tonight’s no different, and Old Pearl – although her pearl white paint has faded into a dull ecru color – and I are soon pulling into my driveway. Or Mother’s driveway, to get technical.
Technically, she owns the townhouse I live in.
Technically, she owns the entire building and rents out the other three places, too.
Technically, she acts like she’s doing me a huge favor, even though without me keeping an eye on things, she would’ve had to sell these spur-of-the-moment rental investments a long time ago.
Sigh.
I’m so not bitter.
Even if I do sometimes secretly dream of following in her footsteps. A New York Times Best Selling Author.
That’s my mom, M.E. Court.
May Ericka Courtney to those of us who know her.
I’ve even figured out my pen name. Gwen Lynn. That sounds miles better than Gwendolyn Courtney, and much shorter, too. It’ll look nicer than Mother’s slanted, floral script on covers, too.
I want the huge, blocky style that’s right at home with thriller novels. Books full of intrigue and mystery. Romances are Mother’s signature genre and her claim to fame. Even though she and my father didn’t exactly have a happily ever after.
I don’t even know if they had a happy for now.
I barely remember him. They’d divorced long before he died.
Hitting the button to open the garage door, I wait impatiently for...nothing?
That’s what happens, and it can only mean the batteries are dead. Stupid thing.
No warning. Just dead.
I scan the area with an ever-familiar eerie sensation tickling the back of my neck before shutting off my car. This could be one reason I’ve never finished a single one of the many books I’ve started working on.
Confession? I’m afraid of the dark. Of my own shadow. Of dang near everything. The cowardly lion skipping his way to Oz had more courage than I do. I get to the point in a story where the intrigue gets deep, and I creep myself out and let my imagination go wild and just...stop.
Like I’m doing now. I shake my head.
Convinced the coast is clear, I jump out of the car and make a mad dash for the front door like a flock of flying monkeys are after me. Someday, I’ll get over this ridiculous fear of everything.
That’s what I keep telling myself, and I hope someday, I’ll be right.
Inside, with the door locked, I can breathe easy again.
In another life, I must’ve been chased through the night by a serial killer or something. It had to be another life because it sure hasn’t happened in this one.
Still, I’ve always felt like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I know something dark and sinister is going to happen.
Someday, it won’t matter, I tell myself again. Probably whenever I’m finally rich enough to lock myself inside and finish writing a book. A damn good one that will have me hitting the charts right alongside Mom.
I kick off my shoes, leave them by the door, and walk across the plush new carpet. Mom had the place re-carpeted before I moved in, all beige because it doesn’t show traffic like white does.
That’s my mother, though, and I love her. Drama and all.
Before I reach the kitchen, my purse buzzes like an angry hornet found its way inside. It’s not my phone. That’s a guarantee.
The number of people who have my phone number is next to nil, and most of them are far too busy to light up my screen at eight o’clock at night.
Real trepidation crawls up my spine as I pull out the cheap phone and set my purse on the counter. I take a deep breath and hold it, glancing at the text displayed on the screen.
Will she be there?
Forget the trepidation. Now, it’s a full-on shiver.
She? She who? A she hasn’t entered Manny’s office since I started there.
What have I confirmed? Manny’s not married, and he doesn’t have any daughters or sisters that I’m aware of.
Crud.
This must be one of his side gigs. Secretive, under-the-table projects that don’t leave much of a trail. Probably for good legal reason.
But I just know they’re how Manny keeps making money outside his skeletal client base. Far more than any lawyer makes writing up wills and settling small-time estate feuds.
I set the phone down and back away from it slowly.
The phone can’t hurt me. It’s ninety percent plastic. I have no good reason to be afraid of it. So why are my hands shaking?
Because deep down, I know this might be Manny’s Pandora’s Box, and I just opened it.
“Get a grip!”
My own voice makes me jump.
“Sheesh!” I head for the fridge and grab a bottle of water, downing half of it without coming up for air.
Better. At least I’m no longer shaking like a leaf.
Deep breath. I go through it in my head.
Manny is a snake, but he’s more like a gardener than a rattler. It’s not like he’s in the business of killing people. Or shacking weirdo Unknowns up with shes for a price.
Eat something, I tell myself.
That’ll help. I haven’t eaten since noon, when I wolfed down the leftover pasta salad I’d taken to the office yesterday.
Listening to my small amount of common sense, I pull out more deli food, and tear open a container of fresh salad. It’s some sort of spring greens mix with chicken and seeds and avocado and raspberry vinaigrette dressing. I put away the rest and plop down at the small breakfast bar to savor a few bites.
I don’t get far before the phone buzzes again.
Oh, crap.
I don’t glance at it, but that doesn’t stop my mind from conjuring up a thousand different scenarios. The mind of a writer is never silent. It’s always working on overtime, creating what-ifs and heroes and bad guys that’ll grab you by the throat and scream read me.
