by Ally Crew
“Hey, kitten,” he beckons me from the other end, with a cock of his brow. “Come here.”
The sound of that loving pet name elicits a quiver in my core.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure my brothers are not loitering around the kitchen. Then, I sashay towards him, making sure to flaunt all of my motherly curves. If I was generous before, I’m downright decadently sized now. And he loves it.
“Tonight…” He pulls me onto his lap. “How about you put on your little black dress and we have dinner at your favorite Italian restaurant? Just the two of us…” his finger runs up my skirt, and I feel the growing bulge beneath my thighs.
“Yes,” I moan, feeling the warmth swirl between my folds.
Five years have passed, and I still can’t get enough of him.
The pitter patter of our three-year-old’s feet scuttle into the room. On turning around, I’m faced with a pair of annoyed green eyes, very similar shade to mine. Boring those laser orbs into me, she pushes against my back. “Daddy’s mine!”
As I step aside, so she can hog his attention, but not before he slides a roguish wink my way. And I know he’s going to pick up from where we’ve left off and until then I will only get more hot and bothered.
Between two babies, two brothers, and two businesses, we end up stealing any spare moment we can for ourselves, so I can spoil him by giving in to his desires as he deems fit. But as I watch him tickle our baby now, standing to toss her tiny giggling body into the air, I bask in the sights and sounds of their laughter.
I’m the most spoiled woman alive. All my desires having come true in this beautiful home we’ve built for ourselves.
And I’ll be forever grateful that Mason Kenmore opened that door…and my heart.
~THE END~
If you liked Dani’s story, you’ll love the next book in the series—
SHOW TIME! And stick around for an exclusive sneak peek!
Be sure to join The Crew newsletter to find out when the release is coming in July and how to be the first to read it!
Hugs and kisses, Ally
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Miso Soup
On a stormy day, like the one Dani and Mason found each other in, I love to have a nice warming soup and this is one of my favorites. It’s a quick one-pot recipe to make, and wow, the flavors are incredible. Said to be Unami-brothy and meaty (without meat!)—but without any additives. Oh, and it’s six (and maybe seven) ingredients not my usual five, but one is water, so I hope you’ll forgive me. :-) All the ingredients can be easily found at your local Asian grocer and in most chain grocers, too.
Here we go!
Miso Soup
Prep: 5 minutes
Cook Time: 15 minutes
Servings: 3-4 (or just two, if you’re like hubby and me and can’t stop going back for more! :-))
Ingredients:
6 cups of water
1 packet of bonito flakes (a couple alternatives down below)
1/4 cup of white shirt miso (soybean paste)
6 ounces of silken tofu, cut into 1/4-inch cubes
1/2 cup dried wakame
3-4 green onions, thinly sliced
We like to add thinly sliced mushrooms, but not necessary.
Directions:
1. Make dashi broth by bringing the water to a boil over high heat. Once it reaches a simmer, reduce heat to medium-low and stir in the bonito flakes. Simmer for 4-6 minutes or until most of the flakes sink to the bottom of the pan. Strain the flakes from the broth, saving the broth, and return to the stove.
2. In a small bowl, add the miso past along with 1/2 cup of the hot dashi broth from above. Whisk until really smooth. Then add this mixture into the broth and blend well.
3. Add the tofu, wake, and green onions, (mushrooms sliced dry thinly, if desired) and gently mix to combine. Increase heat to medium and continue to cook for about 5-8 minutes, or until the soup starts to simmer.
4. Ladle to bowls and add a few more fresh green onions to garnish.
Enjoy! Hugs and kisses, Ally Crew
Sneak Peak of SHOW TIME-Instalove Hearts 3
Chapter 1
Iris
Popcorn. Gum. Nachos. Over and over.
Popcorn and nachos stuck in gum. That is a new one. With the scraper, I remove the gum from the handle of the theatre seat, dispose the muck in the plastic bag before slipping the scraper back into my cleaner’s apron.
“Ugh…” I adjust the strap of the flimsy apron that is slicing into the folds of my curvy waist. “Wait…what is that?” My curly lashes fly up in disapproval. Caramel popcorn? A whole toppled bucket. This isn’t just sad. It’s cruel and criminal to ruin such a delicious treat.
But it’s all just typical fallout from the explosive chaos that is otherwise known as a party of raucous ten-year-olds.
I have all of fifteen minutes, and another forty-eight seats to go, before the next show time erupts. But that is to be expected from an entertainment venue of this caliber. Leather recliners. Fancy cup holders. Dolby Digital sound. IMAX screens. This glitzy complex is a cinematic experience at its finest, a part of the “Phenomenon” chain of theatres, the largest in the state.
“Keep moving!” I say to myself to stay the course, returning to the mission the best way I know how—head on. Whipping out the long-handled broom, I scoop up the mountain of popcorn and dump it into the bin.
What a waste…
Just as I stand up to adjust the creases bunching up at the seams on my shirt, I feel the subtle but freak-out-inducing pop.
“No!” A dramatic horror-shriek goes off in my head, and my widened pupils drop down to my shirt. The crucial button—the one holding my shirt over the midpoint of my bra—has flown off to never been seen again on the dark floors.
Murphy's Law strikes again. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Great.
For a cinema chain that believes in big-big chairs, giant screens, and massive popcorn tubs, they do scrounge a few inches off on uniform sizing.
But, popped button and toppled toffee popcorn tales aside, Phenomenon does have a lot going for it in my books. The timings of movies, six p.m. to one a.m., fit perfectly into my day, following right on the heels of my day job. The pay is slightly better than minimum wage. The complex isn’t far from my home. I get to watch movies for free and take home four free snacks a month, saving up on a few spoiling expenses and only encouraging my massive sweet tooth, but I’m not complaining. After all, each penny in the piggy bank counts.
Life’s tough for a struggling twenty-two-year-old. Life gets infinitely tougher for a struggling twenty-two-year old whose only parent—a loving dad—needs a surgery that he keeps putting off.
Besides, my hard work on the floor hasn’t gone unnoticed. I won the “friendliest employee of the year” a few weeks ago, which is a testament to my father’s upbringing of me. Of course, all of this means I don’t have time for a love life. But the last time I peeped through the keyhole, there weren’t a queue of guys waiting outside my door to woo me anyway.
So, I am not going to complain.
I remove the Phenomenon pin from my upper shoulder and fasten it on the empty buttonhole, the metal barely holding my shirt in place.
I glance to my phone. “Shit! Ten minutes…” I double down on sweeping and scooping and removing, on repeat.
And with just a minute to go, I push the supplies cart outside the doors and welcome in the first of the moviegoers. I’m about to do a mini Cinderella dance by the closet, with my broom and apron, when the message notification on my phone goes off.
A mini jolt travels through me, as I swiftly enter the pin on my cracked screen. It’s been this way since dad’s illness, but working is still working.
&nb
sp; “Phew.” I blow a little puff of relief—the text is from my day job, not from the doctor’s.
“Wait… work?” My pulse creeps up again. “Letter of termination?” Done through a text?!
I try reading through its contents, but tears bead my eyes and I struggle to read the message through the droplets and the spider crack blurring the screen.
When I make it to the end, the message is ultimately short and artificially sweet. However, it’s obvious they have decided to let me go because I took a couple of mornings off to accompany dad to his hospital appointments.
“This is crap! You’ve got to be kidding me.” I rage inside as well as out. I can’t not have a second job. Especially not now. This is a small town—jobs are as tough to come by as penguins in a desert.
Just then my caller tune goes off. Dad? Not a great time…”
But I try to put on my Iris happiness. “Hey… what’s up?”
“Just checking on you.” A shuffle of kitchen-noises can be heard in the background. “I’ve put the mac-and-cheese in the fridge. All you’ve got to do is heat it up when you get home.”
“Thank you Dad. You are the best.”
“I know.” He kids and it brightens my evening a tiny bit. “Hey, everything ok? You don’t sound yourself.”
I sumo-wrestle with the lump in my throat, ramming it down to the floor of my stomach. “Of course.”
He stalls, his voice dropping. “I noticed an overdue bill on the table today. You know, the appointment that’s coming up…we could put it off for a month… if that would make it easier on us.”
“Oh no, of course not…” I’m start to say, when the phone switches off. And it won't switch back on. I stare at the instrument in my hand for a few dead seconds, before pitching my colleague behind the snack counter a half-glimpse, hoping she doesn’t notice the shiny trails on my cheeks.
“I need to head to the bathroom. Just need a minute.”
“Sure, hun.” She nods, serving her customer. “Take your time.”
I will, because I could do with a really good cry.
I rush through the swinging door, and the room is surprisingly empty. Hunching over the wash basin, I let the tears flow, and it feels good.
“I need a spare button…a spare phone…and a fucking spare job!” I scream into a few paper towels.
When I’ve eventually exhausted the tears and squinted at the mirror, I look like I’m dressed for Halloween.
My messy bun has twisted on my head into just a mess. My lips are swollen. And mascara streaks run down my cheeks.
Lesson number 45764 learned today, dollar store mascaras aren’t waterproof.
I quickly wipe my face, not wanting to be found missing from my spot for too long, and rush out.
Ouch. Oops. Crash!
The phone drops from my hand as I bump into a brick wall. A handsome brick wall of a human. A handsome brick wall, inches over six feet tall as I’m over five and a half and feel miniature in his shadow. He’s dressed in a posh suit that accentuates his broad shoulders. Above that is a sharp trail of whiskers on a chiseled jawline, a smoldering gaze, a hold stronger than magnets, and features sculpted by a master craftsman. To complete the delightful picture is gelled tawny hair with two streaks of ash.
The brick-wall is sexy with a bold S!
Wait… delightful… sexy?
The choice of mental words surprise me, as does the fact that I can sense a wave of heat moving down below. Way below, between my thighs.
Shit...
A second ago I was bawling my eyes out and now I’m burning with want. This is not my M.O. It’s clear I’m having some sort of physical anomaly. Have to be. Textbook signs of a breakdown or…or…plain lust.
An invisible mirror flashes in front of me and realize what a mess I am. Smudged mascara. Broken button. A few love rolls ballooning out of my apron.
Suddenly, the doors of the escalator pings open and a small crowd spills out, yanking me back to the realization that I’m silently flirting with a customer, all while still in his brawny hold.
What am I doing” I can’t lose this job, too.
“I… I… I… I’m sorry,” I cough up a few hurried apologies while backing away, and try hastening down the corridors, until his husky voice applies the brakes on my speedy getaway.
“Forgetting something?”
I turn around and catch my phone in his hand—strong veined hands—his thumb rolling along its sides. For a second, I imagine his thumb rolling over something else, and an abrupt tingle sends my nipples hardening.
His silvery glances travel down to the broken button of my shirt and back up to my face.
The burn on my cheeks intensifies a notch. “My phone!”
He pulls it back to his chest as I approach. “I owe you a phone... but you owe me your number.” He doesn’t make a request. Not even a question. It’s a statement.
My heart vaults to the base of my throat.
Plucking my phone from him with unsteady hands, our fingers brushing and sending a warm zip through my arm and I swear out the tips of my toes, I disappear from the corridor without a word.
Number? Did he really say that?
Stop dreaming, Iris. You might be a poor Cinderella, but he’s just a guy in the theatre, not a Prince Charming.
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