by Shen, L. J.
I want to be his everything.
But Ash Colchester hasn't sworn off Greer—not at all. Still in love with the girl he once kissed in a circle of broken glass, this soldier-turned-President has never forgotten the taste of her lips or the sound of her whispered, yes, please against his mouth. He's never forgotten the promises he wanted to make her and couldn't, because she was too young for him then, and far too innocent for the things he needs. But he can't wait any longer…
From the USA Today bestselling author of Priest and Misadventures of a Curvy Girl comes a contemporary reimagining of the legend of King Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot—elegant, carnal, and unforgettable.
Find American Queen here!
Books by the Authors
Also by Sierra Simone:
Thornchapel:
A Lesson in Thorns
Feast of Sparks
Harvest of Sighs
Door of Bruises
Misadventures:
Misadventures with a Professor
Misadventures of a Curvy Girl
Misadventures in Blue
The New Camelot Trilogy:
American Queen
American Prince
American King
The Moon (Merlin’s Novella)
The Priest Series:
Priest
Midnight Mass: A Priest Novella
Sinner
Co-Written with Laurelin Paige
Porn Star
Hot Cop
The Markham Hall Series:
The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
The Education of Ivy Leavold
The Punishment of Ivy Leavold
The Reclaiming of Ivy Leavold
The London Lovers:
The Seduction of Molly O’Flaherty
The Persuasion of Molly O’Flaherty
The Wedding of Molly O’Flaherty
Also by Kennedy Ryan
All the King’s Men Duet
The Kingmaker (Book 1)
Ebook, Audio & Paperback
mybook.to/TheKingmakerKindle
The Rebel King (Book 2)
Ebook & Paperback
mybook.to/RebelKingKindle
THE HOOPS Series (All Standalones)
LONG SHOT (A HOOPS Novel)
Ebook, Audio & Paperback
https://amzn.to/2PrMrqQ
BLOCK SHOT (A HOOPS Novel)
Ebook, Audio & Paperback
E-Book: mybook.to/BlockShot
HOOK SHOT (A HOOPS Novel)
Ebook, Audio & Paperback
https://amznto/2UYqzXO
HOOPS Holiday (A HOOPS Novella)
US: https://amzn.to/2QYzidu
UK: https://amzn.to/2QwWVe7
CA: https://amzn.to/2S2wxFx
World: http://books2read.com/HOOPSHoliday
THE SOUL SERIES
(Available on Audio)
My Soul to Keep (Soul 1)
Down to My Soul (Soul 2)
Refrain (Soul 3)
THE GRIP SERIES
(Available on Audio)
FLOW (Grip #1)
GRIP (Grip #2)
STILL (Grip #3)
About the Authors
Sierra Simone is a USA Today bestselling former librarian who spent too much time reading romance novels at the information desk. She lives with her husband and family in Kansas City.
www.thesierrasimone.com
Follow Sierra
Sierra on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheSierraSimone/
Sierra's Facebook Group: sierrasim.one/lambs
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Sierra on Spotify: http://sierrasim.one/spotify
Sierra on Bookbub: sierrasim.one/bookbub
Sierra on Book + Main: sierrasim.one/bookandmain
* * *
A RITA® Award Winner, USA Today Bestselling Author, and Top 25 Amazon Bestseller, Kennedy Ryan writes for women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts.
She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son. She has always leveraged her journalism background to write for charity and non-profit organizations, but enjoys writing to raise Autism awareness most. A contributor for Modern Mom Magazine, Kennedy’s writings have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today and many others. The founder and executive director of a foundation serving Atlanta families living with Autism, she has appeared on Headline News, Montel Williams, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for families living with autism.
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Songbird
Penny Reid & LH Cosway
Two lonely souls find companionship in Dublin for one magical night. Broderick Adams doesn't mind his solitude, until she walks in. Ophelia Kelly sings to heal her heart, but has no idea he's listening.
Copyright © 2019 by L.H. Cosway and Penny Reid.
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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
Ophelia
“Ophelia! Did you hear me?”
“I—what?” Shaking myself from a daydream, my lashes fluttered as Sally—my supervisor—came back into focus.
A small, crooked smile curved her lips to one side. “Off in fairy land again.”
“No. At the Grammys, actually,” I mumbled, but she heard me.
Loud and sudden laughter filled the air, her ruddy cheeks sharp beneath tired yet twinkling eyes. “Goodness gracious. Fancy yourself the next Queen Bee, do you?” Her laughter redoubled and she wiped at her eyes. “Well, when you’re finished with the red carpet, Beyoncé, could you bring those bags with you on your way out?”
I glanced to where she’d gestured and found black bin bags, wrinkling my nose at the unpleasant smell wafting from them and irked that the morning-shift hadn’t already moved them to the bin.
As a maid at one of Dublin’s most prestigious five-star hotels, I earned €9.80 an hour and I spent most of my wages on rent. There wasn’t much left over for luxury, but my dreams kept me going. While I changed beds, cleaned toilets, and vacuumed—heck, even while I lay in my bottom bunk each night, my bed mate snoring overhead—I’d imagine myself somewhere else, usually fabulous, and usually completely ridiculous. For example, this evening as I clocked off from my shift for the night, in my head I was walking on stage to accept my Grammy.
This is so unexpected. Never in a million years did I think I’d be standing here in front of you all…
I’d be gracious and humble as I took my award then re-joined my husband, Henry Cavill, who sat in the audience. He’d spend the evening gazing at me lovingly, then we’d go home to our million-dollar penthouse and make love on our 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Okay, so I was more likely to be the one washing those sheets, but I’d rather live in my fantasies these days than do just about anything else. At least in my fantasies my hefty, long blonde hair was in something other than a bun or a single, plain braid.
Speaking of which, I need a haircut.
“Ophelia? The bags?” my supervisor prompted me
again, not ungently. Sally wasn’t a bad sort, always quick with a laugh and mostly fair—except when it came to the day-shift supervisor who I suspected she was sweet on.
“Sure, no problem,” I answered. “I just wish the day-shift took out their trash for once.”
Sally chuckled loudly. “Be careful what you wish for, Ophelia, especially on Christmas. It might just come true.”
“In that case, I take it back. If my wish is going to come true, I better ask for something a lot better than for people to dispose of their own garbage.”
Sally shook her head in amusement as I lugged the bags out the staff entrance and tossed them in the giant thrash container behind the building, which smelled even worse.
“Thanks so much, love.” Her voice said from behind me and I heard the locks clicking into place.
I turned, dusting my hands off on my jeans. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I ‘spose I’ll be going.”
“Course.” Sally nodded briskly, shivering and glancing up at the starry sky. “Snow in the forecast. Take care and stay warm.”
“You too, Sally.”
She turned and called over her shoulder, “And merry Christmas. Can’t forget about that.”
“Merry Christmas!” I called back, watching her until she turned the corner and disappeared. I headed out onto the street, burying my face in my scarf to fend off the cold. My breath was visible in the icy temperature as I sang softly to myself, the soles of my rubber boots almost silent on the pavement.
Across the way was St. Stephen’s Green, the streetlights casting shadows on the greenery of the park. Further down, the Christmas lights that adorned the shops and restaurants at the top of Grafton Street appeared, twinkling in all their festive glory. The area was still a hive of activity, even at this hour. Some were hurrying to buy last minute gifts, while others socialized in bars with friends and loved ones. It was the exact opposite of tomorrow, Christmas Day, when everything would be closed, the streets of Dublin empty and quiet, like the opening scene to some post-apocalyptic zombie movie.
When I reached the bus stop, I groaned. The screen said it was an hour until the next bus. I had no other choice but to wait. Thinking I’d be warmer if I kept walking, I decided to take a stroll to kill the time.
Working the late shift on Christmas Eve wasn’t so bad when you had no one waiting for you at home. Just another late night in Dublin, except the streets were more festive. The weather was cold and the forecast had threatened snow, but the interior of the eateries shone brightly like beacons.
Taking my time, I felt like Charlie Bucket peering in the windows at all the smartly dressed people merrily enjoying food and drinks. They all seemed so happy, so together, and I tried for a moment to fit myself inside the pictures I kept passing, but I couldn’t. My imagination failed me. I couldn’t put myself inside those pictures because I didn’t have any family left, nor many friends to speak of.
I was alone.
This was my first Christmas without Gran. Even though it had always been just the two of us, we still felt like a complete family. I guess that was the risk of only having one person, if you lost them, you were on your own.
At least I still had music. That, too, was a gift from Gran. She’d taught me the words to traditional Irish songs from a young age, and encouraged me to lift my voice and sing acappella for her friends when they came to visit the house.
Lately, I’d started to go inside little hole in the wall pubs, the ones without music, where old men sat quietly sipping on pints. In places like that people listened, but they didn’t stare at you or make a fuss. I wanted their ears, not their eyes.
Singing was my true passion. Sometimes I’d take to Grafton Street late at night, throw a hat on the ground and sing song after song. Often, I made more money from an hour of busking than I did from a full day cleaning at the hotel. The trouble was I was constantly battling stage fright, especially during the day. It was too bright, with too many people paying attention. At night there was the safety of darkness. Most of the people passing by were drunk, and I was far more comfortable with drunk people than sober ones. They were more easily pleased. . .
I passed another restaurant, then another, the sound of laughter chasing my steps. Rubbing the ache in my chest, I stopped at the end of the street, heaving a watery sigh, and feeling like the cold had stiffened more than just my bones.
On instinct I stepped inside a small pub, mostly to get out of the cold and away from the sound of Christmas Eve festivities. It seemed like a typical, garden variety place. Dimly lit and smelling of ale, there was a long wooden bar, haphazard tables and stools tucked into nooks and crannies, ephemera from the last hundred years decorating the walls, and a sparse smattering of patrons nursing their pints.
But as I stood by the end of the bar and looked without really seeing my surroundings, I felt a song stir within me, clogging my throat as I battled with the compulsion to let it out. Maybe it was because I was so tired, or maybe it was simply because I missed my gran on Christmas and wanted—just for a moment—to feel close to her again, but I closed my eyes and let my voice take over.
I sat within the valley green
I sat me with my true love.
My sad heart strove the two between
The old love and the new love…
The loneliness and melancholy left my body as I sang. It sat on the surface of the lyrics, an invisible passenger flowing out into the room for whoever was there to listen. I took the loss expressed in the song and melded it with my own.
While sad I kissed away her tears
My fond arms round her flinging.
The foe man's shot burst on our ears
From out the wildwood ringing.
A bullet pierced my true love's side
In life's young spring so early.
And on my breast in blood she died
While soft winds shook the barley.
I fell silent, the last note ringing through the silence and through me. A few people clapped, bringing me back to the present. Exhaling heavily, I felt the familiar catharsis, the release, and with it also came peace. The feelings built up inside me until I had no other choice but to let them out through song.
And now it was done, I turned to leave. But the barman called, “Hey, young one. What’s your poison?”
I glanced at him. “Beg your pardon?”
“A performance like that deserves a free drink,” he said with a kind smile, motioning me over to where he stood at the end of the bar, both hands flat on the surface. His grey beard made me think of Santa Claus.
“Guinness,” I said, drifting closer and finally pulling out a stool to sit. It was Gran’s favorite. I didn’t drink often, mostly because I couldn’t afford to, but the taste of stout always reminded me of her.
“You’ve a beautiful singing voice,” the barman said like it was a fact. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He nodded then went to grab a glass, not realizing how much the small kindness meant to me. I felt a tear try to push its way out, but I sniffed it back. The last thing anyone needed was the sorry sight of me crying into my pint.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement and my gaze flickered up. A man had approached and I did a double take. He looked almost exactly like that actor who played Luke Cage on Netflix’s Marvel superhero show of the same name. Except—I noted, studying him as he lowered onto the stool next to mine—he wasn’t as broad. But he was tall and handsome and had presence.
“What’s it called?” he asked, like we were in the middle of a conversation, his alluring brown eyes warm and interested.
And I realized I was staring.
Tearing my eyes away, I blinked several times and cleared my throat before I could find my voice. “What’s what called?”
“The song,” he said softly.
I frowned, staring now at a scratch on the surface of the gleaming wood bar. “You’ve never heard ‘The Wind That Shakes the
Barley’ before?”
The bartender returned with my Guinness, setting it down in front of me, a nice, proper inch of frothy head capping the dark stout. I nodded my thanks and the older man was off again.
Meanwhile, the movie star lookalike at my elbow said nothing. I gave into the urge to look at him again and discovered not only was he just as insanely handsome as I’d thought, but he was studying me unabashedly, his lips curving into a small smile as our gazes met. “Unless you can’t tell—” his smile spread, showing me a scant bit of perfect, white teeth “—I’m not from around here.”
I could definitely tell. For one, there was the accent, and for two, he held himself in a confident way that screamed worldly. This pub wasn’t his local, that was for sure.
“American?” I asked, lifting my glass.
He nodded, tracking the progress of my pint as I took a sip. “New York. I’m here for work, but I leave tomorrow.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Tomorrow? You plan to leave on Christmas?”