Falling For Them Volume 2: Reverse Harem Collection

by Nikki Bolvair

  “Bailey.” Ryker tries to get my attention, but I just shake my head at him. “Bailey, please look at me.”

  I glance over at Ryker who sit on the ground next to me.

  He wipes the tears from my face. “Please don’t cry. It’s us that should apologize. We’ve all loved you for years. We used to argue over who got to hang out with you or sit with you. As we got older, we decided to try to date, thinking distance might help you choose or one of us, but we were always drawn back to you.”

  Devon lightly touches my chin and turns me to face him. “We’ve handled this badly, and I’m sorry. The last thing I would ever do is hurt you. Our surprise for this trip was to tell you how much each of us care for you. Had we known you would be hurt by all of this, we wouldn’t have done it.”

  I sniff and wipe my eyes. “All of you?” Disbelief fills the hole left from thinking I lost them.

  Kace runs his hands down my legs. “All of us, Bai. If you’ll have us.”

  “There is nothing I would want more.” New tears form, this time from joy that they all are committed to being with me.

  Kace takes my left hand as Devon takes my right. Ryker places his hand on my back. I glance at each of them in turn as they nod.

  Kace takes a relieved breath. “We want to join you at school next year. Devon got accepted to Jenkins, and Ryker and I can each get a job. We can get a place together off campus. We know things will take some time to work out, but we’re willing to give it our all. Will you join us?”

  I pull them into a group hug. Their love for me washing away my early sadness and fears. “Yes. I want to be with each of you, always.”

  As I look around at them, I know that whatever happens to our world, we’ll be able to get through it if we’re together.

  About the Author

  LA Kirk is a writer and editor. When not hard at work in front of her computer, her time is spent with her husband and two children, watching them play soccer, or chasing after the family puppy. LA loves working with other authors to help build their stories and brands.

  Find LA Kirk on Facebook, Amazon, Twitter, Newsletter, and Goodreads.

  TIED BY FATE

  Tied by Fate

  A Thread Reader Book

  Lyn Forester

  In a world where mystical creatures exist, and occasionally chose to take an active role in people’s lives, the townsfolk of Port Lapton will discover that love always finds a way. Even if it’s with an unexpected, magical push.

  Ever since the heartbreak of her youth, Siobhan’s been fine letting life carry her along. She’s grown out of being a misfit teenager and even snagged herself a respectable job as the town’s community representative-in-trailing. Comfortable with her predictable routines, she’s not looking to make waves. So why do the O’Brien triplets have to choose now to come back into her life?

  Can Siobhan make peace with her troubled past to see her way forward? Or will the transgressions of youth destroy the simple life she’s built?

  Hello Lovely Readers!

  Tied by Fate is book two in the Thread Reader series, but each book is written as a standalone, so it’s not necessary to read them in order of release. The timelines of both books overlap to follow different characters. Though you may notice some familiar faces throughout the series!

  I hope you enjoy Siobhan, Jameson, Hughe, and Davin’s story of second chances and finding lasting love.

  Sincerely,

  Lyn

  TIED BY FATE

  COVEY PUBLISHING, LLC

  Published by Covey Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 550219, Gastonia, NC 28055-0219

  Copyright © 2017 by Lyn Forester

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2017 Covey

  Book Design by Covey, www.coveypublishing.com

  Copy Editing by Covey Publishing, LLC

  Printed in the United States of America.

  First Printing, 2017

  ALSO BY LYN FORESTER

  Poison World Universe

  Poison World

  Beneath a Holo-Sky

  Ash in the Blood

  A Darker Shade of Gray (Coming Next)

  Poisoned Houses

  House of Glass

  House of Artifice (Coming Next)

  Tails x Horns Universe

  You to Me

  Just Not You (Coming Next)

  Thread Reader Universe

  Bound to Be

  Tied by Fate

  In the Loop (Coming Next)

  Table of Contents

  Nighttime Encounters

  Unexpected Reunion

  Don’t Tuck Your Thumb

  Book Club

  My Date

  A Night Out on the Town

  To Libation

  Can't Go Back

  Walkabout

  Will-o’-the-Wisps

  What Lies Beyond

  Pink Cardigans & Romance Books

  Furthering Gossip

  The Sky at Night

  Made on Main Street

  Walkers & Canes

  Coming into Focus

  Microwave Breakfast

  Crack, Snap

  War

  Cold Mattress

  No Distance

  Hot and Cold

  All the Lifetimes

  Tied

  Nighttime Encounters

  “Come on, you can do it, old girl.” My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I ease off on the gas, the old truck shuddering beneath me hard enough to shake loose the hair tucked behind my ears. I swipe back the frizzy black strands in annoyance and slow the truck down even further.

  Every time the family tells Dad to replace the ancient beast, he takes it into the garage, tinkers around with it, and somehow the truck continues to limp along. Still miles away from town and in the middle of the night, it would be just my luck for the old truck to finally give out with me.

  When Tomas, my younger brother, called me earlier today for a favor because he double booked deliveries at Dad’s hardware store, I should have told him to hold it until morning. But with the store understaffed and the rest of my siblings either covering shifts or busy with jobs of their own, delivering the lumber order out to the Barry family farm would have still fallen to me. The farm takes half an hour to reach, and I couldn’t risk the trouble tomorrow morning if something went wrong.

  Almost two years ago, I graduated from university and took a job as the community representative-in-training at Port Lapton’s community center. With my position still tenuous, coming in late never looks good. Mrs. Flanagan already doubts my ability to do the job justice, stating someone a little older would have more of a sense for the town’s history.

  So, I waited until after the community center closed—well after dusk since it was bingo night—then headed over to McKathry’s Hardware. Dad had left to pick Mom up from the craft store, so I’d let myself into the back, grabbed the keys from the office, and gotten on my way. The truck worked just fine all the way out to the farm, where Mr. Barry sent his son out to unload the lumber.

  Once I passed the halfway point back to Port Lapton, though, the old truck started to grumble. I give the gas pedal a light tap to get over a high rut in the road and lean over the steering wheel to peer through the windshield. The headlights do little for visibility as fog creeps from the tree line on either side to obscure the potholes ahead. Every summer, the Barry kids
come out to fill the holes, and every fall, the constant rain washes away their efforts.

  The front of the truck dips when a tire catches in one of the hidden potholes, and my chin slams into the steering wheel. Stomping on the breaks, my hands fly to cup my face as the taste of blood fills my mouth.

  Gingerly, I prod at my lip, squinting at the dark gleam of blood on my fingertips. I really hope that doesn’t turn into a fat lip by morning. It might be the last straw if Mrs. Flanagan thinks I got into some kind of youngster related catfight.

  Wiping my fingers on my pant leg, I get the truck back into motion, arms stiff in front of myself with hands at ten and two. A few hard bumps later, I turn onto the main road back to Port Lapton, thankful as the truck stops rocking back and forth as it rolls over smooth pavement.

  Around the next curve in the road, my headlights fall on a dark sedan pulled off on the side of the road, the back lights blinking in caution. I slow, uncertain. Not a lot of people will drive by this late at night. Most of the smaller towns around these parts shut down after supper.

  I slowly coast by, craning my neck to get a look at the driver. Despite the cold winter night, the car’s driver side window is rolled down. Through it, I spot a delicate looking guy about my own age, head bent over a map, the dome light inside the car glowing against his platinum-blond hair. He looks alone.

  With a sigh, I pull over in front of his car, shut off the truck, and grab my billy club from between the driver’s seat and the console before hopping out. I keep the short baton tucked close to my body as I approach the side of his car. No reason to freak the guy out, but if it turns out he’s a bad person, I’ll be ready.

  Chilly winter wind cuts through my sweater, frozen grass crunching beneath my boots as I walk to the passenger side door. Keeping the width of the car between us adds another layer of safety.

  I gently rap on the window. “Do you need some help?”

  He jumps and spins in his seat, one gold tipped hand flying to cover his heart as he stares at me through the tinted glass. I frown and glance at the back of my old, blue truck. Did he not see me pull over?

  Smiling with relief, he presses the power button to roll down the passenger side window. “Thank you so much for stopping!”

  I nod to the map in his lap. “Are you lost?”

  “I think I must be.” He leans across the center console without unclipping his seatbelt, map extended toward me. His translucent eyebrows sweep together. “I can’t seem to find any road signs around here.”

  Hesitant, I check the backseat before reaching inside the car to take the map. “Where are you headed?”

  “Port Lapton. But I should have arrived by now.” He leans back to open his console, and I stiffen, grip tightening on the baton against my side. When he lifts out a slender cell phone, I relax once more. “I can’t get the GPS working.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” I shake my head as he taps at the device with a frown. “They’re not much use this close to the port. Something in the air messes with the signal. Not even the old bricks work. Most people use walkie talkies if they need to, but even those are spotty.”

  He brightens with a broad smile. “Oh, then I must be closer to town than I thought!”

  “Yeah, about two more miles down this road. You’ll drive in on Main Street.” I return the map, wait until he takes it, then point to a line close to the coast. “You’re here right now. Are you staying at the inn?”

  “There about.” He drops the map and extends his hand. “Thank you very much, Miss...”

  “McKathry. Siobhan McKathry.” Years of ingrained politeness unconsciously moves my hand through the window to shake his hand.

  “Hamilton.” Long fingers curl around mine in a gentle but firm grip before he lets go. “Have a good rest of your night, Ms. McKathry. Be safe.”

  “You, too...Hamilton.” Feeling awkward since I have no idea if it’s his first or last name, I step back from the car.

  He glances out into the dark night. “I’ll wait until you’re safely back inside your truck.”

  “No, I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

  While he seems nice enough, I’ll feel better not to have my back to him, just in case. Mom drilled into me at an early age the danger of being a woman alone at night. Even in a small town like Port Lapton.

  He bites his lip in obvious worry and guilt floods through me for doubting his intentions. “If you’re sure?”

  “I’ll be fine.” With a smile, I wait while he rolls up the window and pulls back onto the road. He waves, golden nails flashing, before he zips down the road and out of sight.

  With a shiver, I hurry back to my truck and hop inside, tucking the billy club back into place before I blow on my icy fingers. The heaters warmth still fills the cab, and I reach for the key, eager to get it blasting again before the engine cools any more.

  The engine chugs for a moment, without catching. “No. No, no, no.”

  I turn the key again. Chug, chug, chug. Desperate, I press on the gas pedal and turn the key again. The truck rumbles back to life, and I lean back with a sigh of relief. In the next heartbeat, it rattles and dies.

  “You stupid, old beast!” I pound the dash and try the key again, but it refuses to restart. Resigned, I dig out the old walkie talkie Dad keeps in the glovebox in case of emergencies. One of my brothers will have to come out and tow me back to town. I twist the knob on top and wait for the tell tail static. It never comes.

  Staring at the bright yellow radio, I try it again with the same result. “You cannot be serious.

  A fast search of the glovebox and center console reveals an empty box of batteries. Frustrated, I yank the key from the ignition, grab my coat and hat from the passenger seat, and hop out of the cab. After buttoning myself up and yanking the hat low over my ears to ward off the cold, I lean back inside to grab my club, lock up the truck, and turn my feet toward home.

  Unexpected Reunion

  Only the quiet crunch of my shoes on the frozen grass breaks the silence. Dead in the middle of coastal winter, most of the animals and insects abandoned the region or went into hibernation. Come spring, the night fills with a constant, low buzz of life. But for now, the creak of trees moving with the wind and the shift of bare branches against each other keep me company.

  My toes go numb fast, my boots were not made for hiking in the cold. A crisp, almost metallic scent fills the air, hinting at snow. I tug the collar of my jacket higher and stuff my nose inside in an attempt to stay warmer. I lengthen my strides, knowing I can’t keep up the pace for a full two miles, but needing to get the blood to move faster through my limbs.

  From off to my right comes a crash, followed by a flurry of movement. I flinch and spin toward the sound. A tree at the forest’s edge leans at an angle, caught mid fall against its neighbor, frozen roots exposed to the night. A flicker of pink light dances behind it, and farther into the woods, blue flickers.

  They flutter and dance to catch my attention, but I force my eyes away, unwilling to be lured by a tricky will-o’-the-wisp.

  Some say the capricious lights lead to different worlds, ones where time stops and every night is spent in merriment. Others, the more romantic, believe the wisps lead to one’s heart’s desire, if only they can be caught.

  The lights follow me over the next quarter mile, the colors changing as I grow colder. Warm yellow and red and an especially bright orange. They beacon with the promise of warmth.

  Walking within the tree line would be a better idea. At least the woods offer a small respite from the constant wind chill. If I’m careful, I can stay away from the wisps while also not freezing to death.

  As I turn toward the woods, headlights flood the road, moving fast around the bend. I hop off the shoulder in case the driver doesn’t see me and grip my club tighter. The lights blind me to the shape of the vehicle, making it impossible to recognize.

  As it comes up on me, it slows and pulls over, coming to a stop a few feet away. The lights switch
to dimmer fog lights, and I see a battered pickup. With relief, I recognize it as Mr. O’Brien’s truck, though I’m surprised he’d be out this late at night, especially in this chill. The arthritis isn’t good on his knuckles, but I’m thankful all the same. He lives next door to my family’s house.

  I wave and run for the passenger side, eager to get out of the cold. The door pops open as I approach, and I grab the handle, taking in a deep breath of the familiar scent of motor oil and old coffee that always lingers in the truck.

  “Thanks for stopping, Mr. O’Brien.” One foot on the running board, I glance up and freeze. Not Mr. O’Brien.

  Instead, a young man stares back at me, whiskey brown eyes wide with surprise. “Siobhan? What are you doing out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Depends on who’s asking, O’Brien.” Eyes narrowed, I take my foot off the runner and lift my billy club in warning. Seeing one of the O’Brien triplets fills me with a mixture of happiness and annoyance.

  His lips twitch at the corners. “If I said I was Jameson, would I be getting a bop?”

  “You’d get more than a bop.” The small baton lowers, fairly certain the triplet in the truck isn’t my childhood heartbreaker. I search his face for any hint and find none. “Davin?”