Indestructible

by Angela Graham

  And then there was her face. It was so relaxed. She was undeniably comfortable in her skin, and only I knew why.

  It was because of him—because of his love. For the strength he gave me, and the protection so tangible it bundled me in a warm, cozy shelter where I could be myself, let go, and fly with the man I loved and cherished more than anything else in the world. He saw me like no one else ever could, and he was mine.

  I shed a scalding tear. A second was following close behind as I caught the silver band sparkling from her ring finger.

  The tears streamed heavier as I lowered my head for a closer look at the delicate band of tiny stones, with a large princess-cut diamond framed in the center. It was simple and classic, but nothing short of exquisite.

  When I lifted my head back up, the impact of the painting having wakened buried emotions within me, I found Logan on one knee with a black box in his hands, open and revealing the exact ring from the painting.

  “I told you I’d keep asking, and I will. I’ll propose to you every day for the rest of my life if I have to.” Tears glistened in his bright eyes. “You’re it for me, Cassandra. I’ll never want or need for anyone else. You’re my angel, sent from above to resurrect the man I no longer believed was inside me. You saved me, and brought joy and love to both me and my son. I told you before, and I’ll say it again: I’ll never take for granted how incredible you are. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

  With heavy steps and a pounding heart, I moved around the canvas, my eyes locking on his. He continued, his voice growing stronger and deeper with each word he spoke.

  “Cassandra Clarke, will you do me the honor of making me the luckiest man alive by becoming my wife?”

  My lip quivered, my sobs unrestrained as my feet skittered across the floor, sending me straight into Logan’s open arms. He caught me when I fell into him, his mouth colliding with mine.

  Breathless, I broke the kiss, weeping with nothing but exhilaration.

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you!”

  Logan nearly gasped. Was he that worried I’d say no?

  “Does that mean you’ll make love to me now?” I teased, placing my hands on his shoulders so I could pull back and see the gorgeous face of my future husband.

  His lips quirked up in a wicked smirk. “I’m going to make love to you every chance I have until this sexy little body of yours is carrying my child—our child.”

  My cheeks erupted in flames. A baby? I couldn’t deny that even just the thought of it felt right, but I still had a lot of growing up of my own to do before that happened.

  “I say we wait on the babies—spend some time with it being just us. Let Oliver adjust to me being around.”

  He stared at me thoughtfully.

  “Why rush? You have all of me now,” I murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth.

  “And you have me—completely.”

  “Maybe next year.” I leaned forward and placed kisses along his jaw.

  “‘Next year’,” he mimicked, smiling. “Oliver would love a brother…maybe a couple sisters to drive him insane like mine does.”

  I froze mid-kiss and swallowed, biting down on my bottom lip. Logan’s fingers cradled my chin, lifting my gaze to his.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Fighting back my laughter, I confessed, “That reminds me: So Julia and I had this bet…”

  The End

  Not quite ready to say goodbye to Logan and Cassandra just yet? You don’t have to.

  Angela’s currently working on a spin-off series featuring the characters of Harmony.

  Questions will be answered and happily-ever-afters will be granted.

  Each story is set to be a standalone book, no cliffhangers for those wondering, and both Logan and Cassandra will be secondary characters throughout.

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  About the Author

  Angela Graham resides in Tipp City, Ohio with her three beautiful children. She is a USA Today bestselling author of the Harmony series, Inevitable, Irreplaceable and Indestructible, as well as a novella, Indulge. Collaborating with S.E. Hall, she released two erotic short stories and is currently working on the next.

  Connect with the Author

  Visit Angela’s website at:

  www.loveangelagraham.com

  Follow Angela on Facebook at:

  https://www.facebook.com/angelagraham.author?focus_composer=true&ref_type=bookmark

  Find Angela’s books at:

  http:/www.amazon.com/Angela-Graham/e/B00D3RZ5U2/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

  Find Angela on Twitter at:

  https://twitter.com/angelagraham01

  Acknowledgments

  This journey I’ve taken over the past year has been nothing short of incredible. I’ve met so many wonderful and kind people whom I can’t imagine not having in my life. To create a story and bring it to life for readers is something I couldn’t do without the amazing team surrounding and supporting me.

  This book wouldn’t be the same without S.E. Hall, my CP. You’ll always be the top dog on my team—my favorite quickie partner!

  Whitney Baer, where do I start? Over the past year, you’ve become a close and trusted friend. Nothing will ever change that. Thank you for bringing sanity to my life and allowing me the time to write without worry. I love you for that and much more. I hope you’re at my side for many more books and vacations.

  To my talented and patient editor, Jen Juneau, who comes in behind me and polishes my words like no one else can. Thank you! It was great to meet you in person, and I hope we can go out for drinks again soon to celebrate another book together.

  I am in love with my books’ covers, and Indestructible’s is one of my favorites thanks to the incredible Sommer Stein. You rock it every time! Thank you for always being only a message away. You truly blow my mind each and every time we work together. There’s no way I could’ve done this without you.

  To Kristi Pelton, who pulled me out of a writing funk. Thank you for the honesty and feedback. Can’t wait to read your next one!

  A huge thank you to Amber Warne for making me smile every time I click open a message from her! Keep those teasers coming…and feel free to share more goodies from your private file anytime.

  Vanessa Wallace and Brittney Mears: two unbelievable and kind women I have the honor of knowing and calling friends. I adore you both.

  To Jennifer Alumbaugh, Lynne Christie, and Natasha Giagnacovo Rochon: When I open your messages, I know I’ll be either grinning, laughing, or crying. You dolls make my days brighter. Thank you for the love and support!

  A shout-out to some amazing ladies whom I absolutely adore: Michelle Santos, Chantal Davis, Nikki Costello, Teri Fantastic, Danielle Sanchez, Renee Entress. I can’t say thank you enough! I’ll be forever grateful for everything you do to support me.

  An enormous thank you to my betas and street teamers, and anyone who has every shared a post about or tweeted a link to my books. I appreciate each and every one of you. I may not be around as much to tell you every day, but know that I see what you do for me, and appreciate it more than I can say.

  To the entire blogger community…there are not enough words to describe how grateful I am to you all. Without your hard work and dedication to spread the word about my books, I would not be living my dream. Thank you.

  The most essential support team I have is my family. To Tommy, I’ll always love you and without your support I wouldn’t have been able to do this. Thank you for all the long weekends you picked up my slack around the house, and with the kids.

  And last but far from the least, to my little darlings William, James, and Tinsley. I love you so much. Every word I write is for you.

  While You’re Waiting

  While you’re waiting for more from Angela, be sure to check ou
t S.E. Hall

  Facebook—https://www.facebook.com/S.E.HallAuthorEmerge

  Blog—http://www.mysehallauthor.com/

  Amazon—http://www.amazon.com/S.E.-Hall/e/B00D0AB9TI

  Chapter Three Excerpt from Pretty Instinct

  by S.E. Hall

  After the longest two hours of any of our lives, with suffocating amounts of tension in the air, we finally make it to the rest stop Cami designated. Lucky for her, we’d still been in our homeland of Ohio when she’d lost her shit, so she was able to call someone to meet her a small jaunt down the road. Otherwise, I would have offloaded her randomly. At least, I think I would have.

  Throwing down his cards in the middle of our four man game of Uno, Conner’s up and ready as soon as we stop and he sees a park out the window.

  “You didn’t say Uno,” Rhett teases him as he picks up the scattered cards. “I win.”

  “Move,” Cami barks at Conner, trying to shove past him and knocking her case into his hip as she does so.

  “I’m not playing with her,” I warn Jarrett in a menacingly low snarl. “Get her the fuck off my bus before you have to alibi my whereabouts at the time of the murder.” I’m truly floored, no idea of the deep-rooted venom she’d hidden. And maybe she’s just having a categorically bad day…but I won’t risk her having another one on my bus.

  Jarrett hurries to the door, throwing an arm around Conner’s shoulders. “Let’s scoot back, buddy, give Cami room to get off the bus.”

  “Where’s Cami going?” He looks around, confused. “Cami, where are you going?”

  “The fuck away from you!”

  Instinctually, Jarrett has Conner moved back already, thank goodness, ‘cause I’m done, up with a fist full of her hair and my arm reared back as Rhett chuckles from behind me, his arm squeezing around my waist.

  “Almost over,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Hold it together long enough for her to get off the bus and you never have to worry about her again. Come on.” He untangles my fingers from her greasy strands and walks backwards, dragging me with him. “Come sit down with me until she’s gone.”

  I only do so under duress. He holds me down forcefully on his lap, my head falling against his chest. As relieved as I am that the debacle’s seconds from being over, it’s created a whole new problem. “We have a gig in a few days and no fucking bassist. What’re we gonna do?”

  “I can play!” Conner raises his hand, eavesdropping from way over there.

  Jarrett nudges him with a shoulder and heads to sit down by us, Cami completely unloaded now. Time for our little family to have a meeting, minus Bruce. He’ll stay put in his captain’s chair, steering clear of any drama.

  “You play great, Con.” And he did. He was talented, even wrote some songs way back when. “But we need you on tambourine, remember?” Jarrett lovingly reminds him.

  Every show, Uncle Bruce watches over Conner, right off stage, shaking his tambourine like a champ. I feel awful that all he can do now is shake the noisy thing from the wings, but it’s too unpredictable to let him on stage, some crowds nicer than others, venues ranging from large and rowdy to small and accommodating. We adjust accordingly.

  “That is right.” His brow wrinkles. Sweetness.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.” I stand, moving to the door, figuring Cami’s long gone. “You wanna stretch your legs in the fresh air a minute, Bubs?”

  A jaunt in the sun is as much to clear my mind as his. I have no idea what we’ll think of, and I’d dragged them all on this misadventure, only to have it now collapsing. Although originally my idea, it’s become all Rhett and Jarrett have. Even if we call it quits today, I have Conner and a fallback nest egg, but the boys were ostracized socially and financially from their shitty “family” the minute they’d stepped onboard. Well, officially, anyway; the groundwork of such was laid long before. They’d finally given their parents the excuse they needed to justify their douchery at tea parties and such: “It’s okay to shit on our kids because they…”

  So I can’t just cancel the gig. It may be no big deal to me—this was never about being discovered or getting signed as the next “big thing” in my eyes—but I suspect it’s become exactly that to Rhett and Jarrett.

  I need a miracle…preferably one that has some empathy, or at least fakes it with their mouth closed, and can pluck a mean bass.

  What started as stretching our legs for a minute turned into an afternoon picnic and a game of Frisbee golf. I’m heading to hole five, a par two (the trash can), cleaning up what’s left of our lunch when something, or someone rather, catches my eye.

  Hello, miracle.

  The glint of the sun reflecting off the guitar slung across his back is what first snags my attention, but the favors he’s doing that pair of Levis is what’s keeping it.

  Hell yes, I noticed. How could I not? I am, after all, a healthy twenty-three-year-old woman.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jarrett creeps up behind me, scheming in my ear.

  Positive he’s not thinking “I wish I had an hour all my own to let that guy fuck the legs off me,” I turn my head back to him and attempt undeterred sarcasm. “If my answer to that question is ever yes, feed me lots of fish. Brain food. Not any from Conner’s tank, though.”

  Which reminds me…eh, we’ll wait for Bubs to mention it.

  “Seriously smartass, we gonna stand here and pant ‘til he notices us or we gonna go ask him?”

  “Ask him what?” We both know I’m full of shit—I know exactly what he means. And yes, in a perfect world, this would appear to be divine intervention…guy with guitar conveniently located at same rest stop as band coincidentally in need of a guitar player, but I far from believe in a perfect world. I do, however, let my head fall back for just a moment to take in the clear, endless blue sky and wonder, filled with warmth at the thought. Good lookin’ out, Mom.

  “I can’t let a stranger on the bus with Bubs. What if he’s a mass murderer?” What if he’s not as pretty on the inside as he is on the outside?

  “Ah, Mama Bear, run him through all the tests. You’re careful. And he might say we’re crazy and tell us to fuck off. Let’s ask before we worry about it.”

  Biding my time, I chew on the inside of my cheek and look back, confirming Conner’s still tossing the Frisbee happily, Rhett watching him. “You asking or am I?” I sigh, hopefully masking the foreign tingle of anticipation working its way up my battered spine.

  “He’s hetero, I can tell from here. I say we send in,” he flicks a finger back and forth between my boobs, “the big guns.”

  “Don’t lick your lips!” I shove him, mouth agape. “You’re like my brother. That’s illegal in at least forty states, and gross.”

  “You didn’t think it was gross when—”

  “Enough.” I slap my hand over his mouth hastily. “I’ll go, but you stay right here and watch, closely. He makes a move for a weapon, dial 911 as you run to rescue me.”

  “On it.” He grins at me, full of victory, a hint of his earlier teasing still lingering in his expression.

  Girding my loins, I think, do women have loins and can they be girded or is that only a guy thing? Summoning my courage, I move with slow, hesitant steps in the miraculous unknown’s direction, reminding myself with each one that it’s for the boys, the band, the overall goal of staying the hell out of Sutton. And it is, but I’m kidding myself if I don’t admit I wouldn’t be this anxious if I was walking up to an ugly man. Or even a kinda good-looking man. Shallow much, Liz? Nah, I have no control over biological response.

  Almost there now, his head lifts and turns at my approach, connecting eyes as sable brown as thick molasses to my own. He was tummy-turning enough far away. Up close, he’s better than photoshopped, a clear-cut case for Guinness Genetics. His lips are full, much plumper than my own, and he has a strong nose and jawline, both very masculine, the latter covered in a dark scruff. His hair is the same rich chestnut as his e
yes, not too short, but definitely not too long. “Just fucked” hair (isn’t that what they call it?) be damned. He’s got “just fucked her and she had to hold on” locks, unruly in the most intricate fashion. The black boots at the end of long, thick legs are scuffed, faded jeans worn, well, and the long sleeved black thermal he’s wearing? Oh, he wears it, or rather, every muscle in his torso holds it up flawlessly.

  Bottom line—he’s easy to look at.

  “Are you a deranged serial killer and/or rapist?”

  I like to open subtly.

  “No, are you?” His timbre is deep and gravely, sending my vagina subliminal messages. Something along the lines of “yup, you want it.” With a voice like that, I’m praying he isn’t a chain smoker. To fuzz this perfect picture with the stench of an ever-present cloud of smoke would be one helluva slap in the face of the Almighty creator.

  “No,” I answer too defensively, this instant, highly unusual attraction frying my staple “too cool to care” attitude that, up until right now, I’d like to think I pull off fabulously. “You any good?” I lean and point to the instrument on his back, brows bowed in questioning antagonism.

  “Define good,” he deadpans, head down as he pulls the guitar off his back and puts it back in its case.

  “Hendrix.”

  “Not left-handed.” He shrugs as he straightens back up and captures my gaze.

  “Page.”

  He laughs, treating me to one seriously enlightening sound, accompanied by the sexiest blindingly white smile. “Then no, not even close to good.”

  Damn, I should’ve gone with a mediocre guitarist! Now I’ve backed myself into a corner, Stranger Danger not giving me anything in the form of segue. Struggling, I shove my hands in my back pockets and rock nervously back and forth on my heels, forced to come up with another revealing yet seemingly aloof question.