Nothing was perfect. Their jobs were complicated. What motivated people to hurt others and what motivated others to believe in redemption was complicated. Nothing about today had made Daniel or Bryn’s guilt disappear. Maybe it never would completely.
Even so, together they had so much more to look forward to than if they were apart.
Bryn pulled Daniel’s mouth down for a kiss. “We’ll make a great team. The best.”
“Of course, we have our friend Tam to thank. For seeing how special you are and enabling me to see it, too.”
“Hmm,” she purred with contentment. “And for sending you to my house that night. For pushing me to take what I wanted, despite my fears.”
“She’s good at that,” Daniel agreed. “And so am I. But I’m good at giving, too. I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted, Bryn. All you’ll ever need.”
Her eyes filled with tears and she hugged him close, holding on tight. “You already have.”
THE END
About the Author
Virna DePaul
Virna DePaul is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of steamy, suspenseful fiction. Whether it’s vampires, a Para-Ops team, hot cops or swoon-worthy identical twin brothers, her stories center around complex individuals willing to overcome incredible odds for love.
www.virnadepaul.com
www.facebook.com/booksthatrock
Twitter: @virnadepaul
Additional Books by Virna DePaul
BEDDING THE BACHELORS BOXED SET (Bedding the Bachelors series Books 1-3)
BEDDING THE BEST FRIEND
BEDDING THE BIKER NEXT DOOR
It Must’ve Been Love
A Blue Lake Novella
Kristin Miller
It Must’ve Been Love: Chapter One
Sebastian rode through the surf on his trusty white steed, salt and sand kicking up behind him. His dark hair blew in the crisp winter wind, and even from a distance, Georgia could see ravage desire blazing in his heavenly blue eyes.
Everything happened in slow motion.
As the horse galloped closer, Sebastian pulled back on the reins and dismounted. With the sun setting in a gorgeous orange aura behind him, the hero of her dreams swept Georgia into his arms. He bent her against him and gazed deep into her eyes.
She’d never felt more alive.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, inches away from her mouth. “I want you now, and I’ll want you forever.” He kissed her then, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. When their lips finally separated some breathless moments later, Sebastian rested his forehead against hers. “There’s been something I’ve been dying to tell you, my love.”
“Yes?” Her heart caught fire with the promise of a new dawn. “Tell me, Sebastian. Say the words!”
“He’s not here yet.”
Georgia frowned as her lover’s embrace loosened, leaving her cold. “Excuse me?”
“Grayson Thompson isn’t here for the signing yet, and people are lined up down the street. What do you want me to do?” It wasn’t Sebastian’s voice whispering sweet nothings against her mouth. The voice was surprisingly feminine. Actually, if she thought carefully, Sebastian’s voice had changed. He sounded like Laverne, the assistant she’d hired to assist with organizing her bookstore. “Did you hear what I said? Georgia? Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Reality thundered down as Georgia closed her favorite romance novel, Dear Rapture, and stared up at Laverne from her position on the floor between the Romance and Mystery sections of the Book Bandit. “I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t. Not really.
Although she’d wished for it time and time again, she would never be the heroine in one of Grayson Thompson’s romance novels. Her hair wasn’t golden, full of luscious curls, and perfectly styled the way a proper heroine’s should’ve been. Instead, her hair was sandy blond and stick-straight, falling past her shoulders in thick strands. Her eyes were hazel. Not sparkling emerald green or rich chocolate brown, but somewhere muddled in-between. And she wore reading glasses. They were black-rimmed and fashionable, but still…glasses. She wasn’t petite or dainty, either. She was five-foot-six, one hundred twenty—okay, thirty…five—pounds. It’d taken her twenty-six years to love her curves, but she was finally getting there.
More than craving to be the perfect heroine, she’d dreamed of the perfect hero coming into town and sweeping her off her feet. And she’d never even come close to finding him. It wasn’t as though her requirements were all that difficult to find. Tall, dark, and handsome. Heart of gold. Knight in Shining Armor. Trusty White Steed.
That wasn’t too much to wish for…was it?
If she didn’t find her knight in shining armor soon, she’d have to settle for being an old maid. Or the cat lady. She did love cats…
“What do you want me to tell them?” Laverne pressed, frown lines forming around her mouth.
“I think his publicist left a number.” Georgia dusted off her backside as she stood. “Call that one first, and then call Rhonda at the B&B. See if he checked in last night. I hope he didn’t get caught in the storm.”
Eleven inches of snow dumped on their quaint little town last night, and the snowplows were struggling to keep the mountain roads clear. She’d been planning this book signing for months. She’d advertised everywhere she could think of, from Lake Tahoe to Jamestown to Yosemite. If Grayson Thompson didn’t show, how could she make it up to the readers waiting to see him?
As Laverne swept toward the register to make the calls, Georgia straightened a stack of books near the oblong signing table. She adjusted Grayson Thompson’s poster taped to the front, and glanced at his author photo for the hundredth time since she’d put it up.
The guy was gorgeous with a capital G. Big blue eyes. Dark hair styled to look naturally disheveled. Strong jaw. Plush lips. An adorable dimple on either cheek.
Totally hero material, except for one tiny problem: he was a playboy.
He’d tell women anything they wanted to hear as long as it got them into his bed. He didn’t seem to be ashamed of his philandering, either. The Internet was filled with images of Grayson Thompson and his “new heroine.”
Not that she’d looked. Much.
Okay, so she totally stalked him on Facebook and Twitter. And his blog. Thing was, there weren’t many male romance writers in the business. Men who truly knew how to write what was in a woman’s heart.
Georgia used to joke that men who knew how to be gentlemen had “read the book.” You know, the nonexistent guide to treating women right. Well, Grayson had written the damn thing! And then, rather than finding one woman and treating her like gold, he used it to his horny-toad advantage.
Men.
Were they really all the same?
“He’s on his way,” Laverne said, hanging up the phone. “Rhonda said he left twenty minutes ago. He should be here by now.”
Jolts of anticipation fired through Georgia’s veins. “Okay,” she said, spinning around to scan the store. Women pressed against the windows, peering inside. Mumbles of excitement echoed through the glass. “I think everything’s ready.”
As she set Dear Rapture on top of the closest stack of books, her gaze landed on a leather-bound classic that didn’t belong with the others. “What’s this doing out here?”
“Dr. MacDermott showed up first thing this morning asking for you.”
Strange.
“When I said you were out, he asked if we had any copies of Treasure Island on hand,” Laverne went on. “He stayed for about fifteen minutes, looking quite anxious, and then left without buying it. He said he’d talk to you later. I haven’t gotten around to reshelving the book.” Laverne moved around the register. “Want me to—”
“No, I’ll shelve it.” She needed to keep busy so she didn’t shake apart. “And then we’ll open the doors.”
Whatever Rusty MacDermott wanted to talk to her about would have to wait.
*
Wi
th a cup of black coffee in each hand, Grayson marched through the snow-covered town of Blue Lake, hanging his head so no one would see the black rings under his eyes. In the dim lights of the bookstore it’d be different, but in the harsh light of day people would know he’d been up all night.
They wouldn’t know he’d been up writing pages of garbage for a book due in two months, but hey, everyone had their own reasons for burning the midnight oil.
Taking a deep breath, Grayson strode across Main Street—a cobblestoned road bordered with wooden sidewalks—toward the Book Bandit. The place was small, but a large picture window faced the sidewalk. Black shutters lined the glass, and wine barrels filled with red flowers flanked the doors. The sidewalk was packed with people. Women, mostly. They huddled together beneath the eaves, clutching their book bags tight.
“Excuse me,” he said, trying to pass between clusters of twentysomething women.
“Are you—” A redhead’s question was cut short with a shocked sound. “You’re Grayson Thompson!”
Damn, he loved hearing his name on women’s lips.
“The one and only.” He winked, feeling his cheeks warm. “I’ll see you ladies inside.”
The group that cluttered on the sidewalk cheered and clapped, making Grayson feel more like a celebrity than a struggling author.
Bells on the front door jingled when he pushed through, but it couldn’t mask the sound of the squeals coming from outside. Careful not to slosh the coffees in his hand, Grayson hung his coat on a hook inside the door and scanned the store for its owner.
Georgia Swift. That was the bookstore owner’s name. Or at least that’s what his publicist had told him.
She was probably ninety years old, blind as a bat, with tits hanging down to her—
“Good morning,” a sweet voice called from behind a shelf. Somewhere in the store, a dog hummed into a growl. “If you’re here for Grayson Thompson, the line is outside. The doors will open in a minute.”
Moseying around the nearest bookshelf, Grayson froze at the sight before him. The heart of the store had been cleared out. Wooden bookshelves had been pushed to the sides, making a kind of wraparound aisle leading to a large table beside the register. On the signing table, stacks of Grayson’s books had been laid out—there had to be twenty or so of each, with additional boxes behind the register no doubt filled with more stock.
But the bookstore owner’s expert organizational skills were not what had Grayson holding his breath and clutching the coffees in a death grip.
A twentysomething blonde stood high on a ladder, replacing a book on top of a towering bookshelf. She wore a cream-colored sweater and a burgundy skirt that brushed her knee, but the way she was reaching—straining and pulling toward the top shelf—her skirt was creeping, lifting, rising dangerously high up her thigh.
His mouth went dry at the sight. Her legs were toned. Sculpted from lean muscle, and covered with smooth, porcelain-pale skin. They’d be soft to touch—he didn’t need to graze his fingers up her thigh to know.
“Hey,” she said, derailing his train of thought. “Can I help you?”
He picked his jaw up off the floor and forced a smile. His lips felt tight, his mouth parched. “Good morning. I’m Grayson Thompson.”
“Oh!” She grinned, frozen midreach. “I’m Georgia Swift. Welcome to my bookstore!”
To his surprise, the set of gorgeous legs matched the rest of her. She had a dainty chin, rosy cheeks, impossibly long lashes, and a set of stunning hazel eyes. And good God, she wore a thin pair of black-rimmed glasses. They’d slid right to the end of her nose. There was no way she could’ve known the kind of effect glasses had on him, but one smoldering glance over those black rims, and he was all-in for a game of Librarian Temptress.
Midfantasy, the thought struck him that he should offer to help, but with the way she was reaching…
“I’ll be right down.” She groaned softly, a seductive whimper to his ears, as she rose up on tiptoe and finally replaced the book in its lineup. As she made her way down the ladder, Grayson couldn’t take his eyes off her legs.
“You okay?” she asked, lowering her head to catch his gaze. “Is something wrong?”
The instant he met her eyes, Grayson felt as if he’d been hit with a load of bricks. Pressure settled on his chest, robbing him of his breath. His throat squeezed, and his stomach wrenched.
Bizarre.
Frowning, he rolled back his shoulders, stretching to fight the ache.
Must’ve been a delayed adjustment to the altitude.
“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine,” he said, and handed her one of the coffees. “The barista said you like it black.”
“You brought me coffee? I retract every horrible thing I said about you being late.”
“I didn’t hear you say anything horrible.”
“That’s because I said it behind your back.”
Oh, she was quick, too.
Her pink lips pulled into a warm smile. “I’ve been so busy setting up that I haven’t had time to start a pot. Come on back, and let me show you what I did.”
As the surprisingly cute bookstore owner led Grayson to the oblong table in back, they passed a couch with a big fluffy Australian shepherd curled in the corner. It growled as they walked past, and Georgia patted it on the head.
“Easy, Hamlet,” she soothed, raking her fingers through its hair.
“Hamlet?” Grayson barked out a laugh. He couldn’t help it. Georgia couldn’t have known about his dog, Othello. His eleven-year-old basset hound had passed away last Christmas. “Nice touch for a bookstore.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too.” She shrugged. “I’ve always loved Shakespeare.”
Grayson approached the old dog and reached out to stroke its fur. “Hey, boy, how you doin’?”
The dog snapped. Yelped. And then glared beneath bushy brows as he buried his nose in a plaid throw pillow.
“Better watch it, Hamlet,” Grayson joked, taking back his hand. “Things didn’t work out for your namesake when he copped an attitude.”
“Hamlet, noooo,” Georgia crooned, leading the way to the signing table. “Be nice to Mr. Thompson. He’s a good guy.”
That might’ve been the first time a woman had ever said that about him. He fought the urge to correct her.
“I have fifty copies of each book in the series.” She moved around the signing table and pulled out his chair. “I was thinking you could sign as many as you can to the customers, and then, if you wouldn’t mind, sign the rest of the stock with only your name. I’ll keep them on hand to stock in the store. My assistant is in the back now, organizing the boxes.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Taking his place behind the table, Grayson set his bag beside the chair and got comfortable. “You’ve got quite the crowd out there. This is probably one of the largest signings I’ve ever attended.”
“Really? You think so?” She smiled brightly, stirring something inside him. “That’s so great to hear. I’ve been advertising for months. I ran announcements in all the newspapers from Lake Tahoe to Yosemite. I’ve done the same for other authors, but so far it looks as if you’ve drawn the biggest crowd.” Pausing, she organized a stack of books on the end of the table, but the stack was already straightened. She was either an absolute perfectionist or absolutely stalling. “I guess you’re appealing to readers for more than your books.”
“Why do you say that?” Spreading out Dear Rapture’s bookmarks, Grayson removed his favorite pen from his bag and started signing. When she didn’t answer his question right away, he looked up into her eyes. They were a stunning mixture of honey brown and sparkling jade. “Ms. Swift?”
“I probably shouldn’t say anything.” Her lips twitched as if she was fighting back the words. “I’m sorry, forget it.”
“No, tell me,” he said, setting down his pen. Georgia had his complete attention. “What other reason would they have to line up in the freezing cold?”
She blew out a slow b
reath. “Your reputation for being a Casanova is notorious. Every woman in that line is hoping to become your next heroine.”
Notorious, huh?
He loved women—he couldn’t deny it. He loved romancing them, seducing them, and pleasuring them, not necessarily in that order.
If that made him notorious, so be it.
His philosophy of love was simple, really. Relationships always started off with rainbows and romance, but they ended messy. Every time. All it took was getting caught in the middle of his parents’ divorce to realize that painful truth.
Better to be alone than miserable. It’d been his father’s mantra after the divorce, and one he’d drilled into Grayson’s head every chance he got. Give women the fantasy, and then get the hell out.
He enjoyed making women feel like the heroines from his books. He got a dark thrill out of raising their expectations. They’d marry one day, and some poor schmuck would struggle to give them the happily ever after Grayson had painted in their heads.
Like his father, he’d never be anyone’s hero.
“Every woman in that line is already a heroine in her own story,” he said, scrawling his name on the top of the bookmarks. “Take you, for example.”
“Me?”
“Sure.” He met her gaze once more. This time, there was a question in her eyes—one he wanted to answer with soft sweeps of his tongue against the inside of her cheek. “You’re an independent bookstore owner in a small mountain town. You’re strikingly beautiful, yet somehow, you still haven’t realized the effect you have on men. And you’re desperately looking for love. If that’s not the making of a romance heroine, I don’t know what is.”
At the mention of desperate, she planted her hands on her hips. “How do you know I haven’t found love yet?” she countered before he could finish. “I might be in a committed, loving relationship with the man of my dreams.”
“Are you?”
Something deep inside him tugged.
Say no. Be unattached.
“No,” she said finally, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m not. But as of tomorrow, I could be.”
Now he was really curious. “What happens tomorrow?”
Lucky 7 Brazen Bachelors Contemporary Romance Boxed Set Page 45