by RC Boldt
“Whose house are we at?” Presley unbuckles her seat belt.
Exiting the vehicle and rounding the front to take her hand and help her out, I lock the truck, walking along the sidewalk leading to the driveway.
“A very special woman lives here. I know her as Momma K and”—I break off with a chuckle—“chances are, you’ll know her as that, too.” Smiling in the direction of the house as we walk up the driveway, I add, “She’s like another mother to me—to many of us. She likes to take everyone under her wing. And tonight is the designated Sunday family dinner night.”
“Wait a minute.” Presley comes to a stop midway up the driveway. “Is this Mrs. Kavanaugh’s house?”
I look at her oddly. “Yes,” I answer slowly. “You know her?”
She gives a little laugh. “No, not really. But she’s kind of a legend around here. She’s like the unofficial-official nicest lady in Fernandina Beach, according to most.”
Chuckling softly, I nod. “That’s the truth.”
We start walking up the remainder of the driveway but only make it two steps before she stops me again.
“Wait.” The frantic note in her voice has me turning a worried look on her. “You’re bringing me to meet your pseudo-mom. What does this mean?”
Tugging her closer, her body flush against mine, I cradle her face in my hands, dipping my head to meet her gaze intently. “Presley Cole. Don’t you know yet?”
“Know what?” she answers with a whisper.
“That I love you more than life itself.” I speak softly, my lips brushing against hers with each word before I offer a tender smile. “I’m bringing you home to meet my family.”
Her gorgeous eyes widen, the green and blue colors glistening with unshed tears. “Hendy.” Her voice sounds tight, choked with emotion, and I hope to God it’s not because she’s going to tell me she can’t possibly love me back.
“I…” She hesitates, and my stomach drops. Then she shoves at my shoulder with a hand, a wet laugh escaping her lips. “You ass! You tell me that now—that you love me—on someone’s driveway?”
“Yeah, man. Not suave.” Our heads whip around to see Foster standing in the doorway, his wife, Noelle, standing beside him.
His wife flicks him in the shoulder, giving him a look. “Seriously? This coming from a man who told me he loved me in the office. At work.”
Foster raises an eyebrow, his typical cocky smirk on his lips. “And you loved every minute of it.”
“Leave them alone.” Noelle tugs him inside, and he gives her a playful swat on her ass.
“Only following because I enjoy the view.”
“Whatever, Kavanaugh.” Her dry response trails off as the two head inside the house.
Turning back to Presley, I nod my head toward the house. “Think you’re ready for all that? Because that’s a taste of what’s to come with those yahoos.”
She purses her lips, tipping her head to the side in thought. “I don’t think just yet.”
My face drops. “Oh. Well, I—”
“Because I haven’t told you what I’ve wanted to say for a while.”
My eyes flit over her face, trying to gauge her expression. “Okay,” I say slowly, hesitation lining my tone.
Placing a hand on the center of my chest, she raises her eyes to meet mine. “I love you, Cristiano Hendrixson. More than life itself.” Cocking her head to the side, she gives me a playful wink. “And then some.”
As my lips part to respond, she stops me with her next words, her tone serious and heartfelt.
“You’re my very own phoenix, rising from the ashes.” She swallows hard, and a tear escapes, trickling down one cheek. I wipe it gently with my thumb. “Reborn, even better than before.” A few more tears fall.
“Pres.” My voice is thick with emotion. “I love you so damn much,” I whisper.
She lifts up, pressing her lips to mine in a kiss filled with promise. With love.
With hope.
Breaking the kiss, she wipes the tears from her cheeks and smiles up at me brightly. “Ready?”
Grasping her hand in mine, I smile down at the beautiful woman by my side. “Ready.”
We walk up to the door to Momma K’s house, slipping inside, and are bombarded with greetings from everyone. They instantly welcome Presley into the fold. And I finally understand.
Some have to experience great falls to fully realize their worth.
Some have to face immense challenges to prove themselves.
Some end up falling into the fires of hell, only to rise from the ashes, stronger and better than before. Realizing the gift of rebirth for what it is.
Realizing that, sometimes, love really does conquer all.
Epilogue
Presley
Nine months later
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.” I flash Hendy an amused look.
“I’m not entirely sure about this outfit,” he says slowly, looking down at himself in his gladiator-like costume.
I toss him a look, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. “You look hot, so how are you not okay with it?”
“Well, I do have this massive sword.” He holds up the costume prop, waving it, cutting the air in dramatic swipes, a lopsided grin playing at his lips. “Even if it is made of cheap plastic and manufactured in a sweatshop somewhere where child labor is legal.”
“Oh, stop.” I roll my eyes, turning to head in the direction of the bathroom. “I need to put on my wig. Then I’ll be ready to go.”
As I’m fixing my Cleopatra wig, readying myself to attend the Halloween party with the rest of our friends downtown at Shenanigans, I hear Hendy call out to me.
“Pres? Can you bring my phone when you’re done? I think it’s on the nightstand next to my side of the bed.”
“Sure.” Finished, I turn off the light, exiting the bathroom. Stepping over to the nightstand, I reach for his phone. And instantly freeze.
Right beside it is a small, black velvet jewelry box. Darting a glance behind me, I don’t see Hendy in sight. Picking up the box, I carefully—tentatively—open it.
Only to find nothing inside except for a small folded piece of paper wedged into the crease where a ring would go.
Tugging the paper out, I open it to see a written message.
Turn around for yes.
Get naked and lie on the bed for no so I can change it to a yes.
Laughter escapes my lips, and I shake my head at what is so typical Hendy.
Feeling his presence, I turn halfway and eye him, attempting to school my expression. “I guess,” I let out a long, resigned sigh, “I need to get naked and lie on the bed, then.” Another sigh full of sham disappointment. “Bummer.”
Grinning wide, he brings one hand up, finger and thumb showing me the ring. “Sure this won’t convince you enough?”
“Hmm.” I step closer, pursing my lips. “Not really.” Gently pressing down on the hand holding the ring, I hold his gaze. “Clue: Person who doesn’t care about a ring but wants to spend the rest of her life with you.”
He furrows his brows in thought. “Who is…Izzy?”
Playfully slapping at his chest, I roll my eyes. “Hen—”
“Hey.” He tugs me close, one hand sliding up to cup my cheek, and his thumb sweeps across it in a tender caress. “Clue: Man who wants to make you his legally because he wants to do it right. Wants to give you everything you deserve.” He swallows hard. “That and so much more.”
His expression is tender, love radiating in his gaze. “I love you, Pres. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. As terrible as it was to go through what I did, I’d do it all over—I’d go through hell all over again. As long as it meant finding you.” His thumb swipes at a stray tear on my cheek. “As long as it means I get to love you,” he pauses, his gaze searching, “forever.”
Studying him, I whisper slowly, “I’ll marry you on one condition.”
“Name it.”
&n
bsp; “We get to name our daughter Emilia, after your mother.”
There’s a pause, and I can tell I’ve caught him off guard before he answers slowly, “Okay.”
“Okay?” I ask again, and he nods, appearing confused. “Good.” He slides the ring on my finger, kissing me softly, and I whisper against his lips. “By the way, Emilia should be here in a few months.”
He freezes. Then he glances down at my still flat stomach then back up at me. Lips parting, he falters. “You mean…”
Biting my lip to try to hide a smile, I nod. “I mean.” I try to gauge his expression, hoping he’s okay with this development.
“Holy shit.” The widest grin takes over his face, his hands moving to my hips, squatting down, thumbs brushing alongside my hipbones. “A baby?” He utters the question softly and with such wonder.
“A baby.”
He eyes me with mischief. “That explains your nipples being so tender.” He shakes his head, probably recalling me telling him my menstrual cycle was out of whack and making my nipples crazy sensitive. “Liar,” he murmurs softly, his tone playful. “When?”
“It’s still early. Not for another seven months.”
Looking at my stomach, he presses a soft kiss to it before glancing back up at me. “You don’t think it’s a boy?”
I smile. “No. It’s just a feeling I get. I really think it’ll be a girl.”
“God help us if she’s anything like me.”
Tugging him up, he rises, and I press a tender kiss to his lips. “If she’s like her father, she’ll be one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Perfect.” I pause for a beat. “But we’ll have to consider a chastity belt.”
He throws his head back in a husky laugh. “You may be right about that.”
As we leave the house, heading to join the others at the party, I send up a prayer of thanks. Emilia and Paulo Cordeño, Hendy’s parents, are looking down on us from heaven, and I want them to know how grateful I am for their one gift—the gift that has changed my life in ways I could never have imagined possible.
Their son, Cristiano “Hendy” Hendrixson.
My very own phoenix who rose from the ashes.
THE END
Note From The Author
For those suffering from PTSD, please know that you are not alone. It’s estimated that 22—twenty-two!—veterans take their own lives each day. Please don’t make that same choice. You have options (the information below is from the National Center for PTSD website):
-Call 911
-Go to the nearest Emergency Room
-Call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255
-Contact the Veterans Crisis Line: 1-800-273-8255, press 1 (text 838255)
There are numerous foundations/nonprofits who provide assistance to these men and women who have sacrificed so much for our country and its people. The Battle Buddy Foundation, Combat Wounded Coalition for Wounded Wear (www.facebook.com/combatwoundedcoalition, www.combatwoundedcoalition.org) and Irreverent Warriors are three I’m most familiar with and each do a stellar job at creating awareness as well as organizing activities/outings for our war veterans. My family and I have participated in events held by Combat Wounded Coalition for Wounded Wear and have met the founder, Lt. Jason Redman (Ret.), former US Navy SEAL, who is an incredible individual in his right.
Please know that there are individuals out there who can help you deal with the extraordinary strain of having both the visible and invisible scars of battle.
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this book! I’d love to hear what you thought about Presley and Hendy’s story. If you would be so kind as to leave a review on the site where you purchased the book, it would be appreciated beyond words. And if you send me an email at [email protected] with the link to your review, I’ll send you a personal ‘thank you’!
Please know that I truly appreciate you taking time from your busy schedule to read this book! If you’d like to stay up to date on my future releases, you can sign up for my mailing list (I’m the most anti-SPAMMY person ever—promise!) via this link: mailing list
Also by RC Boldt
Standalones:
Out of Love
CLAM JAM
BLUE BALLS (Coming August 2017!)
The Teach Me Series:
Wildest Dream (Book One)
Hard To Handle (Book Two)
Remember When (Book Three)
Laws of Attraction (Book Four)
Stay Connected to RC Boldt:
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Website: www.rcboldtbooks.com
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Intrigued by Noelle and Foster? Keep reading for a sneak peek of Out of Love.
Prologue
Foster Kavanaugh
“I just got these contracts signed.” Noelle Davis, my office manager, puts two files down on my desk. “Tell me again why these people don’t allow e-signing?” She huffs out a breath, blowing some stray blond hair off her face while I watch her return to her desk.
And, for the trillionth time, I resist the urge to brush aside her hair for her. Which pisses me the hell off. Because I know the facts:
Noelle is off limits as my employee.
You never shit where you eat.
Noelle is worth her weight in gold since she helps run our office more smoothly than it ever has.
There are probably more facts that will come to me later but right now—I can’t think of them. Hell, right now I can barely think. All because this saucy blonde minx is bending over in the pencil skirt she’s wearing. Taunting me.
And I know someone—or something, rather—that needs a reminder of those three facts I just listed. And he’s currently pressing against my khaki pants as if trying to say, Target is in range. Ready to attack.
God, I’m a sick motherfucker.
Running a hand down my face, trying to stifle a groan, I turn my attention back to the updated program details I’m compiling. I run TriShield Protection, a private security consulting firm, here in Fernandina Beach, Florida. We contract out to a specific sector of private businesses along with international airports, training their employees to properly address and deal with any possible attacks, terrorist or otherwise. We also have a bunch of contracts with the local military bases.
After leaving the SEALs, I knew what I wanted to do. I had invested my money wisely and knew, with my credentials and commendations, I’d be a shoo-in for this business. I hired only former military for those carrying out the instructional support and assessments. One of these reasons was because we knew our shit. We knew what would work when faced with someone intent on causing harm to others. We weren’t going to be the ones who said garbage like, “Well, according to these studies, it would behoove you to…”
Fuck, no. First of all, I hope to hell I never say the word behoove in my lifetime. But the point is, we aren’t pencil pushers. We don’t sit behind a desk all day and still think we have our finger on the pulse. We have all been out there, faced death on a near daily basis and know what that’s like. We know what to do to stay alive; we all need to try and stay one step ahead of the enemy.
The second reason I hire only former military is because I recognize—fully—how difficult it is to go from having the non-stop brotherhood in the military to civilian life in one fell swoop. It’s a transition which most civilians don’t understand, as well as why those loud noises put you on alert, why you always sit facing the main entrance of a restaurant, or any establishment, with your back to the wall to best observe any potential threat.
People don’t fucking get it.
Just because you leave war and incessant violence behind you—oceans away—doesn’t mean it leaves you. It doesn’t say, Oh, Kavanaugh, you’re leaving the military? Cool, bro. Sweet dreams at night. I know you’ll forget all about shooting that ten-year-old kid aiming an RPG at your men, right?
Cue the major eye-rolling o
n that delusional-as-shit comment.
So, here I am. Still trying to give back to my country, trying to keep people safe from assholes intent as hell on taking away our freedom, and still provide support to those in transition. Those like Miller Vaughn and Roman “Doc” Watts, both former SEALs, as well as Langley—“Lee”—Ford, former combat pararescue jumper and the only female hire aside from Noelle, and Kane Windham, former Green Beret.
Yeah, my crew’s damn impressive, if I do say so myself. And things had been going smoothly—well, as smoothly as it could before I hired an office manager. The business grew far faster than I had anticipated. But it has been great, no major kinks along the way to deal with. All my employees got along well. Smooth sailing.
Until her. Until Noelle Davis.
Yeah, I just had to hire her. She had been the most qualified and competent applicant, had excellent references from her former job and had passed my “military-style harassment” test with flying colors. God knows I look forward to my daily dose of verbal sparring with her, even though I’m certain she tolerates me because I’m the one who signs off on her paycheck.
And, okay, the woman runs this place like a well-oiled machine. I have to admit that much.
But I should have known there’d be an issue.
I should have known she would be nothing but trouble. Even during the interview, I swear I knew. Like a fucking omen or something. I knew—and let’s be honest, my buddy down below really knew—she was trouble.
Trouble. The kind of trouble you want to get yourself into. Pun intended. Also, the kind of trouble you knew you couldn’t afford getting mixed up in.
I know what you’re probably going to ask; Then why the hell did you hire her, Foster?
And I only have one really shitty answer for you.
Evidently I’m one sick, sadistic fucker.