Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Ava looked over his shoulder, down the drive to an approaching truck, shook her head at him and said, “Down, Nate.”

  He groaned. He’d forgotten how many people he was expecting today for the Valentine’s Day dinner.

  He could barely make his mouth shape the words, he leaned in and whispered. “How long can you stay?”

  “As long as you want,” she responded, with a smile that took his breath away.

  “Really?” He couldn’t believe it. “But what about L.A.? Your business?”

  “I’m going to manage annual events for the Lowe’s and the Sawyer’s, help out with a few others, but I made my assistant a co-owner. She’s a dynamo who thrives on the pace.”

  “You won’t miss it?” He was in shock, barely able to process all that was happening.

  “I might,” she said, shrugging. “But I’d miss you more.”

  Shocked and overwhelmed, Nate could only stare at Ava, wondering how on earth how he’d gotten so damn lucky.

  • • •

  He rose from his chair to the makeshift podium, stacked hay bales. A few people clanged on their wine glasses to quiet everyone down as their host prepared to speak. He saw Ava, standing in the back. She’d been working since she arrived. She always jumped in—whether to help with the dogs, pick squash in the fields with him or organize the heck out of this little shindig so it ran without a hiccup. That was the kind of person she was—capable, hardworking and effervescent. It was funny to think about it now, but his initial assessment of her standing in his driveway with her fancy ruined boots had been completely off target.

  He cleared his throat, as the crowd quieted and held her eyes, pretending he was speaking only to her. “As you know, about thirty of these hundred and fifty acres do not grow crops—they don’t even belong to me; they’re protected by the California Conservancy and I’m simply the steward. Years of farming in the area around this wetland led to invasive plant growth and the near extinction of several kinds of rare plants. What difference do these plant species make? As it turns out, it makes a big difference. The local insects, birds, and mammals need the native plants to build nests and to feed and raise their young.”

  He looked out over the slough. “Since I bought the property five years ago, I’ve been working with a biologist to restore the land, in hopes that native species of all kinds will return. Our weed-whacking team—that’d be two cows, six goats, and a horse—” laughter rippled through the crowd "—are hard at work clearing away the non-native grasses. And I’m happy to tell you that this year, for the first time in twenty years, the sunflowers have returned out there. And so have the white pelicans. There’s even a pair of osprey with a nest on that treetop.” People at the tables craned their necks to look at the nest he pointed to. “Twenty acres have been reseeded and we are witnessing the return of many native species of plants and wildflowers.” A number of diners clapped, and Nate stopped speaking to let their appreciation be heard.

  “In the past few years, I’ve learned that certain seeds are fragile and need patience and coaxing—especially once their ecosystem has broken down. I sometimes think I’d never have attempted to return the estuary to its native state if I’d realized what an obvious metaphor it is for my own life.”

  There was more laughter, Doctor Yancy’s loud hoots rising above the rest, and Nate grinned. “And as I look out at all of you, I realize that it hasn’t been just the animals of the four-legged variety who have helped restore this estuary. So, I thank you all for supporting this endeavor and for welcoming me into your community these past five years. And I’d like to announce that I have a new partner, Ava Bennett,”—Nate pointed to her at the back of the crowd, and she waved—“who is going to facilitate efforts here,” he gestured to the slough, then took a breath, holding Ava’s eyes, “and here,” he tapped the area over his heart. Ava sent him a heart-melting smile.

  There was a collective “awww” and shouts of congratulations from the gathered crowd as Nate stepped off the podium and made his way to Ava, who’d been helping assemble plates near the grills. Grabbing her hand, he led her toward the house.

  “What? Nate, no,” she gasped. “They need help out there.”

  “Tough.” He picked up his giggling blonde and carried her over the threshold. Kicking the front door closed behind him, he ignored the curious eyes of the staff operating in his kitchen and carried her up the stairs.

  “They decided this thing should be the first annual benefit dinner, you know, so that means we’ll be invaded by two hundred people every Valentine’s Day,” he said, as he stepped into his room and laid her down on the bed. “Which sucks, because it’s a day that finally has meaning for me. I love you, Ava Bennett.”

  She smiled shyly, curled her arm around his neck and whispered, “I love you, Nathaniel Robbins.”

  “Can you be happy here? Really happy?”

  She nodded, her heart shining out of her eyes. “Home is wherever I am with you. But are you going to be happy with me here every day? Always underfoot? Making you install Wi-Fi? I’ll be getting all up in your business.”

  Nate groaned. “Guess we’ll have to see about that,” he said but he was smiling as he unbuttoned her blouse, pushing her further up the bed. “But first, let me get all up in yours.”

  Ava laughed then, low and soft, the sound just like music.

  About the Author

  http://readrachelcross.com/

  Fueled by black jelly beans and Pinot noir (never together), Rachel Cross writes fast-paced contemporary romance with a twist. She lives by the beach in California with her surfer dude/helicopter pilot husband and two daughters. Before becoming a romance author she was a professional firefighter, paramedic, clinical research manager, small business owner, and Weekly World News tabloid “model.”

  Rock Her, Rock Him and Spiraling are now available from Crimson Romance.

  Read more about her at:

  http://readrachelcross.com/ website

  https://twitter.com/ReadRachelCross Twitter

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rachel-Cross/116558055203658?ref=hl Facebook

  Valentine Vote

  Susan Blexrud

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2014 by Susan Blexrud.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-8011-1

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8011-6

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-8012-X

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8012-3

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © istock.com/keithpix; istock.com/sbayram; istock.com/GlobalStock

  Acknowledgments

  As always, heartfelt gratitude goes to my incredible critique group, the Pink Fire Writers. Without the weekly input of Jeanne Charters, Beth Robrecht, and Sallie Bissell, my work would consist of a jumble of words in search of meaning.

  Also, sincere thanks to the team at Crimson Romance and particularly to Tara Gelsomino, who elevated my little story to a whole new level.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  C
hapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Courtney Larson flipped up the collar on her boiled wool coat, bracing herself for one of the coldest days in a brutal winter. She pushed open the door of the townhouse she shared in Foggy Bottom and squinted into the clear January sky. For a Florida girl, the weather in D.C. had been a rude awakening when she moved to the big city for law school at Georgetown University, but she loved every minute of it. Even the occasional exploding manhole cover in her neighborhood added excitement to the beat of a city that thrived on political tensions and monumental decisions. And being in the thick of it was part of the appeal.

  A chilling breeze lifted Courtney’s shoulder-length hair out of her coat collar. Strawberry-blonde strands swirled around her face, sticking like fly paper to her raspberry lip gloss. Spitting wisps out of her mouth, she squared her shoulders to the wind, gritted her teeth, and ran the three blocks to her firm.

  “Morning,” Courtney said to the receptionist, Elise, who jumped out of her chair, almost strangling herself with her headset.

  “Mr. Champion wants you in the conference room.” Elise pointed down the opposite hall from Courtney’s office.

  She smiled at Elise and then hurried to her office to deposit her coat and grab her iPad. Courtney assumed Mr. Champion wanted to talk about the tobacco vote and pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach. Everything she’d worked for over the last few years hung on this campaign.

  Since her first year in law school, she’d positioned herself for a career in the political arena. As editor of the law review, she’d interned in Congress and then landed her dream job at Montgomery, Haskins & Knoll, one of the most prestigious lobbying firms in the nation’s capital. The icing on her professional cake was her first client, the Campaign for Tobacco-Free Kids. It was a major responsibility for a twenty-seven-year-old attorney, fresh out of law school, but her volunteer work had always been in support of non-profits, and she was thrilled that her firm had entrusted her with this challenge. She had until February 14, Valentine’s Day, to convince legislators to pass a bill for higher taxes on cigarettes, or as Courtney referred to them, cancer sticks.

  This was more than dogged determination on her part; this was a personal vendetta. Her mother, Sylvia, a lifelong smoker, had died of lung cancer. While she’d tried to quit numerous times over the years, the addiction to nicotine always won out. Through six months of chemotherapy, Courtney watched her mom briefly rally and then succumb after a horrible few days of gasping for breath. She’d taken a sabbatical from school and was glad to have been there at the end, but the imprint of Sylvia’s death rattle would haunt her forever. Courtney blamed the tobacco companies, with their advertising targeted to young women. What had been promised to make her mother “mysterious and enchanting” ended up killing her. Though it had been more than two years, the pain of her passing still brought a lump to Courtney’s throat … every day. If her efforts could keep one teenager from smoking, her mom would smile down from heaven, and Courtney would know that another family wouldn’t experience the horror and pain her own family had endured.

  • • •

  Opening the door to the conference room, Courtney was surprised to find not only Bill Champion, her immediate boss, but also Alan Montgomery, one of the firm’s principals. Bill, always the height of fashion, wore pin-striped Armani, while the erudite Alan wore his signature tweed jacket with elbow patches. Her heart raced. If Montgomery was here, this was more than just a status meeting.

  “Miss Larson, don’t you look rosy this morning.” Alan Montgomery was old school. No one under sixty would make that kind of comment for fear of being hit with a sexual harassment suit. “And we’ll need you rosy. Actually, we’ll need you marathon ready. How’s tobacco doing?”

  “Quite good, sir. We’ve got our votes in the House. I just need to shore up a few senators. If I can convince the one senator from North Carolina with Big Tobacco in his pocket, I feel sure the remaining four votes will be ours.”

  “And there’s the rub,” Alan said. Senator Eric Morrison will be a tough nut to crack. His mother’s a Roark, the family that brought us the world’s best-selling cigarette.”

  “Yes, sir, but I’ve been working on an angle.” Courtney took a chair at the conference table, joining the two men. She opened her iPad and accessed the campaign’s file. She’d created folders for each of the legislators she’d been hired to sway, or rather, educate. Delving into their personal lives to find their soft spots, like kids and pets (a dog could even get asthma from secondhand smoke), she’d also identified the friends and family members each legislator could lose as a result of cancer, emphysema and heart disease—all tobacco related conditions. In addition to their familial status, she’d listed everything from hobbies to philanthropic pursuits.

  Courtney clicked on the Senator Eric Morrison file. Up popped his gorgeous face—the chiseled jaw, full lips, aquiline nose, and deep-set eyes. She took a few moments to drink in the senator’s image, and then realized her superiors were waiting for her. She cleared her throat. “Here’s our guy.”

  “Give me the lowdown,” Alan said.

  “Never been married, but he’s not gay, or at least if he is, he hides it well. Graduated from Yale Law School. He was in a relationship with a woman he met there, but she took a job in L.A., and they evidently had a parting of the ways because, as far as I can tell, they’re not tearing up the airways to see each other. He rarely frequents bars and isn’t known as a partier, unless there’s a congressional event or fundraiser, in which case he usually makes an appearance, but he doesn’t linger. He’s known as a moderate Democrat, so at least he’s more open-minded than some of the ‘no tax’ Republicans.

  “But anyway, that’s all minor stuff compared to the big kahuna. As you know, his contributions from Big Tobacco are substantial. He’s surely dug in, but I’ve got some thoughts for an approach.”

  Courtney took a deep breath.

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Bill said. “His background makes him a particularly valuable vote. If someone with a vested interest in tobacco can see the light … ”

  “Okay.” Courtney fingered her pearl choker. “Well, the last thing he’ll want is to be perceived as pandering to the tobacco industry. It would be a major conflict of interest. So we can argue that if he supported higher taxes on tobacco, his political capital would glow with integrity.”

  “Except that his constituents are from tobacco country, and those folks smoke. If I’m not mistaken, they still smoke in bars in Winston-Salem.” Bill nodded. “Check that, will you?”

  “Yes sir, I will.” Courtney made a note in her iPad. “I’m meeting with Senator Morrison tomorrow, so I’ll do reconnaissance today.”

  “What does he care about?” Alan asked. “Are there any issues he’d trade his tobacco vote for?”

  Courtney scanned the Morrison folder. “He’s a Big Brother to a foster kid in McLean. He takes the boy to Redskins and Wizards games. There’s a photo here of them together at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg.” She had to smile at the adorable image of the regal senator and a young boy holding a huge cone of cotton candy. She turned her iPad around so Bill and Alan could see. “And he’s spearheaded some efforts for Special Olympics. That’s a possibility. There’s funding for Special Olympics bundled into a non-profit bill coming up on the floor.”

  “See if you can work that,” Bill said. “Anything else?”

  “He’s been a spokesman for animal rights, especially for farm animals. He marshaled a bill last year for humane slaughtering.” Courtney grimaced. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  Bill ignored her rhetorical question. He rubbed his chin. “The fellow’s a saint.”

  Courtney wrinkled her nose. “But is he a good guy or is it all for show? I mean, really, can he be that honorable if he endorses tobacco?” She shut her iPad, and then
patted it with conviction. “Gentlemen, I want you to know that I won’t be happy with anything less than complete satisfaction, and that means Senator Morrison in our camp.” She rose from her chair, tucked her iPad under her arm, and strode from the room.

  Chapter Two

  In law school, Courtney had reeked geek. From her thick eyeglasses to her flat loafers, she exuded the musty fragrance of old books. Anyone that nerdy had to be at the top of the class. And she was.

  Of course, part of the reason she’d been such an exemplary student was her lack of distractions. Who needed men when you could get yourself off more quickly and efficiently than any man could? At least any man Courtney had ever met. She was the only post-law school virgin she knew, but she didn’t regret the time she’d spent on her studies instead of fawning over a boy. She’d briefly dated a professor at Georgetown, but when he’d started hinting at taking it to the “next level,” Courtney had broken it off. Besides, her career was too important to have her grades called into question if it ever came to light.

  Later, she had wondered if part of the professor’s appeal was his being off limits. Did she like that they had to sneak around because of his status as a professor? Maybe. Could it be that she was still a virgin because she was afraid of love? Would all she’d worked for take a backseat to a man in her life? And would sex addle her brain? She didn’t know.

  These were questions that had never concerned the old, nerdy Courtney. But since her graduation last June, her roommate, Helen, who was a public defender, had spent an inordinate amount of time on trying to improve Courtney’s image. While she still wore her thick eyeglasses at home, Helen made her spring for contact lenses for work. She’d spritzed her with J’adore cologne on a trip to Macy’s, and then made her buy it. She’d shortened her skirts four inches and made sure her slacks hugged her bum. She’d gifted her with textured tights (her one monetary contribution) and insisted she trade her loafers for pumps and ankle boots that added a few inches to her five foot five frame.