P.S. I did include this note at the front of the book, but Amazon continually keeps setting my books to start on Chapter One despite the fact I usually have a note at the front of each book to explain something important, and set the book to open on the title page. So, I’m copying this note here, not to be an annoying so and so but to ensure my readers have read this important notification. Thank you for understanding.
FINDING KYLER
(The Kennedy Boys Book One)
Two fractured hearts and a forbidden love they can’t deny.
You shouldn’t want what you can’t have…
Faye Donovan has lost everything. After her parent’s tragic death, she’s whisked away from her home in Ireland when an unknown uncle surfaces as her new guardian.
Dropped smack-dab into the All-American dream, Faye should feel grateful. Except living with her wealthy uncle, his fashion-empire-owning wife, and their seven screwed-up sons is quickly turning into a nightmare—especially when certain inappropriate feelings arise.
Kyler Kennedy makes her head hurt and her heart race, but he’s her cousin.
He’s off limits.
And he’s not exactly welcoming—Kyler is ignorant, moody, and downright cruel at times—but Faye sees behind the mask he wears, recognizing a kindred spirit.
Kyler has sworn off girls, yet Faye gets under his skin. The more he pushes her away, the more he’s drawn to her, but acting on those feelings risks a crap-ton of prejudice, and any whiff of scandal could damage the precious Kennedy brand.
Concealing their feelings seems like the only choice.
But when everyone has something to hide, a secret is a very dangerous thing.
Now a fully completed trilogy. Download a copy here. FREE to read in Kindle Unlimited. Turn the page to read a sample from this book.
FINDING KYLER – SAMPLE
CHAPTER ONE
“You can’t be serious?” I rub a tense spot between my eyes as I level an incredulous look at the bald-headed man sitting behind the other side of the desk. Lowering his chin, he stares at me over the top of his black-rimmed spectacles. Perched on the tip of his rather pointy nose, his glasses are the outdated sort you expect to see on old-fashioned solicitor types.
“I can assure you, Ms. Donovan, that Hayes, Ryan, Barrett, and Company Solicitors do not joke about such matters.” His lips pinch into a disapproving line as he eyeballs me. There isn’t a shred of compassion in his tone or his look. His eyes have a dead, empty quality to them. Like his conscience, no doubt
He oozes indifference.
And, sure, what does he care? He’s already been paid and the clients who hired him can hardly take him to task over his lack of empathy.
“Why haven’t I heard of this”—I swirl my hands in the air—“Kennedy dude before?”
He huffs out a sigh. “Only your parents can answer that question.”
“Well,” I say, narrowing my eyes, “unless you’ve figured out a way to talk to the dead, I’m guessing that’s one question I won’t ever get an answer to.” I slump a little in my chair as the wall of grief hits me like a tsunami. Although my smart-arse remark may suggest apathy, it couldn’t be further from the truth.
It’s been the same these last three days as the aftermath of the accident finally hits home.
The first four days of what I’m now referring to as my “I wish I was dead too” new life is a blur. I vaguely recall the guard knocking on my door, explaining in a soft, sympathetic manner how both my parents were killed instantly in the head-on collision. Their silver Toyota Corolla never stood a chance against the articulated lorry. According to the Garda report, my parent’s car was mangled beyond all recognition.
My eyes shutter as a horrific vision surges to the forefront of my mind. I wrap my arms around my waist, rocking slowly back and forth in the chair. Intense pain twists my stomach into knots, and a messy ball of emotion lodges in the back of my throat. No child should ever have to see their parents like that. As long as I live, I’ll never be able to erase the memory of their grotesquely distorted faces. But there had been no choice. There was no other living relative to ID their bodies.
Or so I thought.
Until ten minutes ago when my world tilted on its axis for the second time in a week.
“Ms. Donovan? Can I get you some water?” The solicitor’s slightly gentler tone breaks me free from the torturous images bouncing around my brain.
I open my eyes, brushing long, sticky strands of my brunette hair back off my face. The weather has been unseasonably warm this summer, and my hair has not thanked Mother Nature for her generosity. Humidity and thick locks don’t mix. I’ve spent the entire summer sporting a sweaty, frizzy mop atop my head. No wonder I’ve barely scored any action since Luke and I went our separate ways.
The solicitor coughs, attempting to recapture my attention. “Faye?” He leans forward in his chair. “Are you okay?”
I smother my snort of disbelief. Am I okay? Is the old fart for real? No, you idiot! I am not okay. My entire life is about to be upended, and my muddled brain can hardly comprehend the implications. Don’t even mention the fact that I’ve barely slept in days or that my heart is shredded into itty-bitty pieces. Torn asunder at the knowledge I’ll never get to see Mum’s radiant smile again or feel the comforting weight of Dad’s ever-loving gaze, I’m the furthest from okay a person can be.
I want to tell him all that—but I don’t. I’m incapable of sharing any part of myself with another human being. I’m like a living, breathing, walking shell of a person. A soulless zombie. I even have the sunken eyes and ghostly pallor to prove it. Maybe I’ll audition for a part in The Walking Dead. Preferably, before this Kennedy dude shows up to whisk me away.
Shaking my head, almost amused at the pitiful meandering of my mind, I force myself to focus on the here and now. “Does he know yet?” I ask, ignoring the solicitor’s stupid question.
“We have notified Mr. Kennedy of the contents of your parents’ Last Will and Testament. He’ll be here at two, tomorrow, to take ownership of you.”
“I’m not a dog or a possession or something you take ownership of,” I snap.
Mr. Hayes sits up straighter in his chair, scrutinizing me with those vacuous eyes of his. “I am merely stating the facts. You are a minor, and your uncle, as your sole living relative, has been named your guardian until you turn eighteen. You are his responsibility until then.”
“Can’t I contest the will? I’m more than capable of looking after myself for the next few months. And you said the mortgage is now paid on the house, and I have my part-time job, so I can manage on that and the savings my parents left me.”
I’d willingly donate a limb to avoid living on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean with a bunch of strangers.
I don’t want to leave Ireland.
It’s the only home I’ve ever known.
“Those savings won’t get you far, and besides,” he says, rustling a stack of papers on his desk, “it was your parents’ wish that your uncle take charge of you. They didn’t want you to be alone.”
So, why did they leave me?
Why force this stranger on me?
Compel me to up sticks and move halfway around the world?
I’ll add it to the ever-growing list of futile questions that has accompanied their deaths.
“Isn’t there anything I can do to stop this?” I issue one last pleading question.
He shakes his head as he stands up. “It’s the law, Ms. Donovan. You have no choice in the matter.”
I rise, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans. I may not have much of a choice now, but this is only short term.
Roll on, January.
As soon as I hit that magic one-eight number, I’m hightailing it home.
“Bottoms up!” Jill clinks her shot glass against mine before tipping
her head back and downing it like a champ. I lick the salt from my hand and swallow the tequila in one well-practiced move. It settles like sour milk in my empty gut. Ugh, that stuff never gets any easier to stomach.
Luke burps, and Jill falls off the sofa laughing.
“Damn, that’s some good stuff. Top me up.” He holds out his glass, and I duly oblige.
I’m tempted to guzzle straight from the bottle. To drown my sorrows in the hope that when I wake I’ll discover this has all been a complete misunderstanding, not the actual embodiment of a living nightmare. But, unfortunately, I’m not the delusional type, and that sort of thinking will only get me so far.
“Maybe it won’t be that bad, ya know?” Rachel says, fisting a hand in Jill’s shirt and hauling her back up onto the sofa. “How many sons did you say this Kennedy bloke has?”
“Seven.” I eye the neck of the tequila with longing just as Luke whips the bottle right out of my hands. “Hey!” I stretch over the arm of the sofa and make a grab for it. He lifts it out of my reach, and I slap his chest. “That’s mine. Give it here.”
“Only if you promise not to drink out of the bottle. You don’t want to be sick on the flight.”
“Maybe I want to get so drunk that I’ll puke all over my new guardian and he’ll have second thoughts about taking me in.” I lunge for the bottle again, but he holds it out of arm’s reach. Scowling, I crawl over the sofa onto his chair, making a last-ditch attempt to snatch back my bottle of tequila. My fingers grasp the cold, clear glass the same time Luke’s opportunistic hand snakes around my waist. He pulls me down onto his lap so that I’m straddling him. Burying his head in my neck, he murmurs, “You smell divine, Faye.”
“Knock it off, Luke. You’re not getting in my knickers.” I try to wriggle out of his lap, but his grip is tight.
“How about one last night together for old time’s sake?” His intense green eyes darken with lust.
There was a time when I thought the sun, moon, and stars shone out of Luke’s arse.
But that ship sailed six months ago.
We had two good years together before our relationship ran out of steam. I know he was hurt when I ended things, but it was for the best. The chemistry wasn’t there anymore, and there was no point kidding myself otherwise.
I’m not one to hang about once I’ve made up my mind about something.
Although, that hasn’t stopped Luke from chancing his arm with me every so often.
Like right now.
Reaching behind me, I yank his hand off my ass and pin him with a stern look. “Not happening, Luke. Now let go.”
Luke lets out a pissed-off sigh, and I send him a pleading look. Irrespective of how we ended, I still care about him, and I don’t want to leave the country on bad terms. He was an important part of my life for a while, and he helped me get through some difficult stuff.
I won’t ever forget that.
Reluctantly, he releases me, and I scoot back over to my side of the sofa.
“You hava send piczures,” Rachel slurs, and I chuckle. That girl can’t even look at alcohol without getting pissed, but she doesn’t let that stop her. “Of your fit cousssins,” she adds when she spots my puzzled frown.
“How do you know they’re fit?” I quirk a brow at my best friend.
“’Cause all rich Americans are good-looking.”
“That is the stupidest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth,” Luke scoffs.
She momentarily lifts her head off the sofa to send him a filthy glare. “Izz not! I’ve watched Gossip Girl, and those boys are fit and stinking rich.”
“Wow! You’ve seen it on a tacky TV show, so it must be true.” Derision drips off his tongue. “That’s even stupider.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
“Stupider isn’t actually a word,” Jill pipes up, sounding remarkably sober for someone who looks like she’s on the verge of passing out.
“Is too. Google it.” Luke flips her the bird before knocking back another shot. “You’d know that if you hadn’t nuked all your brain cells with tequila.”
Rachel opens her mouth to retaliate, but I zone out of the conversation. Jumping up, I snatch my mobile phone off the side table and plug it into the docking station. I turn the volume up to the max, drowning out the voices of my friends. Booming music blasts throughout the room, and Jill emits a loud holler. My body sways to the beat of the music as she hops up to join me.
The rest of the night becomes one giant messy blur. I vaguely remember others arriving, packing our small sitting room like sardines. Visions of Rachel and Jill escorting me to the bathroom are hazy.
Even hazier are the events leading up to this moment.
My head throbs painfully as I slowly start to regain consciousness. It’s as if someone has taken a jackhammer to my skull and they’re pounding to their own rhythm. A moan slips out through my lips. My tongue is plastered to the roof of my mouth, and the rancid taste of tequila and salt coats my mouth in a disgusting layer of slime. I moisten my dry lips as I attempt to open my eyes.
The sheets are stained a bright red color, and I blink profusely in total confusion.
Tangled strands of red hair cover my face as I fight a bout of nausea. What the …?
Pushing up on my elbows is a tremendous feat in itself. On shaky limbs, I brush the knotty red hair back out of my eyes and stare at the abundance of red dye coating the white sheets of my bed.
I grunt. Bloody hell. What did I do? Rubbing a lock of my hair between my hands, I groan as it starts to come back to me. At some point during the night, I’d had the bright idea that a makeover was in order, and we’d raided the bathroom press.
The red hair dye was Mum’s. She had taken to coloring her hair these last few months because a few strips of gray had made an unwelcome appearance. Her hair was dark—like mine—with rich, lush coppery strands running through it. I can still remember how her hair used to glisten magnificently in the sunlight.
A sharp pain pierces me straight through the heart as I flop back down on the bed.
That’s when I become aware of issue number two.
A hand tightens on my breast, and nimble fingers start to brush over the tip of my nipple. I’m still fully clothed, thank the stars, but that’s not stopping my bedmate. Panic rears up and slaps me in the face. This can’t be good. I rack my brains but I can’t recall any of the specifics.
I have no idea who is lying beside me.
Or what we may or may not have done.
I stifle a groan as I twist around to the other side.
Luke’s mischievous grin greets me, and I silently curse. His green eyes sparkle with excitement, and I think I might puke.
Please tell me we didn’t. Please tell me I had more sense than that. Or that I was too far gone to take anything to the next level. I narrow my eyes as I glower at him. His fingers swipe more feverishly over my nipple, and even though I’m protected by my shirt, his frantic tweaking actually hurts.
I send him my best death glare.
The one I usually reserve for vermin and serial killers. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Funny,” a heavily accented male voice says. “I was about to ask the same question.”
CHAPTER TWO
I scream, shoving Luke’s hand away as I shunt up against the headboard, pulling the covers up under my chin. A tall, handsome man with short dark hair and piercing blue eyes is standing at the edge of the bed, staring at me as if he’s just seen a ghost.
Crap.
This cannot be happening.
My eyes dart to the small digital clock resting on top of the bedside locker, and I curse when I spot the time. I hadn’t even thought to set the alarm, and now I’ve slept the morning, and half the afternoon, away.
Luke sits up, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “Who the bleedin’ hell are y
ou?”
I roll my eyes. Seriously, is he thick? I elbow him in the ribs. “Don’t be an idiot, it’s obvious who he is, or were you not listening to a word I said last night?”
“I was too busy staring at your tits.”
Points for honesty but zilch for intelligence.
He’s clearly still drunk.
Mr. Kennedy looks like he’s seconds away from throwing Luke out on the street.
I’ll save him the hassle. “I think that’s your cue to leave.” I shove him gently. “Go on, go.”
He pins me with a contemptible look. “That’s not what you were saying last night.”
I thrust my hands in the air. Pressing my mouth to his ear, I hiss, “Whatever! You know I was drunk!” I glower at him again.
“I sincerely hope you didn’t take advantage of my niece,” my uncle says, in a weird half-Irish, half-American accent. He levels a stinging look at Luke. They face off for a couple of seconds, and my uncle’s look darkens in a nanosecond. It’s a pretty impressive look.
Once I’m not on the receiving end of it.
I take the opportunity to slyly study him. He’s tall and lean with an unassuming muscular look that indicates he works out but doesn’t take it to extremes. Wearing a navy and red long-sleeved polo shirt and dark denims, he’s stylishly dressed for an old dude. The polo is slim-fit and it hugs his defined chest like a second skin. His dark hair is slicked back off his forehead in a feigned effortless manner. My nostrils twitch as I pick up the musky scent of his aftershave.
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