Promise Me Forever (Top Shelf Romance)

by Kate Stewart

  “I did.” His face remained emotionless as he nodded and stood.

  “Then I’m happy for you, baby girl.”

  “Are you still going to make it to Caylen’s birthday party this weekend?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He kissed my forehead as he passed, but I stopped him from leaving when I wrapped my arms around his waist and held him tight.

  “I’ll always be your girl, Daddy.” It had taken some time for me to trust him again, but I was thankful every day for a second chance with my father. One of the rules I’d established when Angel and I started dating was that he’d accept that my father would be in our lives. Other than an occasional snarky comment from both sides, it’s being going really well.

  “I know, baby. I don’t care what that asshole says,” he added good-naturedly. I smiled against his chest and then let him go as I said my good night.

  Upstairs, I stopped to check in on Caylen. He was in his usual balled up position with his knees tucked under his chin and his covers and pillows dangling over the side of the bed. I smiled as I fixed his pillows and pulled the covers over him.

  After my shower, I found messages from Anna and Tabitha asking if I’d given Angel the key. It hadn’t been a spur of the moment decision, but one that had put my head through the wringer for months.

  Living together was the next step in our relationship and maybe just maybe, one day, we’d put it on paper again, and this time it would be our choice.

  I HEARD MYSELF sigh when I felt the kiss on my shoulder. His masculine scent surrounded me at the same time his heat did as he pulled me into his body. “You came back,” I whispered into the dark.

  “Did you really think I’d stay away?”

  I didn’t say anything as his body settled. He was naked from the waist up, and I guessed by the feeling of his bare legs tangling with mine that he was wearing shorts. I’d worn his shirt to bed because it smelled like him, but I found that the real thing was so much better.

  “Any news?” His sigh, then the silence that followed was telling. My heart broke for him as I pictured Z’s smile. I couldn’t believe that it’s been two years since he had disappeared.

  “It was another dead end.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said as I hugged his waist.

  His head dipped, and then he was kissing me. When he pulled back, my eyes finally opened, and I found him staring through the dark.

  “I love you.”

  I’ve heard him say it a thousand times and each time still felt like the first.

  “I love you too.”

  “Whatever happens, whatever it takes, I’ll always choose you.”

  “Because you’re my knight in shining armor?”

  His boyish smile lit up the dark corners of his soul.

  “Because I’m yours.”

  <<<<>>>>

  Author’s Note

  Stolen Duet ended on a bittersweet note, but I’m hoping you can find some joy in knowing that Z is not dead. I’m sure you may have guessed this already. His story came to me very late in this book and unfortunately, for it to happen, his path had to veer from Angel and Mian’s story, but don’t worry. He’ll be back, and Lucas and Anna will be there to help tell his story. I don’t have any details yet other than to look for a spinoff or two in the future.

  Acknowledgments

  MOM, thank you for not disowning me for the one hundred and eighty times I rushed you off the phone to write.

  ROGENA, thank you for being flexible yet again. This wasn’t quite the shit show it usually is. Maybe I finally learned my lesson. (Yeah, I laughed too.)

  AMANDA, thanks for two great covers. My indecisiveness may someday make you a very rich woman.

  SUNNY, thank you for putting up with my bitching and moaning for the six months it took me to write this book. One more month, and I think I would have loved you more than chocolate.

  LISA, I teased you constantly, bounced some ideas off you, and as always, you asked some ridiculously hard fucking questions. Thanks for that. I mean it.

  READERS who were stuck on the cliff for six months because you couldn’t resist my words… You were the motivation to finishing this book.

  Books by B.B. Reid

  Broken Love Series

  Fear Me

  Fear You

  Fear Us

  Breaking Love

  Fearless

  Stolen Duet

  The Bandit

  The Knight

  When Rivals Play Series

  The Peer and the Puppet

  The Moth and the Flame

  Evermore (novella)

  The Punk and the Plaything

  About B.B. Reid

  B.B., also known as Bebe, found her passion for romance when she read her first romance novel by Susan Johnson at a young age. She would sneak into her mother’s closet for books and even sometimes the attic. When she finally decided to pick up a metaphorical pen and start writing, she found a new way to embrace her passion.

  She favors a romance that isn’t always easy on the eyes or heart and loves to see characters grow—characters who are seemingly doomed from the start but find love anyway.

  Follow me on Facebook.

  Join Reiderville on Facebook.

  Follow me on Twitter.

  Follow me on Instagram.

  Visit my website.

  Grip

  Grip by Kennedy Ryan

  MY JOURNEY AS a writer began with poetry. I remember stumbling across a stack of poems my father had written in college. He’s a brilliant man with a couple of master’s degrees and a doctorate. I’ve always known he was intelligent with a sharp mind, obviously, but the poems revealed his soul. It was a treasure, and provoked me to try my hand at it. Those first poems of mine were pretty sad. I’ve gotten a little better. There are two original pieces that I wrote or co-wrote in GRIP, but the poem I want you to pay special attention to in FLOW is by Pablo Neruda, one of my all-time favorites. Because of copyright protections, I could not include the actual lines from his poem, but I have hyperlinked the title and hope you will take a few moments to read it in full. Poetry is still like magic to me, and I hope you enjoy the greats who inspired me as I was writing.

  FLOW (Grip Prequel)

  If I could undo your kisses

  If I could un-feel your touch

  If I could unhook this heart from yours

  I would.

  But I’m trapped in the memory of what we were

  Stuck with the reality of what we are

  Tempted with the promise of a future

  Afraid of possibility

  I don’t know how our story ends, but this—

  this is where it started.

  Chapter One

  Grip

  IT’S JUST ONE of those days.

  Monica’s singing in my head. I’m relying on nineties R&B to articulate myself. I’m that hungry. My mouth waters when I think of the huge burrito I was this close to shoveling down my throat before I got the call. My stomach adds a rumble sound effect to the hunger.

  I visually pick through the dense LAX crowd, carefully checking each baggage claim carrousel. No sign of her. Or at least what I think she might look like.

  Rhyson still hasn’t texted me his sister’s picture. If I know my best friend—and I do—he probably doesn’t have a picture of her on his phone. He wouldn’t want to admit that, knowing how important family is to me, so I bet he’s scrambling to find one. They are the weirdest family I’ve ever met, which is saying something since mine is no Norman Rockwell painting. I’ve never actually met any of the Gray family except Rhys and his Uncle Grady. Rhyson’s parents and sister still live in New York, and he hasn’t seen them in years. Not since he emancipated. We don’t “emancipate” where I come from. Nah. We keep shit simple and just never come home. Worked for my dad. He didn’t even wait ’til I was born to leave. Less messy and fewer legal fees. But we didn’t have a fortune to fight over like the Grays did.

  My phon
e rings, and I answer, still scanning the crowd for a girl fitting Rhyson’s vague description.

  “Whassup, Rhys.” I clutch the phone and crane my neck to see over what must be a college basketball team. Not one of them is under six five. Even at six two, I can’t see the forest for the trees with trees this tall.

  “Trying to finish this track. Bristol there yet?” That note in Rhyson’s voice tells me this conversation only holds half his attention. He’s in the studio, and when he’s there, good luck getting him to think about anything other than music. I get it. I’m the same way.

  “I don’t know if she’s here or not. Did you forget to send the picture?”

  “Oh, yeah. The picture.” He clears his throat to make way for whatever excuse he’s about to give me. “I thought I had it on my phone. Maybe I accidentally deleted it or something.”

  Or something. I let him get away with that. Rhyson’s excuse for sending me to pick his sister up from the airport is legit. There’s this pop star diva who needs a shit ton of tracks remastered at the last minute before her album drops, but I suspect he’s also nervous about his sister’s visit. Maybe this emergency is a convenient way to avoid dealing with her for a little bit. Or inconvenient, if you were me and missed lunch rushing to get to the airport as stand-in chauffeur.

  “Well, I don’t know what she looks like.” I push my sunglasses onto the top of my head.

  “She looks like me,” he says. “I told you we’re twins. Lemme check the Cloud for a picture.”

  Did dude just seriously say ‘check the Cloud’?

  “Yeah, Rhys, you check the Cloud. Lemme know what you find.”

  “Okay,” he says from the other end, and I can tell he’s back into that track. “I called to tell her you were coming, but I keep getting voice mail. I’ll try again and send a pic.”

  Once he hangs up, I concentrate on searching methodically through the crowd. She’d be coming from New York, so I’ve narrowed it down to one carrousel. “She looks like me” isn’t much to go on, but I stop at every tall, dark-haired girl, and check for signs of Rhyson’s DNA. Hell, she could be right in front of—

  That thought fizzles out when my eyes land on the girl standing right in front of me.

  Shit.

  Black skinny jeans cling to long, lean legs that start at Monday and stretch all the way through next week. A white T-shirt peeps through the small opening left by the black leather jacket molding her arms and chest.

  And the rack.

  The leather lovingly cups the just-right handful of her breasts. Narrow waist and nice ass. She’s not as thick as the chicks I usually pull, but my eyes involuntarily scroll back up her slim curves, seeking the face that goes with this body.

  Fuck. This woman is profanely gorgeous.

  I never understood the big deal with high cheekbones. I mean, they’re cheekbones, not tits. You can’t motorboat cheekbones, but now I get it. Her face makes me get it. The bones are molded into a slanting curve that saves her face from angularity and elevates it to arresting. Her mouth, a wide, full line, twists to one side as she scans the crowd around her with eyes so light a shade of gray they’re almost silver. Dark, copper-streaked hair frames her face and slips past her shoulders.

  The alert from my phone interrupts my ogling. It’s a text from Rhyson.

  Rhyson: Here ya go. This pic’s old as hell, but she can’t look much different.

  When the photo comes over, it confirms in my nearly agnostic mind what my mother has been trying to tell me for years. There must indeed be a God. How did I ever doubt Him? He has sent me, little old me, a tiny miracle to confirm His existence. It isn’t water into wine, but I’ll take it. I toss my eyes up to the sky and whisper a quick thanks to the Big Guy. Because the girl in the family picture, though almost a decade younger and with braces and frizzier hair, is the gorgeous, willowy woman standing in front of me in baggage claims. One hand on her hip and a frown between her dark eyebrows, she leans to peer down the conveyor that now holds only a few bags.

  “Dammit,” she mutters, pulling her hair off her neck and twisting it into a knot on her head. “I don’t need this today.”

  “We were on the same flight,” a guy offers from beside her, his eyes crawling up and down her body in a way that even makes me feel violated. “My luggage still hasn’t come either. Maybe we could—”

  “Don’t.” The look she gives him should wither his hard-on. “It’s so not happening.”

  “I was just thinking if you—”

  “I know what you were just thinking.” She turns away from him to search the conveyor belt again. “You’ve been just thinking it since we left New York, and not hiding it. So again, I’ll say …”

  She turns back to him with a look that would singe the fuzz off your balls.

  “Don’t.”

  I like her already. The guy is sputtering and still trying, but he has no game. It’s sad really. Guys who have no game.

  “Bristol.” I say her name with confidence because I can already tell that’s the only thing she’ll respond to.

  Her head jerks around, and those silvery eyes give me a thorough up and down sliding glance. After she’s made it all the way down to my classic Jordans and back to my face, she looks just behind and beyond me, as if she isn’t sure she actually heard her name or that I’m the one who said it.

  “Bristol,” I say again, stepping a little closer. “I’m Grip, a friend of your brother’s. Rhyson sent me.”

  Her eyes widen then narrow, the frown deepening.

  “Is he okay?” she demands. “Did something happen?”

  “No, he’s just tied up.” I smile to reassure her, hoping she’ll smile in return. I want to see her smile. To see how those braces worked out for her.

  “Tied up?” Those full lips tighten, still showing me no teeth. She shakes her head a little, huffing a quick breath and stepping closer to the conveyor. “Figures. So you’re stuck with me, huh? Sorry.”

  “I’m not.” At least not now that I’ve seen her. I wouldn’t have missed this for my burrito.

  She gives me the same knowing look she leveled on No-Game guy. Like guys have been looking at her like that for a long time. Like she can smell lust from fifty paces. Like she’s telling me it isn’t happening.

  Oh, it’s happening, baby girl.

  I’m plotting all the ways I’ll convince her to go out with me and then who knows where that’ll lead when I remember. This is Rhyson’s sister. Shit. The hottest girl I’ve met in ages, and I should probably try not to sleep with her.

  Okay. I’m agnostic again. Sorry, Ma.

  “I’m waiting for my luggage.” She runs a hand over the back of her neck the way I’ve seen Rhyson do a million times when he’s agitated. I note all the other things about her that remind me of my best friend. Let’s just say Rhyson’s DNA looks a helluva lot better on her. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, but he’s, well, a guy. If I rolled that way, maybe. But I roll her way, and dayyyyyum.

  “Here’s mine,” No-Game pipes up with a smug smile when he pulls his big square suitcase from the line.

  Bristol creases a fake smile at him that disintegrates as soon as she looks back to the belt.

  “Mine shouldn’t be far behind then,” she says.

  “Unless it’s lost,” No-Game sneers but can’t seem to drag his beady eyes from her rack.

  “You got your luggage,” I say, looking down at him. “How ’bout you step off?”

  His blue eyes hiding behind the round glasses do a quick survey of me. I know what he sees and probably what he thinks. Big black dude, arms splashed with tats, “First Weed. Then Coffee” T-shirt. He’s probably ready to piss himself. He’s like the Diary of a Wimpy Kid all grown up but still wimpy. I could squash him with my eyelashes. It seems we’ve arrived at the same conclusion because No-Game Wimpy Diary guy turns without a word and pulls his suitcase behind him, docile as a lamb.

  “Impressive.” Bristol smirks but still doesn’t flash teeth. �
��Been trying to shake that jerk since La Guardia. I felt like spritzing every time he looked at me.”

  “Spritzing?”

  She makes a spraying motion toward her face.

  “Yeah, like to refresh your … never mind.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Anyway, he may look harmless, but I bet under all that geek he is a nasty piece of work. Unfortunately, it only takes money, not actual class, to fly first class.”

  I’ve never flown first class, so I wouldn’t know. Come to think of it, I’ve only flown once. Ma sent me to Chicago to visit her cousins the summer my cousin Chaz died. That was a bad summer. I don’t know if it was the heat, but The Crips and The Bloods made our hood a jungle that year. They may have been hunting each other, but a lot of innocent blood ran down our streets. Not that they cared. Not that they ever cared. Ma took all the money she’d been saving from braiding hair to get me out of Compton that summer, and I think I flew Ghetto Air. Whatever shitty aircraft that little bit of extra money got me on, that’s what I flew. Not that Chi-Town was less violent, but at least it didn’t hold any memories for me. You don’t dream other people’s nightmares. And in my own bed, I’d wake up every night hearing the shot that killed Chaz just outside my window.

  “Finally.” Bristol’s voice brings me back. “Here it is.”

  An Eiffel-tower sized Louis Vuitton suitcase ambles down the conveyor belt.

  “I thought you were just here for a week?” I lift one brow in her direction.