by K. Bromberg
“So, there is no Fly High?”
“There is, but not with you two. I’ve already called them and told them you wouldn’t be showing up.”
“Grant . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I need to say everything.” I laugh as none of this sinks in.
“No, you said all I needed to hear upstairs.” He presses a kiss to the back of my head as Leo whoops at something, and Desi’s cackle rings across the tarmac.
“This is too much, Grant. I can’t—the money—”
“I figured I didn’t need a new patio after all.”
“But you put in all that overtime.”
He shrugs sheepishly. “I assumed if you had a place of your own, you’d be stuck with me. You can’t go gypsy when you have roots. And I want you to have roots, Em. Here. With me. Ones that tangle with mine and can never be ripped out. Lazy Sunday together ones and white picket fence ones.”
“I’m stunned. Shocked. Overwhelmed.”
“This is yours, Em. Your school. Your dream. Yours. My dream has always been you, and I have you. Your dream is the school, and now you have it. Oh, but there’s one caveat.”
“Anything,” I say, still thinking I need to pinch myself.
“The new owner says it’s against code to have someone living in the hangar.”
“He does, does he?” If I could smile any wider, I would.
“Yeah, he’s a stubborn SOB, so I don’t think I can get him to change his mind . . . but I happen to know one half of a king-sized bed that’s unoccupied.”
“I snore.”
“I know.” He laughs.
I turn to face him for the first time and know I could never repay him for what he’s given me. The safety. The security. The love. The friendship. The humor. The opportunity.
“I’ll pay you back. I’ll work harder than—”
“I’ll count on it,” he murmurs as he presses his lips against mine.
“I’ll sign an agreement to—”
Another kiss.
“No worries, I have insurance.” He laughs as he holds our handcuffed hands up. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Eighteen Months Later . . .
The city’s lights begin to come alive as the night grows darker. I sit and stare at them because it’s all I can really do since Grant is sitting solemnly beside me without saying a word.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, knowing the case he’s investigating has been upsetting him. He won’t admit it, but it’s in his snap of temper and silence when he comes home after work.
It’s taken some getting used to him being a detective and having cases to become invested in versus his old job where he responded to a call and then left.
“I’m fine.”
When he asked if I wanted to take a drive and we ended up here, I wasn’t surprised. His thinking place. His temporary solace.
“When you look at those lights,” he finally says, voice gruff and eyes fixed ahead, “what do you think of?”
I look at him with a narrowed brow and try to figure out where he’s going with this. We’ve been up here dozens of times, and this is the first time he’s ever asked me that.
“I think each light tells a story of the person living beneath it.”
He nods slowly and falls silent again for a bit. “You know what I think? I think each one of those lights represents someone’s dream. Sometimes they flicker and fade and die out, and other times they grow brighter and stay lit forever.”
I startle at his statement, finding his thoughts to be quite profound. “I like that,” I say softly and lean my head gently on his shoulder.
Grant points to the far west where the skyline is lit up with lights. “What dream does that sparkle over there represent for you?” he asks.
“There are thousands of them.” I laugh. “How do I know which one you’re pointing at?”
“Just pick one.”
I do as he says and stare at it for a beat before I answer. “Wings Out. That’s definitely Wings Out because it’s the brightest one.”
He nods in acceptance of my answer. “And the sparkle over there?” He points to the east.
I play along and pick one out and stare at it. “That’s happiness. I never thought I’d find it and I have. You’ve helped me find it.”
“And that sparkle?” he points straight ahead of us.
“Wait. That’s not fair. It’s my turn to ask.” I pick a location he hasn’t done yet and point. “What dream of yours does that sparkle represent?”
He falls quiet for a moment as if he’s deep in thought. “You.”
“What? Oh. Grant. That’s so sweet.” I press my lips to his shoulder, my heart a jumbled mess of love for the man beside me.
“What about that sparkle over there?”
“You.” I smile, wanting to return the comment because I really do feel that way.
“Nope, you can’t steal my idea. I get to win the romance award tonight,” he says and chuckles as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Pick another dream.”
“Hm. It’s stupid and isn’t realistic . . .” I begin to explain.
“It’s a dream, Emmy, there is no such thing as reality. There’s just possibility. What is it?”
“That no one ever has to go through what I went through.” My voice is barely a whisper, but I know he heard me.
“I agree.”
“Okay. My turn,” I say, wanting to keep this mood upbeat so I can help cheer him up and pull his mind from work. “What dream does that sparkle represent for you?”
“You.”
“You don’t get to repeat the same one.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Well, since I made up the game, I get to make up the rules, and I say I get to repeat the same dream.” He purses his lips and lifts his eyebrows, looking like the defiant little boy who saved me so very long ago.
“You never did play fair.” I laugh while he just grins. And I love the sight of it since he’s been so serious lately.
“Next one,” he says as he peruses the skyline for a location and points. “What dream does that sparkle represent?”
“Endless possibilities,” I murmur.
“Getting all philosophical on me, are you?”
“Yep. My turn.” I point to the south. “What dream does that sparkle represent?”
“You,” he says again, and when I look up to scold him, his lips meet mine. They’re warmth and comfort and familiarity and desire. Everything I could ever want. I melt into him as his hands frame my face and our tongues dance intimately. When the kiss ends, he presses his forehead to mine and we just sink into the silence of each other for a bit.
“I want to pick one more sparkle that you need to pick your dream for.”
“Can’t we just sit like this and ignore the sparkles?” I murmur, loving the feel of his hands on my face and the warmth of his body against mine. I almost groan when he removes his hands and runs them down my arms.
“What about this sparkle?” he asks as he leans back, eyes locked on mine for just a second before he glances down.
I see the ring immediately, the sparkle of the diamond off the moonlight, the shine of the platinum against it, but I’m unable to form words.
I have so much passion and joy and every indescribable emotion inside me that I’m not sure how to manage it. So, I do the one thing I know will calm me. I thread my fingers through his hair and press my lips to his until I’ve knocked him backward onto the ground with me on top of him.
“Yes.” Kiss. “Yes.” Another kiss. “Yes times infinity,” I tell him as I smother the laughter on his lips and deepen the kiss.
“Is that a yes?” he murmurs when I finally let him up for air.
“Yes.” This time, I yell it so loud that he winces before laughing as I kiss him again.
When I lean back and sit astride his hips, all I can do is stare
at him. At his mussed hair and his crooked smile. At his eyes that hold more than I could ever ask for. I see love in them. I see pride. I see tomorrows.
I see forever.
“You know I had a whole speech planned out, right?”
“You did? I’m sorry.”
“I should have accounted for the squeal factor.”
I swat at him and then lean forward and kiss him before sitting back up. “This is far beyond the squeal factor. This is more the best-day-of-my-life-need-to-tell-you-yes type of urgency.”
His grin grows wider, and the gold in his eyes lights up. “The best day, huh?”
“By far.” I lace my fingers with his, needing more of the connection we already have.
“How about I tell you this is only the beginning. From here on out, you’re going to have best days top best days top best days because that is what you, Emmy Reeves, deserve.”
“Grant—”
“My turn,” he warns as he lifts his eyebrow and a ghost of a smile pulls at his lips. He sits up so that I can settle onto his lap with my legs wrapped around him. We are face to face, and the temptation is too hard to resist. Another brush of lips. Another chance to get lost in him.
“Emerson Reeves, you know I’ve always loved you. What you don’t know is that since you’ve walked back into my life, I’ve realized just how ready I was to settle in all things—relationships, jobs, life. You always say I’m the hero, but you’re the one who saved me. From a life without passionate fights and incredible make-up sex. From a life without nonstop laughter and friendship and unconditional love.” He leans forward and brushes the most tender of kisses to my lips that makes every part of my body want to sigh. “From a life without you, Em.” The sincerity of his words weaving their way through my heart and wrapping themselves around my soul.
“Grant . . .” His name is a plea. A promise. An answer.
“I love you, Emmy. I want to spend a lifetime chasing moments with you. I want infinity to love you. I want you to know you’re my sparkle. My dream come true. I just want you. Will you marry me?” he asks, every part of my body captivated by the sound of his voice and the words he speaks.
His eyes are swimming with emotion as he waits, but I take a moment to take it all in. To take him in before I give him my tomorrows. “Yes,” I say on a whisper. “Yes to infinity and sparkles.”
I wrap my arms around him and cling tight. My face is buried in the crook of his neck, and all I want to do is breathe him in.
Breathe the moment in.
Tears blur my vision as I lean back and look at him. My rock. My sparkle. My everything.
To think I wanted to run from this. From him.
To think if I had never taken the chance.
Head up. Wings out.
Combust
Songwriter Dylan McCoy has been burned.
By her boyfriend she found in her bed . . . with someone else.
By the contract she signed that obligates her to work with him until the songs for his new album are complete.
By her agent when she asked Dylan to keep their breakup on the down-low.
When she finds herself in Sunnyville, she refuses to let her new roommate burn her too. Still . . . a rebound has never looked so good.
That’s her first thought when she sees firefighter Grady Malone.
Sexy. Charismatic. Unapologetic. He’s a man who carries his own scars—the ones on his back, the survivor’s guilt on his soul, and the fear in his heart.
When an unexpected visitor puts their roommate status to the test, will their undeniable attraction burn out, or will they both take a chance and play with fire?
Available Now
Dear Reader,
Often times, authors use events that have happened to them in real life and tweak them to fit in a story. How better to write about a situation—to get the emotion across to the reader—than to have actually walked in the shoes of your characters. From there, the author takes the situation and builds on it by adding the fiction to complete the story.
Cuffed is that book for me. I may have changed the names, but when I was in elementary school, I knew an Emerson.
And I was the Grant.
No, we weren’t best friends who basically lived at each other’s houses like Emerson and Grant do in Cuffed (that’s my added fiction), but we were friends nonetheless. I will never forget the day we were walking around the playground and Olive (that’s what I’ll call her for this) told me the exact words Emerson told Grant. “When my mom is gone, my dad holds a gun to my head and molests me and my brother.” I can still picture the look on her face and the sound of her voice. And then, of course, she went on to say he’d told them he would hurt them if they told anyone else.
It’s been over thirty years since that day, but I still remember so much about it. I remember going home and asking my mom what “molest” meant and her shocked reaction when I wouldn’t tell her why I’d asked the question (there is a lot more to this part but for the sake of this note, I’m keeping this short). I remember worrying about my friend all night long because, while my mom’s explanation of the word wasn’t scary (remember she was explaining to a young child), I knew “gun” was a bad thing. I remember going to school the next day and Olive telling me that it happened again.
And then I remember telling my very pregnant teacher when everyone was out at recess that I had to talk to her. That in and of itself was hard to do, so you can imagine how nervous I was telling her what Olive had told me. I can picture her face when I told her and how when she hugged me, I couldn’t fit my arms all the way around her pregnant belly.
What happened next was the same as the story. The principal came over the intercom, called Olive to the office, and as she walked out the door, she turned to me and said, “I hate you. I never want to see you again.”
Over thirty years have passed, and I still think about Olive off and on. I never saw her after that day when she walked out of the classroom and told me she hated me. She never came back to the school. Through the grapevine, we’d heard she and her brother were removed from the home and adopted, but we never knew more than that.
When I think of her, my main hope for her is that she has had a good life. I wonder if she ever thinks about the chubby little girl whose name she probably doesn’t even remember but who pinky promised her she wouldn’t tell and then broke that promise. Does she still hate me for tearing her family apart despite getting her out of that situation? Even if I found her again, I would never approach her but rather would just want to know she’s okay. That she’s happy.
That she doesn’t blame me.
Or hate me anymore.
Sound familiar? There’s a lot of how I feel in Grant.
In a perfect world, there would be no Olives, but unfortunately if there is one, that is too many.
This book is dedicated to all of the Olives out there. Wherever you are, remember we are rooting for you. To succeed. To thrive. To battle. To overcome.
And to my Olive, I hope you have found happiness.
New York Times Bestselling author K. Bromberg writes contemporary novels that contain a mixture of sweet, emotional, a whole lot of sexy, and a little bit of real. She likes to write strong heroines, and damaged heroes who we love to hate and hate to love.
A mom of three, she plots her novels in between school runs and soccer practices, more often than not with her laptop in tow.
Since publishing her first book in 2013, Kristy has sold over one million copies of her books across sixteen different countries and has landed on the New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestsellers lists over twenty-five times. Her Driven trilogy (Driven, Fueled, and Crashed) is currently being adapted for film by Passionflix with the first movie slated to release in the summer of 2018.
She recently released a two book, sports romance series, The Player and The Catch. Cuffed is the first book in her new Everyday Heroes trilogy. This three-book series will be about three brothers who are e
mergency responders, the jobs that call to them, and the women who challenge them. The remaining standalones in the series are Combust (January 29th) and Cockpit (Spring 2018).
She loves to hear from her readers so make sure you check her out on social media or sign up for her newsletter to stay up to date on all her latest releases and sales: click here.
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