by Bromberg, K
“I have the stage, Ships. You know how we actors like to hog the spotlight.”
My laugh is instantaneous. My hands tremble in disbelief, and my mind tries to wrap around what he pulled off.
“I tried to think of when I first fell in love with you, Saylor. I thought maybe it was that first day I knocked on your door, asking if Ryder was home, and you peered at me from behind your glasses with a princess crown on your head, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shell on your back, and your mom’s high heels that were five sizes too big on your feet.
“But then I remembered that time in junior high when we ditched school and headed out to the lake. You were the only girl who would climb the tree with us and jump off the top branch into the lake without a second thought. The other guys thought it was so cool you’d do that, and I remember thinking how proud I was that you were with me.
“Or that time in high school when Nick Ramos kept bragging how a girl would never pitch well enough to strike him out. How you asked Ryd and me to teach you how to throw a knuckle ball so you could shut him up. How your dad let us stay out way past when the streetlight came on so we could practice. And how when Nick whiffed on that third strike—where you made that baseball dance to the plate—the entire bleachers roared as you put him in his place.”
I stare at Hayes. The memories I forgot coming back to me. And I’m so overwhelmed that I can do nothing more than stand mesmerized and listen.
“You see as I tried to remember the moment I knew I first loved you, I realized there are too many of them to pick from. Because I fell, and fall, in love with something different about you every single day, Ships. You never cease to amaze me. And you’re always making me see you in a new light.
“So I brought you here today because you’re the one, Saylor. You’ve always been the one. And I don’t want to wait another day to tell you that. I don’t want to go through a year of details and planning to have a wedding. That’s not us. We’re spontaneous and unpretentious and only care what our family and friends think . . . and I don’t want to ask you to marry me and then have to wait forever to make you officially mine. I wanted to do it in one fell swoop because why wait? The most important thing I’ve learned from your parents is this: don’t wait for the perfect time to take a chance on your dreams. And you’re my dream, Saylor.”
Speechless, swamped with love, and beyond amazed at him and this idea, I do the only thing I can. I step into him and plant a kiss on his lips. The guests hoot and holler as Hayes slides his hands around my waist and pulls me into him while our kiss lingers before pushing me away and chuckling. “Nice try, but I’m not finished yet.”
He steps back, and with love in his eyes he clears his throat. “Saylor Rodgers, I promise to spend a lifetime loving you just like the first time I saw you—treat you like the princess you are, respect that you’re a badass superhero who can take care of herself, and love that, as much as you are a lady, there’s a little girl inside of you who still likes to play too.”
My heart can’t take any more. It’s so full it might burst. Tears well and slide down my cheeks to meet the smile on my lips. A sob hitches in my chest as I stare at the incredible man in front of me. He squeezes my hand, and his eyes well with tears before he glances to the house up the hill from us. To where my mom or dad used to walk out to the patio and call to us in the tree house. Their way of making sure we knew they were watching in case we were doing things we shouldn’t be doing but probably were. His smile softens when he meets my eyes again and I know he’s remembering them too.
And it feels as though they are here with us right now.
“I want to make more memories with you. Like kisses in a thunderstorm, frosting in your hair, sequins on Oscar night, pepperoni pizza with jalapeños, sitting on the floor watching movies with a dog asleep at our feet, and kids giggling in their bedrooms’ type of memories with you. You’re it for me, Saylor. Always have been. Always will be.
“I know we don’t need an official document or rings on our fingers to tell us we belong together, because we’ve always known it. Always will. But the part of me who looks at you every morning and is proud as hell to call you mine, wants everyone else to know it too. So I brought you here and spoke my heart to ask you a single question. Will you say I do?”
I blink several times as if I’m still trying to believe this is real . . . and happening. But when I look down to find a ring I didn’t even realize he had, being slipped on my finger, I know it is. The ring is sparkly with an inset diamond in the band and the fairy lights around us reflect in it. And even better, as I watch him slip it on, I realize he already has a wedding band on his finger.
I narrow my brow and look up to him. “I wasn’t taking any chances.”
“I can see that.” Looking at him, there isn’t a single doubt in my mind I want to spend the rest of my life with him. Not. One. I stare at our hands together. Our rings. Our fingers intertwined. Then back up to him. “Hayes Whitley, I. Do.”
Our friends and family cheer wildly as I step into him and kiss him with every ounce of love I have within me. My arms are around his neck. His hands frame my face. Our hearts beat against each other’s as one.
When he leans back, his chocolate eyes swim with the love he feels for me. “Saylor Rodgers, I do too.”
We kiss again like we’re each other’s air. Until my laughter bubbles up and over and my lips spread into a smile against his.
So that’s what forever tastes like.
“You really brought your A-game this time.”
He throws his head back and laughs.
Away from the glitz and the glamour, and in a field where we once ran as kids. Under a tree house we shared our first kiss in, and on the property my parents once owned and filled with their unmistakable love. With a small circle of friends and family before us, and fairy lights twinkling around us. . .
I marry my best friend.
The boy who stole my chocolate chip cookies.
My kisses.
My time.
My love.
He’s my once in a lifetime.
The man who forever holds my heart.
My happily ever after.
THE END
* * *
If you’re looking for more swoony romance from K Bromberg, check out Then You Happened!
Jack Sutton was the man I didn’t want to need.
His know-it-all attitude. His annoying suggestions. His outlook on life.
He was determined to help me while I had resolved to figure it out on my own.
But he taught me things I’d forgotten.
How to trust. How to believe in myself. Who I was.
The problem?
I went and fell in love with him.
---
Tatum Knox was the disaster I should have walked away from.
Her ruined reputation. Her failing business. Her chaotic life.
She hated me at first sight and yet intrigued me all at the same time.
I was only supposed to be there six months.
I was supposed to use that time to make amends for things I’d done wrong.
Instead I fell in love with her.
Get Then You Happened today!
Acknowledgments
Author Acknowledgements
Thank you . . .
To the readers who have read since day one, thank you for letting me spread my wings and write something brand new. I hope you fell just as hopelessly in love with Saylor and Hayes as you have some of my other characters. Thank you for the continued support. You never cease to amaze me.
To the new readers, welcome and thank you for picking up Sweet Cheeks. I hope you enjoyed the story and hopefully you’ll take a chance on some of my other characters, too.
To the bloggers and readers alike who help promote our books.
To my family for putting up with my chaotic, crazy world.
To you.
Other Works by K. Bromberg
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
UnRaveled (a novella)
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
About the Author
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.
She’s a mixture of most of her female characters: sassy, intelligent, stubborn, reserved, outgoing, driven, emotional, strong, and wears her heart on her sleeve. All of which she displays daily with her husband and three children where they live in Southern California.
On a whim, K. Bromberg decided to try her hand at this writing thing. Since then she has written The Driven Series (Driven, Fueled, Crashed, Raced, Aced), the standalone Driven Novels (Slow Burn, Sweet Ache, Hard Beat, and Down Shift, and a short story titled UnRaveled. She is currently finishing up Sweet Cheeks a standalone novel out at the end of 2016.
Her plans for 2017 include a sports romance duet (The Player (#1) and The Catch (#2)) and the Everyday Heroes series (Cuffed (#1), Combust (#2), and Cockpit (#3). She’s also writing a novella for the 1,001 Dark Night series that will be out in February 2017. The novella will focus on Saylor’s brother in Sweet Cheeks, Ryder Rodgers.
She loves to hear from her readers so make sure you check her out on social media.
Random Acts of Trust
Julia Kent
I swear I am not the kind of person who gets her cell phone caught in places that require an ER trip and an OBGYN.
But, apparently, I am.
I’m also not the kind of person who spends all her time thinking about the guy who got away.
But, apparently, I am, too.
Starting a new life in Boston isn’t supposed to include repeatedly embarrassing myself in public, meeting a crazy blond woman who has ties to the band Random Acts of Crazy, and definitely isn’t supposed to include wallowing in a past I thought I’d left behind four years ago.
But, apparently, it does.
And the drummer for the band, Sam Hinton, is the boy I loved in high school and who disappeared with my heart. Now he’s back, better than ever.
Second chances aren’t supposed to make scars disappear and hearts mend.
But, apparently, they can.
If you trust enough.
Chapter 1
Amy
I wish it were my mouth, the man’s voice said, so faint I could barely understand.
I was sitting on the train, taking the T from Porter Square to South Station on the Red Line, a day of fun in Cambridge alone capped by this trip. We were underground, the train lit up by blinking fluorescent lights, and the rumble of the cars along steel tracks made it hard to hear.
And then, again, a man’s voice:
...bucking against his hand, rushing to find the climax she wanted him to give her. “And if we weren’t about to get caught, it would be.”
“Caught?” She panicked—
This time, the voice was louder and... tinny. Robotic. An older, friendly-looking woman with a service dog glanced up, ears perked.
Someone giggled. Where the hell was this coming from?
I looked across the way to see my reflection in the train car window, the same old Amy staring back. Cultivated, half-lidded stare for city walking. Rumpled hair in a ponytail. Yoga pants and a v-neck t-shirt. My bag, filled with my wallet, some cosmetics, and—
My eReader tablet.
“Not yet, my sweet,” he insisted. “Not until I’ve given you this pleasure, and you’ve given me your abandon.” His fingers stroked her—
“My, oh, my,” said the woman across the way, who began to fan herself with a piece of paper. “Someone is gettin’ it on.”
Frowning, I unzipped my bag.
The voice grew louder.
Very loud.
— lips and tongue tasting her as he drove two fingers inside her aching pussy, clit on fire from his fingers...
Pussy? Clit?
Snorts and hoots filled the train car as every single set of eyes—including the dog’s—were on me now.
“What you listening to, girl?” asked some old man five seats away.
“I—what? No, I don’t know what that is,” I protested, frantically pawing through my purse.
“You are reading something hot and steamy,” said a young voice with an unplaceable accent. My head tilted up to follow the sound as my hands searched for the tablet, buried under a bunch of new student orientation notices from my grad school program.
“I’m not reading any such thing—” I locked eyes with a woman my age, with a huge halo of unruly blond curls, merry green eyes, and eyebrows that twitched with amusement.
“Let go, Lydia,” he whispered, grinding into her from behind, his words an urging she didn’t need to hear twice.
Mouth open, neck straining, she mewled a scream of unleashing, her body thrusting against his fingers, her thighs shaking as she lost control...
Except that blonde woman was right.
The last thing I’d read on my tablet had been a very hot romance novel, which left off with the hero and heroine trapped in a broken elevator (doesn’t every romance novel have to have at least one scene like that?), and the words were familiar.
Too familiar.
“Turn it up! This is getting good!” called a guy across the way, wrists covered with tats, a leering smile on his face.
Found it! The tablet almost slammed to the ground as my fingers fumbled, face flushed with fear and shame, the voice pouring forth unbidden:
Matt turned her around, thumb steady as it circled her hot, red nub, and he took her mouth with his, her lips tense with climax, mind on fire and body overcome with surges of heat, then chill, of riding his hand to wring every drop of ecstasy
The blonde woman with the accent and the crazy hair started to clap. A bunch of people joined her.
I hate you, I thought.
The train came to a halt at Harvard Square and I reflexively stood and darted through the pneumatic doors, the damn tablet continuing its passionless robotic narrative, the crowd hooting and laughing hysterically. Someone pulled out their phone and began snapping pics.
Dear God, please do not let this become some viral social media story.
— the intensity so much she nearly came again from the sound. “Next time,” he hissed, lips taking hers, pinning her lower lip between his teeth, sucking, then using his tongue to explore her teeth, her palate, her mouth being loved by his —
Damn it! Where was the OFF button? This was a new tablet and in my overwhelm and horror I forgot how to shut it off.
“You readin’ Fifty Shades?”
The voice was so distinct for Boston that I didn’t even need to look up. She’d followed me? Evil Blonde Subway Torture Ringleader was staring down at me as I crouched on the ground in front of a wall covered with ads for movies, music, and other performances.
Skirt around her hips, he used both hands to pin her ass to him, the weight of her release resting in his palms as she swallowed, breathing labored and sensual, his own breath —
“That’s some damn fine writing. Who’s the author again?”
Stepping back, she finally got the hint as I ignored her, mercifully stopping the barrage of words from my tablet, words that had comforted and amused me just minutes ago, now turned into weapons of social destruction.
Ready to snap, I looked up to find her fading into the crowd. A Dunkin’ Donuts cup, greasy and covered with a fine layer of soot, was shoved under my nose.
“Got any change?” a panhandler asked.
Hastily standing, I shook my head furiously. “No.”
“Got a vibrator? Cause I need to rub one out after hearing that.” A six-toothed grin on the face of a woman my mom’s age came along with the comment, like a side of fries. She tur
ned away to ask the next person for money, leaving me holding my tablet, clutching my bag, and too many stops away from my final destination.
As the new crowd assembled to wait for the next train, my heart rate gradually slowed from hummingbird to sloth, the flush on my face receded, and my mind raced to replay what had happened. Jostling from the train car going around a curve must have made something turn on the text-to-speech option, but how?
A laugh escaped through my nose, soft and touched with a cringe that made me want to hide under a rock.
An un-narrated rock.
I shrugged. Ten more minutes and the next train would come. Might as well read. After pointedly shutting all sound off on my tablet, the whoosh of air that indicated a new train’s arrival short-circuited my attempt. Shoving the tablet back in my bag, I turned and saw it.
The poster.
The band, Random Acts of Crazy. Tonight, at a bar a few blocks from my new apartment.
Oh, Sam.
* * *
That night, I walked into a bar that reeked of ancient cigarette smoke (long outlawed) and rancid liquor, staring at a stage peppered with sound techs doing final checks. I paid my cover charge and absent-mindedly pocketed the raffle ticket the guy gave me.
“Save it for the drawing,” he said, turning to the next person behind me.
Sam, Trevor, Joe and Liam would be on display any minute now. I slid into a seat at an empty, sticky-topped table toward the back. With a tilt to one side, I hid my face with my hair as the lights were dimmed and the stage lit up, from dull to bright by a dimmer switch some unknown hand cranked to full throttle.
And then—the band strutted out to the cheers and catcalls of the crowd. My own mouth stayed silent as a guy who looked like a bouncer swiped the table with a very wet bar cloth, the motion efficient and distracting, though appreciated. With another hand he used a dry towel and twenty seconds later, the table was wiped clean.