Forever
Evernight Publishing
Copyright© 2014
Allyson Young
ISBN:
978-1-77130-716-1
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: Laurie Temple
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my beta readers and authors Lynn Rae and Jennifer Simpkins, both true romantics in their own right, for their tireless support and edits. And to Joyce McGregor, Roberta Graham and Zennia Snider who gave me the pure reader’s perspective. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
And finally, sincere thanks to my editor Laurie Temple, who held my feet to the fire in the nicest possible way, and used her talents to help create the final labour of love: Forever.
FOREVER
Eternity, 1
Allyson Young
Copyright © 2014
Chapter One
“Check out that amazing man! Hell, check out
all
those amazing men! Except for the dweeb on the end.” At least Lorraine attempted to add the latter sotto voce. “Do you suppose somebody wrote a list titled
Hot Guys,
with some specific parameters, and shouted it out? And they all came here? Like a gorgeous guy convention?”
Amy Copeland smiled behind her hand at
the other woman’s enthusiastic appraisal. The half dozen men sitting around the big table in the corner were certainly worthy of both the hot and the gorgeous guy labels. Especially the man at the head of the table, the one all the other men deferred to. Not that she’d been looking. Much. He was big for sure, and the time he’d gone to the men’s room established he was taller than average too, maybe six-three or four to her five-foot-ten, and he had an easy way of moving—that long limbed stride so many big cats affected. Thick, dark hair with just enough curl, pale eyes, difficult to tell the color in the dim light, but she hadn’t missed the hard planes of his handsome face. Or that mouth. Sculpted and sensuous with a hint of cruelty. Sigh.
“Which one?”
“Excuse me?” She turned away from another covert look at the mouth-watering group to stare at Lorraine.
“Pick one. You get first dibs
, it being your birthday and all.”
Julie, Noreen and even Sandra giggled loudly, giddiness fueled by too many margaritas, and
Lorraine tossed back her heavy mane of black hair, a pout twisting her full, carmine lips.
“Amy should get first dibs,” she insisted, loudly. “Birthday girl deserves a hot gift and those boys are haawwt.”
“Keep your voice down.” Amy whispered her plea.
“Why? They’re like the best presents ever!”
Jeez. Lorraine’s proclamations had attracted the attention of the “presents” and all of them were looking. Amy had just enough to drink to stare back challengingly, while wrestling with a sense of embarrassment. She wasn’t interested in a casual hookup. Didn’t matter how incredibly hot and sexy Mr. Tall and Muscular was or the way his right eyebrow quirked in such a way as to make her belly hitch when he looked directly into her eyes. She wrenched her gaze away, snatching up her bag. “Potty break.”
Giggles erupted behind her as she hustled to the restrooms, an ideal distance from her table and the collection of hunks. Maybe they’d be gone by the time she got back.
Lorraine had the attention span of a gnat so at least
she
will have moved on. Hopefully.
The bathroom pretty much reflected the appearance of the rest of the club—basic. No fancy marble
-tiled backsplash or stainless sinks. The stained porcelain bowls featured dripping taps, although the hot water was plentiful, and the overhead lighting was dim and tended to throw shadows across the already silvering mirrors. But the drinks were cheap, the music not country, and the bar a marked contrast to the fancy places she’d frequented in Vegas. Sacramento was different, or at least it felt different, and Amy didn’t want fancy or the memories similar venues stirred up.
Quickly using the facilities, she washed her hands and pushed her hair off her face, lifting the mass to drop it behind her shoulders. Checked her lip gloss and applied a little more, squinting to compensate for the poor reflective
qualities of the mirror. Twenty-seven years old. Footloose and fancy free. Alone in this world, except for Sandra, and wasn’t that fucking depressing?
Swivelling on her flats to check the fit of her dark jeans, relieved they hadn’t stretched and bagged over her ass, she smoothed the silky stuff of her shirt and straightened the fall of her necklace, centering it over the V of her cleavage. Her index finger lingered on the tiny stylized C. C for change, a gift from Sandra when
Amy was released from the hospital. A private, meaningful message. A reminder. Amy stroked it like the talisman it was and reminded herself that hot men,
any
hot men, were off limits. Meeting men in places like this ended in one night stands and she wasn’t doing that anymore.
Hopefully
, her girls were ready to pack it in. She had no particular place to go, no one to see, but the buzz was gone. Tomorrow would be another day, like yesterday, and while money wasn’t so much of an issue anymore, Amy was feeling restless, ready to move on. She’d miss Sandra, a lot. But there was nothing to hold her here, and maybe there would be someplace else. Someone else. Maybe Sandra would want to come with, although her friend really liked the hospital where she now worked.
Exiting into the hall, footsteps deadened by the worn carpet and heavily panelled walls, she checked in her purse for her phone and ran into a wall of warm, solid male. Big, strong hands gripped her shoulders as she rocked back with the impact.
“Easy, sweetheart.”
Holy shit. Holy shit. Tall, muscular guy from the hunky crowd. Her pulse kicked up and her face suffused with heat. He was even better looking close up, eyes a darker shade of the silver dollars the tourists fed the slots in Vegas. And as hard. He got her juices flowing
, and she struggled against the attraction. So not fitting in with her C for change.
“Excuse me. Sorry.”
Oh, good one, Amy. Sophisticated.
Couldn’t turn on a little attitude about him blocking the hallway with his awesomeness, a barrier just waiting for an unsuspecting woman to walk right into. She’d become a wuss since leaving Vegas, losing her thin veneer of sophistication. Pasting on a vague smile she made to slip past him, but he shifted, too. She deked the other way. Blocked again. So they weren’t doing the supermarket aisle dance, each moving in the same direction while trying to avoid the other. She dared another look at his face and met that quirked brow again, those cruel, sexy lips twitching with apparent amusement. Her eyes dropped down his body in self-preservation. Mistake.
His worn jeans fit him admirably, tightly stretched across his thighs, the solid metal piece of his belt buckle drawing attention to the taut fabric
molding his—she swallowed the mouth-watering sensation and pretended to examine the dark material of his shirt while she searched for something to say to conclude the chance meeting.
“What?” Another conversational gem.
“Happy Birthday, Amy.”
They hadn’t…
They had. Her girls actually told this man… Goddamn it. She took a step back and tried another smile. “Thanks.”
“Your loud friend—
Lorraine—announced the gift idea. I decided who you’d choose.”
Can you say arrogant? Confident? Insufferable? Amy knew all her adjectives applied, but damned if he couldn’t carry them off. Cautiously, she said, “You thought I’d choose you?”
“Didn’t say that. Said I was making your choice.”
Okay. She didn’t know quite what to make of that. Truthfully, she hadn’t really scrutinized the other men at his table, except to note they were mostly all of a type— tall, built
, and good looking. She’d really looked at
him
.
“Who are you?” Was that wise? Did she really want to know? She did.
“Dean Chambray. Those guys—we work together.”
“They work
for
you.”
His eyes narrowed and the sterling in the silver intensified, set off by thick, dark lashes. “Now why would you say that?”
Shrugging, she answered. “They paid attention to you, deferred to you.” Probably she hadn’t needed to share. Men preferred big, dumb blondes, not ones who obviously paid attention. But she wasn’t slipping back into that role again.
He reached out and hooked a piece of her hair, a strand right at that sensitive juncture where neck meets shoulder, pulling it gently until she followed its insistent tugging, moving right back into his space. “Beautiful
and
smart.”
Her brain went to mush, the scent of sandalwood and hot male washing over her, the very heat of him tangible. She tipped her head back in order to read his face. “What?”
“You’re observant, and interpret what you see accurately. Smart.”
Smart. Amy was vigilant and read people and situations out of dire necessity. She’d lived on the edge nearly all her life in a variety of foster homes and one memorable, not in a good way, juvie unit, before being absorbed into the Vegas street life at the tender age of sixteen. Surviving state foster care was a major feat in itself, and to make it off the street and into the high
-roller lifestyle, albeit as a bit player … well, good instincts rated right up there with intelligence. Higher. But she possessed her share of the latter, if her history sometimes dumbed it down, made her make poor choices. Her history, and how she confused hot sex with love and affection, was psychology one-oh-one. She mentally thanked Sandra, for the C for change.
Her silence elicited another measured look. “Modest
, too. What would you like for your birthday?”
“What? I mean, excuse me?” Another scintillating conversational gambit. Modest? Her? Well, her current job didn’t require face-to-face communication, and chatting wasn’t high on the list of her past
position.
Discouraged, actually.
“What’d you wish for?”
“Oh. I didn’t have a cake or blow out any candles. So no wish.”
“What would you like, Amy?” Less patience, more insistence.
Imagining his face if she came right out with it, laid it on him, she felt her lips twitch and fought a derisive snicker, knowing she laughed to cover her wistfulness.
I want a man who’ll respect me and trust me, love me and not try to change me, yet take care of me. Someone who won’t use me, but will make babies with me and live by my side forever and ever.
“Nothing, actually.” It was true—she wanted the impossible.
“Well, then I’ll choose that for you, too. Consider this the bow on top.” Dean cradled the back of her head with one big hand, holding her steady with the other placed in the small of her back. He leaned down to take her lips. Startled, she parted them to protest and his tongue instantly surged inside to duel with her own, exploring the recesses of her mouth. Sculpted, sensuous, she’d add sublimely talented to describe those lips. Her eyes closed and she gave herself up to the myriad of sensations. So much for the psych lesson.
Knees weakening, she reached up to push her fingers through Dean’s thick hair, holding him close, sealing their mouths ever tighter. The hard bulge at his crotch pressed heatedly into her abdomen and her pussy liquefied, preparing for when this man lifted her so she could wrap her legs around his waist and—holy mother
. This was insane! A moan of protest replaced the whimpering sound of her surrender, and he released her lips, although not his grip on her waist or her head. Pulling back, Amy extricated her fingers, awkwardly patting at his hair, fluttering her hands down to attempt to insert them between their bodies. His eyes were mesmerizing, slate grey over silver, churning with arousal. And he was far too close for her to think with anything other than what her weeping pussy wanted.
“Can’t wait to unwrap the whole package.” His voice was rough and raspy.
Wait—it was
her
birthday. She didn’t trust her voice but pushed against rock hard pecs.
Letting her go, he still blocked her retreat, standing in place, waiting, patient again. Amy felt her whole body give a little shudder, actually
felt
the cathartic awareness of something bigger, different,
more
than any of her past experiences with the opposite sex. And it scared the ever-loving shit out of her.
“I have to go.” Her voice sounded reed thin and plaintive.
He quirked that brow. “I don’t play games, sweetheart. Now or never.”
And there it was, spoiling that atavistic awareness. A hookup, a quick fuck, probably not quick and probably great, but she wasn’t doing that anymore, not that those
hookups in the past had been particularly memorable in the face of what she felt for this man. Chemistry.
The longer-term
positions
weren’t anything for her scrap book, either, and something Amy preferred not to think about. It was her birthday, and she supposed she was entitled to a nice present, but she wanted to hang onto it, wanted to keep this particular gift. That desire in itself surprised her, having just met him, but Dean Chambray not only aroused her to the utter max, something deep inside woke up and clamored to be heard, begged to connect with him. No sense in teasing herself. Or it. Because
he
wasn’t different. Wrong again.
“Never, then. Thanks for the birthday kiss.”
This time he stepped far enough aside to give her room to pass. His face was impassive although his eyes sparked. Thwarted desire or annoyance? Same thing. Amy forced herself to walk slowly back to the table, the age and disrepair of the club more apparent to her heightened senses. The floors dipped from the weight of thousands of feet, the walls marked by countless hands and the faint smell of mildew wasn’t totally masked by the crush of bodies emitting both natural and purchased scents.
Don’t look back.
Four feminine faces stared her way, three alight with anticipation, Sandra’s drawn with worry. Her friend could read her a mile off. Fuck it. It was
her
birthday. “Somebody order another pitcher!”