A Proper Scandal (31 page)

When Dominic Fairmore left Oregon to be all he could be as an Army Ranger, he always knew he'd come back to claim Lily Greene. But after six years away and three career-ending bullets, Dominic is battered, broken, and nobody's hero—so he stays away. Until he learns Lily has been the victim of a seemingly random attack.

Lily is starting to find a life without Dominic when suddenly her wounded warrior is home and playing bodyguard—though all she really wants is for him to take her. But she refuses to play the part of a damsel in distress, no matter how much she misses his tempting touch.

 

T
he door swung open and a large figure filled the doorway. The light from the parking lot made it difficult to identify his features. But she knew him. She'd know him anywhere.

“Now?” she cried as fury rose up partly driven by the pinot noir. But after all this time, how could Dominic Fairmore walk in holding a freaking key in the middle of the night?

Beside her, the dishwasher moved as if Lily's one-word cry had been a directive. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Caroline reach for the pie dish. And then it was hurling through the empty bar. The pie collided with the target, covering Lily's ex with a mixture of berries, sugar, and homemade crust. The tin dish dropped to the floor.

“What the hell?” the man roared, whipping the pie from his face.

A year ago, Lily would have laughed at the sight of Dominic covered in dessert. She would have smiled and offered to help clean him up. She would have been happy he'd returned home. And she would have set aside all of the lingering heartache from their last and supposedly final breakup.

But too much time had slipped past. Too much had changed. And for him to show up now? In the middle of the night when her fear rose to fever pitch? For him to waltz in here without even knocking?

She felt Caroline's hand close around her arm and pull as if trying to drag her away. Lily grabbed her wine glass and hurled it at the door. She missed and the glass fell to the ground three feet in front of her and shattered.

“Turn around and leave, Dominic,” she snapped as she allowed Caroline to pull her behind the bar, into relative safety. Only she'd never be safe from the man she'd loved for so long, because he didn't aim for her face or her arms.

He went for the heart.

“You had your chance to come back,” she added as Caroline released her.

“Lily, please calm down,” Dominic called.

From their position behind the bar, she heard the door close. Caroline glanced at her. “You know him.”

She nodded. Caroline pushed off the ground without a word. And Lily followed her, turning to face the former love of her life, who had stepped just inside the door.

“Ryan dragged me back,” he said. “At Noah and Josie's request. How do you think I got the key? Or does your friend here throw food at everyone who walks into the bar?”

“It was the only thing I had,” Caroline said simply. “Noah locked up my gun.”

“Remind me to thank Noah in the morning,” Dominic said dryly.

His hands dropped to his side, abandoning the attempts to wipe away the pie that had hit its target with near-perfect aim. Lily glanced at Caroline. She wasn't sure she wanted to see the dishwasher with a firearm.

Then she glanced back at Dominic. Marionberries clung to his beard. He'd always been clean-shaven. But now, his dark hair was long and it looked like he'd lost his razor around the same time he'd kissed the rangers goodbye. She'd loved the hard lines of his jaw and the feel of his skin against her when they kissed. But this look . . .

She ached to touch and explore. He looked wild and unrestrained, as if he didn't give a damn, as if he didn't hold anything back. Her gaze headed south to the muscles she'd wanted to memorize before he left. He appeared bigger, more powerful.

Impossible
.

He'd always been strong, able to lift her up and press her against the wall. He'd held her with ease while she fell apart . . .

And with that memory, her fury and her fear opened the door to another entirely unwelcome emotion—desire. It was as if they were forming a club determined to barricade her heart, mind, and soul against the feelings that might help her return to her calm, steady life. But no, her unruly emotions took one look at the bearded, buff man in the bar and thought:
touch him!

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Stirring Attraction
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From debut author Laura Brown comes a heart-poundingly sexy and wildly emotional New Adult novel about a Hard of Hearing woman, struggling to accept her “imperfections,” and the gorgeous Deaf man who helps her see that she is perfect for him.

 

Y
ou know those corny movies where the love interest walks in and a halo of light flashes behind them? Yeah, that happened. Not because this guy was hot, which he was, but because the faulty hall light had been flickering since before I walked into the room. His chestnut hair—the kind that flopped over his forehead and covered his strong jaw in two to three weeks' worth of growth—complimented his rich brown eyes and dark olive skin, which was either a tan or damn good genetics.

Not that I paid much attention. I was just bored.

And warm. Was it warm in here? I repositioned my hair; thankful it not only covered my aids but also the sudden burning in my ears.

Dr. Ashen stopped talking as Hot New Guy walked over to the two women, shifted his backpack, and began moving his hands in a flurry of activity I assumed was American Sign Language. Chic Glasses Lady moved her hands in response while Perfect Ringlets addressed our teacher.

“Sorry. My car broke down and I had to jump on the Green line,” Ringlets said, speaking for Hot New Guy.

Car? In the middle of Boston, was this guy crazy?

Dr. Ashen spit out an intense reply. Chic Glasses signed to Hot New Guy, who nodded and took a seat in the back of the room.

For the next two hours—the joy of a once-a-week part-grad class—I watched the two interpreters. Every half-hour or so they switched, with one standing next to Dr. Ashen. They held eye contact with one spot near the back of the room, where Hot New Deaf Guy sat. I'd never seen ASL up close and personal before. My ears, faulty as they were, had never failed me, at least not to this degree.

From the notes the students around me took, pages of it according to the girl on my left, this class was a bust. I needed this to graduate. Maybe my advisor could work something out? Maybe—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Dammit. To add insult to injury, my hearing aid, the right one, traitorous bitch, announced she needed her battery changed. Right. This. Second. And if—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I reached into my purse, rummaged past lip-gloss, tampons, tissues, and searched for the slim package of batteries. I had no choice. If I ignored the beeping it'd just—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Silence.

Fuck. My left ear still worked, but now the world was half-silent. And Dr. Ashen was a mere mumble of incomprehension.

I pulled out my battery packet only to find the eight little tabs empty.

Double fuck. No time to be discrete. I tossed the packet onto my desk and stuck my head in my bag, shifted my wallet, and moved my calendar. I always had extra batteries on hand. Where were they?

A hand tapped my shoulder. I nearly shrieked and jumped out of my skin. Hot New Deaf Guy stood over me. It was then I noticed student chatter and my peers moving about. Dr. Ashen sat at his desk, reviewing his notes. All signs I had missed the beginning of a break.

Hot New Deaf Guy moved his fingers in front of his face and pointed to the empty battery packet I had forgotten on my desk.

“What color battery?” asked Perfect Ringlets who stood next to him.

“I… Uh…” The burning in my ears migrated to my cheeks. I glanced around. No one paid us any attention. Meanwhile I felt like a spotlight landed on my malfunctioning ears. Hot New Deaf Guy waited for my response. I could tell him to get lost, but that would be rude. Why did my invisibility cloak have to fail me today? And why did he have to be so damn sexy standing there, all broad shoulders and a face that said, “Let me help you”?

He oozed confidence in his own skin. Mine itched. Heck, his ears didn't have anything in them, unless he had those fancy shmancy hearing aids that were next to invisible. The kind of hearing aids I assumed old dudes wore when their days of rock concerts gave them late onset loss. Not the kind of aids someone who had an interpreter at his side would wear.

At a loss for words on how I was supposed to communicate, or where my jumbled thoughts headed, I waved the white flag and showed him the empty packet like a moron.

He nodded, twisted his bag around, and found the batteries I needed.

I glanced around the room again. No one looked at us. No one cared that a hot guy holding out a packet of hearing aid batteries threw my world off kilter.

This class was going on The List of Horrible Classes. Current standing? Worst class ever.

He tapped the packet and signed. A few movements later, much like a speech delay on a bad broadcast, the interpreter beside him spoke.

“Go ahead. Sharon says this guy has a thick accent, must be hard to hear.”

This could not get any more humiliating. I glanced at ­Perfect Ringlets, who I hoped was Sharon, and she nodded.

“Thank you.” I took out one battery, pulled off the orange tab, and popped it into the small door on my hearing aid before shoving it back in my ear. Hot New Deaf Guy still hovered over me, wearing an infectious smile, a smile that made my knees weak. I handed the packet back. “You don't wear hearing aids, why do you have batteries?”

He watched Sharon as she signed my words while putting the batteries away. “I work at a deaf school. Most of my students have hearing aids and someone always needs a battery. I keep a stash on hand,” he said via the interpreter.

“That's nice of you.”

He smiled again. I wished he would stop. The smiling thing, I mean. Every time he did, I lost a brain cell. “My name's Reed.” He stuck out a hand when he finished signing.

I looked at his hand, a bit amazed at how well he could communicate with it.

Not an excuse to be rude. I reached for his outstretched hand. “Carli.”

Sharon asked me how I spelled my name. Reed looked at her instead of me. When I touched him, a spark of some kind ignited and dashed straight up my arm. A tingling that had nothing to do with my ears, or his ears. His eyes shot to mine and I froze. Unable to move or do anything human, like pull my hand back. All I could think of was the fact I'd never kissed a guy with a beard before.

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Signs of Attraction
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In the second book in
USA Today
bestselling author Karen Erickson's Wildwood series stoic sheriff's deputy Lane Gallagher has lusted after his brother's ex for years . . . but will he ever let himself have her?

 

T
he man was a complete idiot.

Like straight-up ignorant, ridiculous, gorgeous, stubborn, infuriating, sexy, elusive, and arrogant . . . yet sweet at the oddest times.

Delilah Moore frowned, tapping her fingers against her desk. She was at the dance studio trying to get some work done and failing miserably. And she definitely didn't like that bit about him being sweet intruding on her mental hissy fit. She wanted to hate Lane Gallagher right now. Hate him with the built-up anger of a million frustrated women because that's exactly what she was. A frustrated woman who was sick to death of being rejected by the only man who had ever given her true, real butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

Well, not
real
butterflies. Just that fluttery sensation one had when one saw the person she had feelings for. Not lust, not infatuation, not any of that shallow crap she'd experienced time and again as a way to try to rid her system of Lane once and for all. That stuff never lasted.

Nope, irritatingly sexy, aloof Lane Gallagher was the only one who ever made her feel something
real.

No one else had ever done it. Not Weston—Lane's younger brother—when they were briefly together. They'd been in high school and in lust; that was it. None of the other guys she'd gone out with had ever made her feel much either—and she'd gone out with more than a few. She wasn't a celibate nun. She was a woman with needs, damn it. Had even had a couple of steady boyfriends over the years. Though for the past two years, she'd been so consumed with running her own business she'd sort of forgotten all about her own needs.

And she was too damn young for that sort of thing. She should be living it up! Having the time of her life! Look at West and Harper. Those two were up to no good in the best possible way. Harper glowed. That's what regular bouts of sex with the man you're madly, passionately in love with did for a girl.

Delilah, on the other hand, had thrown herself at Lane time and again. She'd barely escaped a horrific fire three weeks ago. Lane had seemed so relieved to find her, had held her so close and whispered comforting words in her ear while she'd practically trembled with nerves and adrenaline and fear. She'd savored the sensation of his thick, muscled arms around her. The way his lips had moved against her temple when he spoke and how he'd stroked her back with his big, capable hands. She'd melted into him, closing her eyes on a sigh, imagining all the delicious ways he might kiss her. Lips she'd never touched before but that she knew would taste like heaven . . .

And then he'd set her away from him, offered up a gruff, “Glad you're all right,” and practically ran away from her, never once looking back.

Jerk.

That had been the final straw. She hadn't really seen him since. And she was glad for it. So incredibly glad. Maybe she could finally purge him from her thoughts for good. She'd been kicked to the curb for the last time. The very last time . . .

The bell above the front door chimed, letting her know someone had entered the studio, and she sat up straighter at her desk, pretending she was actually getting work done versus daydreaming—more like day
scheming
—about Lane. She figured it was Wren, her best friend and business partner, coming in to work.

“Did you bring coffee with you?” Delilah yelled when Wren still hadn't made an appearance in the back office that they shared.

There was no reply.

Weird.

She rose to her feet, tucking a stray hair behind her ear as she made her way out of the office, down a tiny hall to emerge into the waiting area. All the breath expelled from her lungs when she saw who stood there with his back to her, eating up all the space with his mere six-foot-two presence.

Stupid Lane Gallagher, Wildwood County deputy sheriff, at her service. Ha, like he'd ever
service
her.

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Smolder
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