Be Mine: A Valentine’s Collection of Sexy Short Stories by Six NYT Bestselling Authors Read online

  Be Mine

  A Valentine’s Collection of Sexy Short Stories by Six NYT Bestselling Authors

  Contents

  About the Be Mine collection

  A Rock Chick Valentine

  About A Rock Chick Valentine

  A Rock Chick Valentine

  Books by Kristen Ashley

  About Kristen Ashley

  Once Upon A Red-Hot Kiss

  About Once Upon a Red-Hot Kiss

  1. Kirby

  2. Macy

  3. From the texts of Ally & Miller

  4. Kirby

  5. Macy

  6. Kirby

  7. Kirby

  8. Kirby

  9. Kirby

  10. From the texts of Ally & Miller

  11. Macy

  Epilogue

  Another Epilogue

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Seaside Serenade

  Fall in love with Brock and Cree in Seaside Serenade

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Keep up with Melissa Foster!

  Shadows of You

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Also by J. Kenner

  About the Author

  Dirty Sweet Valentine

  About Dirty Sweet Valentine

  Dirty Sweet Valentine

  Also by Laurelin Paige

  About Laurelin Paige

  The Bedroom Experiment

  About The Bedroom Experiment

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  About the Be Mine collection

  We’re so thrilled to share this collection of original, brand new, never-before-published short stories from six New York Times Bestselling Authors. Enjoy Valentine’s Day with this gift from us — six delicious standalone short stories designed to bring both the sexy and the sweet this Valentine’s Day. This collection includes:

  Once Upon a Red-Hot Kiss by Lauren Blakely

  Dirty Sweet Valentine by Laurelin Paige

  Shadows of You by J. Kenner

  The Bedroom Experiment by Kendall Ryan

  A Rock Chick Valentine by Kristen Ashley

  Seaside Serenade by Melissa Foster

  A Rock Chick Valentine

  by Kristen Ashley

  About A Rock Chick Valentine

  A Rock Chick Valentine

  * * *

  Indy Savage fell in love with Lee Nightingale at the age of five. Lee claimed Indy a lot later. Now they’re married, with children, have not yet been out on a date…and it’s Valentine’s Day. Lee’s so busy being a badass, he’s forgotten. So what’s a Rock Chick to do? Take matters in her own hands. Not to mention, hold a grudge, but still plan a sex-a-thon. Revisit the couple that started the Rock Chick series with A Rock Chick Valentine!

  A Rock Chick Valentine

  Dilithium Crystals

  By Kristen Ashley

  * * *

  “Indy, your phone is ringing!” Jet called from the book counter at my store, Fortnum’s Used Books (and Coffee Emporium).

  Yes, I’d added the “(and Coffee Emporium)” (with parenthesis) because Tex had threatened to go on strike if I didn’t.

  And if he went on strike, I’d sell way less coffee and therefore might have to curtail indulging in my cowboy-boot, lip-gloss and sexy-underwear habits.

  So I’d change the name.

  I headed that way and saw Jet staring at my phone like it was a snake about to strike, and I knew who was calling.

  Duke was behind the counter with her, and he was looking like he was about to impart sage wisdom, as was his way.

  But I was in no mood.

  When I got close, Jet swiped up my phone and held it out to me, arm long and straight, like she was offering me a stinky diaper… and yeah.

  I knew who it was.

  I checked the display anyway and saw I was right.

  Because it said, ICE Lee Nightingale.

  This was one of the five thousand, two hundred and fifty-three numbers my husband had personally programmed into my phone.

  It said “ICE” because it was the number to call in case of emergency, but it actually wasn’t his number.

  It was Shirleen’s desk phone at his office, Shirleen being my friend, and his office manager.

  And it was this because, even if Shirleen wasn’t there twenty-four seven, someone picked up when that number was dialed, and it would be someone trained to take care of an emergency, no matter what that emergency was, make no mistake.

  And that someone would be able to find Lee, and fast, make no mistake about that either.

  I hit the screen to take the call.

  “Yo,” I answered.

  “Girl, you know I wanna be making this call like I wanna be in the Nightingale Torture Room having my nails torn out by the roots,” Shirleen said as greeting.

  My husband did not have a torture room at his private investigation offices.

  Okay, maybe he did, kinda.

  But he, or his men, didn’t pull people’s nails out by their roots in there (I didn’t think).

  “What?” I asked.

  “Lee told me to tell you he’s gonna be done doin’ what he’s doin’ earlier than he thought and wanted me to let you know he’s pickin’ up the kids so you don’t have to.”

  She paused, I waited, hope springing eternal because I was an idiot, then she finished, sounding like she was, at that very moment, having her nails torn out by the roots.

  “And he says he’ll take ’em home and order pizza. You guys are havin’ a family movie night.”

  And hopes were not only dashed but shot in the head and kicked in the teeth.

  Then spit on.

  It was Valentine’s Day.

  I didn’t want to have a family movie night on Valentine’s Day.

  I wanted to have a great meal followed by a sex-a-thon with my husband on Valentine’s Day.

  Don’t get me wrong, I loved my kids, even though Suki (our daughter, whose name was actually Alison—she was named after Lee’s little sister and my best friend because we loved Ally, but also because we were forced to do this after threat that she’d never speak to us again if we didn’t) was showing alarming tendencies of being one serious Rock Chick.

  I should not be alarmed by this.

  I was a Rock Chick through and through.

  But Suki had more of those plastic high heels and tubes of little-girl lip gloss than me and my friend Tod, who was the premier drag queen of Denver, put together (though ours were not the plastic or little-girl variety).

  And she was not in double digits yet and she’d already gone through a Stevie Nicks phase (demanding I buy her a webbed shawl made of gold yarn which she wore while twirling around in our living room and singing “Gold Dust Woman”), a Joan Jett phase (a four-year-old with heavy black eyeliner and torn jeans was a little scary, but Lee and I had rolled with it) and a Pat Benatar phase (I had to admit, it was cute, a little girl singing “We Belong”).

  Not to mention, Callum, our boy, was born a badass, like his dad.

  I mean, his first word was “tactical,” and I’m not even kidding about that shit.

  And don’t get me wrong, I loved my husband.

  First, he was hot. Second, he was insanely good in bed. Third, he was a great father. And last, I’d been in love with him since I was five years
old and he held my hand at my mother’s funeral.

  Sure, the road between then and now had been rocky, seeing as I made no bones about being in love with him and began a crusade at five to make him my boyfriend.

  Then, when I was older, connive to kiss him “with tongues.”

  And then, when I was even older, jump his bones.

  All of which he’d thwarted.

  Until he was ready to jump my bones.

  However, by then I was over it (lie: I was totally not, I was just pretending to be because there was only so much rejection a Rock Chick could take).

  And then, I was embarrassed to say, he wore me down in just a few days, we eventually had a sexual wrestling match on his living room floor (an event we had repeated in multiple locations over the years, though not just in the living room) which ended with him carrying me to his bed and making me sing the “Hallelujah” chorus (an event he repeated on multiple occasions over the years, thank the Lord).

  And now we were married with kids.

  But we had never, not once, not in all the years we’d been together, been on a date.

  No shit.

  No dates.

  Not one.

  And again, today was Valentine’s Day.

  Okay, so he was the top private investigator in Denver (actually the Rocky Mountain region, maybe even the world, he and his team were that good).

  He was also a hands-on dad.

  Further, he had a wife who was prone to antics with friends who had the same inclinations (antics as in kidnappings were not out of the equation, neither were explosions, no joke, though that hadn’t happened in a while).

  In other words, he was busy guy.

  But it was Valentine’s Day.

  We’d had many.

  But shit always got in the way.

  “Indy?” Shirleen called over the phone.

  “Tell him, ‘whatever.’”

  “Child, that boy is not gonna like ‘whatever,’ you know that.”

  “Whatever,” I said, then took my life in my hands and hung up on Shirleen, and this was taking my life in my hands because she might be my friend, but she was a badass too and she didn’t like people hanging up on her.

  I felt bad about this because it wasn’t Shirleen’s fault my husband was a busy guy and a Valentine’s-Day-forgetting jerk.

  “You okay?” Jet asked, and I looked to her.

  She reared back on seeing my face, but she was Jet. She’d endured a lot in her life. She was no wilting violet. So she might rear back, but she stood her ground.

  “What are you and Eddie doing for Valentine’s Day?” I asked.

  “Um…” she mumbled but said no more.

  Which meant her husband, Eddie Chavez, was doing what he always did on Valentine’s Day for his wife and the mother of his own brood of badasses.

  Pulling out all the stops.

  “Unh-hunh,” I muttered.

  “Indy—” Duke started.

  “In no mood,” I cut him off and moved toward the coffee counter.

  Tex was standing there.

  Tex had been voted #1 Best Barista in Denver in Westworld for eight years running.

  If they had the categories, Tex would also be voted #1 Craziest Dude in Denver and also #1 Scariest Dude in Denver and then those categories would be named after him because he was just that crazy…and scary.

  Case in point, me being in the mood I was, him turning his crazy-man stare at me and his lips in his bushy beard booming, “Do not get near me, woman! You’ll mess with my V-Day mojo! Me and Nancy got plans to adopt a cat and then go out to dinner. No one’s gonna mess with my cat-adopting, dinner-with-my-woman, V-Day mojo!”

  One could say I was over the moon Tex had found late-in-life love with Nancy, Jet’s mom and an all-around great lady.

  But.

  “Tex, you and Nancy already have fifty cats.”

  “No, we don’t. We have eleven of ’em.”

  “Tex, you and Nancy already have eleven cats,” I amended.

  “So?” he asked.

  That was it.

  So?

  I had no answer. The man was crazy. He looked like a serial killer. He made the best coffee I’d ever tasted, and I was a coffee fanatic. The only things I loved more were my husband, my kids, my family of actual family, but also Rock Chicks and friends, and last, rock ’n’ roll, and I loved all of that a lot, a lot.

  But with all of that, Tex had the biggest heart of anyone I knew (and that was saying something) so he had a room in it for everybody.

  Including twelve cats.

  My phone in my hand rang.

  I looked at it and saw it said, 111 Lee Nightingale (Husband).

  Yes, he’d programmed that too.

  This was his cell.

  “Yo,” I answered.

  “Whatever?” he asked.

  Yep.

  He did not like the W-word.

  Enough he was too busy to call so he made Shirleen tell me his Valentine’s-Day-forgetting plans, but when he heard the W-word, he called.

  He also did not like the F-word, and I wasn’t talking about the F-word. He used that word all the time.

  I was talking about the word “fine.”

  He hated that word.

  Primarily when his wife used it when she was not referring to his ass.

  It’s Valentine’s Day! I wanted to scream. How could you forget? Every badass in your office has a woman and they’ve made special plans. I know. Those women have told me about them. And I know Shirleen reminded you and you got busy or ignored her.

  I did not say this.

  I said, “Actually, not ‘whatever.’ I’m picking up the kids. You don’t have to worry about it.”

  I did not share I was picking up the kids so I could dump them on my dad, who, with his girlfriend Lana, was going to watch them.

  Along with Lee’s brother Hank and his wife Roxie’s kids, and Ally and Ren’s kids, because it was Dad and Lana’s turn in rotation. It was this, seeing as Lee’s folks, Kitty Sue and Malcolm, had this year off from Valentine’s Day babysitting duties.

  I also had reservations at Barolo Grill, my favorite restaurant (Lee loved it too).

  My man and I had made reservations there three thousand, eight hundred and thirty-two times.

  All of them eventually cancelled.

  But I had not forgotten Valentine’s Day.

  “Babe, I’m gonna be done soon. I can pick up the kids.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got them.”

  “I can get them.”

  “I’ve got them, Lee. Go to the office. Do some paperwork.”

  Heat wafted through my phone, enough it was a wonder my screen didn’t melt.

  This, hearty indication about my husband’s feelings about paperwork.

  He was not a sit-at-your desk man.

  He was an action man.

  There were no complaints from me there, for certain.

  “Or, grab a beer at Lincoln’s with Luke,” I made an alternate suggestion.

  Though Luke would not be available because Luke had plans to take Ava to a B&B in Morrison that had cute cottages with hot tubs, and there they might eat something, but they’d mostly have a sex-a-thon.

  Grr.

  “I can pick up the kids, Indy.”

  If he picked up our kids, he’d spoil the surprise!

  “I’ve got the kids, Lee!” I snapped.

  “Okay, baby.”

  God!

  It was so annoying he could give in and call me baby and I wanted to rip his clothes off through a phone even if I was irked at him he’d forgotten Valentine’s Day.

  “Later,” he said.

  “Later, Lee.”

  We hung up.

  The bell over the door rang.

  I looked that direction to see Ally and our friend, plus her office manager, Daisy (Ally was a PI too) walk in.

  Daisy looked like Dolly Parton, including the big, blonde hair and the huge bazungas.
>
  And Daisy was in Valentine’s Day mode.

  This meant she was wearing a scarlet-red tube dress that had a heavy scattering of diamante across the boobs—boobs, by the by, that were barely contained by the material and thus serious cleavage was showing—a stone-washed jeans jacket (that had a heavy scattering of red diamante across the shoulders) and red go-head pumps with marabou feathers wafting over her toes.

  And I knew, in a little over an hour, she was boarding a private jet, and her husband, Marcus, was flying her to Aspen for dinner and nookie.

  She was probably just here to grab a coffee for her and Marcus for the flight.

  Bah!

  Daisy took one look at my face and said, “Sugar.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I announced, turned on my cowboy boot, and prowled into the rows of bookshelves that made up most of Fortnum’s Used Books but was not where hardly anyone went.

  Because they didn’t come here for used books.

  They came there for the Coffee Emporium.

  “Indy, I’m home!” Lee yelled.

  I did not answer because I was in our bathroom, lining my lips with long-wearing liner, and every girl knew, you needed concentration when doing that shit.

  It took a while for my husband to find me, mostly because we had a huge-ass house.

  We’d moved out of the duplex where we’d lived in the beginning because, one, I got pregnant and our two-bedroom duplex did not accommodate kids, my penchant for stuffing my desk full of girlie stationery, my closet full of clothes, Lee needing space to sprawl, drink beer, and watch the Broncos, and our sex life.