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  SHOW TIME

  INSTALOVE HEARTS BOOK 3

  ALLY CREW

  BRYNN HALE

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  Copyright © 2020 by Ally Crew and Brynn Hale

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  Contact Ally for more information at [email protected].

  This story was co-written by Ally Crew and Brynn Hale. Brynn writes sweet, steamy instalove with bad boys, cowboys, firemen, military guys and more with heart and all the feelings.

  She can be found at: Amazon Brynn Hale

  Contents

  SHOW TIME- Instalove Hearts Book 3

  1. Iris

  2. Thatcher

  3. Iris

  4. Thatcher

  5. Iris

  6. Thatcher

  7. Iris

  8. Thatcher

  9. Iris

  10. Thatcher

  11. Iris

  Epilogue

  Easy Caramel Popcorn

  GOING DOWN-Sneak Peak!

  1. Stella

  Also by Ally Crew

  Also by Brynn Hale

  SHOW TIME- Instalove Hearts Book 3

  ♥ Losing her job isn't her biggest problem. Falling for a handsome, and mysterious, customer in the middle of life's chaos is. ♥

  Iris

  I just ran into a brick wall of a man, dropped my already broken phone, and may have said something to the effect of “Grerglerdeggen”. Yeah, not my finest moment, but if you’d just learned you got canned by text, you might be having a bad day, too.

  And I swear he asked me out, while holding my phone hostage.

  Stop it! You might be a poor Cinderella, but he’s just a guy in the theatre, not a Prince Charming.

  If I don’t find a new job and soon, my dad’s going to be the one who suffers and I can’t let that happen.

  When Mr. Brick-Wall offers me a job, I’m cautious...what kind of job are we talking about?

  Thatcher

  As the CEO of a large movie theater chain, I have thousands of things to work through, deal with millions of dollars that require my attention--I'm a work-warlord.

  This young angel disarmed all of my carefully constructed barriers - no permission sought - and walked right into my core. All she had to do was bump into me and gape at my face with those big brown eyes.

  How am I meant to punish an angel for disrupting the Thatcher code?

  Sure, she’s my employee, but I haven't gotten to where I’m at without breaking a few rules.

  But this one little beauty, she might just break my heart.

  What you must know: This fast and steamy read contains over-the-top proclamations, instalove magnetism, and sweet-tooth satisfying moments between a curvy woman and a rich and powerful, wanting-love man.

  1

  Iris

  Popcorn. Gum. Nachos. Over and over.

  Popcorn and nachos stuck in gum. That is a new one. With the scraper, I remove the gum from the handle of the theatre seat, dispose the muck in the plastic bag before slipping the scraper back into my cleaner’s apron.

  “Ugh…” I adjust the strap of the flimsy apron that is slicing into the folds of my curvy waist. “Wait…what is that?” My curly lashes fly up in disapproval. Caramel popcorn? A whole toppled bucket. This isn’t just sad. It’s cruel and criminal to ruin such a delicious treat.

  But it’s all just typical fallout from the explosive chaos that is otherwise known as a party of raucous ten-year-olds.

  I have all of fifteen minutes, and another forty-eight seats to go, before the next show time erupts. But that is to be expected from an entertainment venue of this caliber. Leather recliners. Fancy cup holders. Dolby Digital sound. IMAX screens. This glitzy complex is a cinematic experience at its finest, a part of the “Phenomenon!” chain of theaters, the largest in the state.

  “Keep moving!” I say to myself to stay the course, returning to the mission the best way I know how—head on. Whipping out the long-handled broom, I scoop up the mountain of popcorn and dump it into the bin.

  What a waste…

  Just as I stand up to adjust the creases bunching up at the seams on my shirt, I feel the subtle but freak-out-inducing pop.

  “No!” A dramatic horror-shriek goes off in my head, and my widened pupils drop down to my shirt. The crucial button—the one holding my shirt over the midpoint of my bra—has flown off to never been seen again on the dark floors.

  Murphy's Law strikes again. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Great.

  For a cinema chain that believes in big-big chairs, giant screens, and massive popcorn tubs, they do scrounge a few inches off on uniform sizing.

  But, popped button and toppled toffee popcorn tales aside, Phenomenon does have a lot going for it in my books. The timings of movies, six p.m. to one a.m., fit perfectly into my day, following right on the heels of my day job. The pay is slightly better than minimum wage. The complex isn’t far from my home. I get to watch movies for free and take home four free snacks a month, saving up on a few spoiling expenses and only encouraging my massive sweet tooth, but I’m not complaining. After all, each penny in the piggy bank counts.

  Life’s tough for a struggling twenty-two-year-old. Life gets infinitely tougher for a struggling twenty-two-year old whose only parent—a loving dad—needs a surgery that he keeps putting off.

  Besides, my hard work on the floor hasn’t gone unnoticed. I won the “friendliest employee of the year” a few weeks ago, which is a testament to my father’s upbringing of me. Of course, all of this means I don’t have time for a love life. But the last time I peeped through the keyhole, there weren’t a queue of guys waiting outside my door to woo me anyway.

  So, I am not going to complain.

  I remove the Phenomenon pin from my upper shoulder and fasten it on the empty buttonhole, the metal barely holding my shirt in place.

  I glance to my phone. “Shit! Ten minutes…” I double down on sweeping and scooping and removing, on repeat.

  And with just a minute to go, I push the supplies cart outside the doors and welcome in the first of the moviegoers. I’m about to do a mini Cinderella dance by the closet, with my broom and apron, when the message notification on my phone goes off.

  A mini jolt travels through me, as I swiftly enter the pin on my cracked screen. It’s been this way since dad’s illness but working is still working.

  “Phew.” I blow a little puff of relief—the text is from my day job, not from the doctor’s.

  “Wait… work?” My pulse creeps up again. “Letter of termination?” Done through a text?!

  I try reading through its contents, but tears bead my eyes and I struggle to read the message through the droplets and the spider crack blurring the screen.

  When I make it to the end, the message is ultimately short and artificially sweet. However, it’s obvious they have decided to let me go because I took a couple of mornings off to accompany dad to his hospital appointments.

  “This is crap! You’ve got to be kidding me.” I rage inside as well as out. I can’t not have a second job. Especially not now. This is a small town—jobs are as tough to come by as pen
guins in a desert.

  Just then my caller tune goes off. Dad? Not a great time…”

  But I try to put on my Iris happiness. “Hey… what’s up?”

  “Just checking on you.” A shuffle of kitchen-noises can be heard in the background. “I’ve put the mac-and-cheese in the fridge. All you’ve got to do is heat it up when you get home.”

  “Thank you, Dad. You are the best.”

  “I know.” He kids and it brightens my evening a tiny bit. “Hey, everything ok? You don’t sound yourself.”

  I sumo-wrestle with the lump in my throat, ramming it down to the floor of my stomach. “Of course.”

  He stalls, his voice dropping. “I noticed an overdue bill on the table today. You know, the appointment that’s coming up…we could put it off for a month… if that would make it easier on us.”

  “Oh no, of course not…” I start to say, when the phone switches off. And it won't switch back on. I stare at the instrument in my hand for a few dead seconds, before pitching my colleague behind the snack counter a half-glimpse, hoping she doesn’t notice the shiny trails on my cheeks.

  “I need to head to the bathroom. Just need a minute.”

  “Sure, hun.” She nods, serving her customer. “Take your time.”

  I will, because I could do with a really good cry.

  I rush through the swinging door, and the room is surprisingly empty. Hunching over the wash basin, I let the tears flow, and it feels good.

  “I need a spare button…a spare phone…and a fucking spare job!” I scream into a few paper towels.

  When I’ve eventually exhausted the tears and squinted at the mirror, I look like I’m dressed for Halloween.

  My messy bun has twisted on my head into just a mess. My lips are swollen. And mascara streaks run down my cheeks.

  Lesson number 45764 learned today, dollar store mascaras aren’t waterproof.

  I quickly wipe my face, not wanting to be found missing from my spot for too long and rush out.

  Crash! Ouch. Oops.

  The phone drops from my hand as I bump into a brick wall. A handsome brick wall of a human. A handsome brick wall, inches over six feet tall as I’m over five and a half and feel miniature in his shadow. He’s dressed in a posh suit that accentuates his broad shoulders. Above that is a sharp trail of whiskers on a chiseled jawline, a smoldering gaze, a hold stronger than magnets, and features sculpted by a master craftsman. To complete the delightful picture is gelled tawny hair with two streaks of ash.

  The brick-wall is sexy with a bold S!

  Wait… delightful… sexy?

  The choice of mental words surprises me, as does the fact that I can sense a wave of heat moving down below. Way below, between my thighs.

  Shit...

  A second ago I was bawling my eyes out and now I’m burning with want. This is not my M.O. It’s clear I’m having some sort of physical anomaly. Have to be. Textbook signs of a breakdown or…or…plain lust.

  An invisible mirror flashes in front of me and realize what a mess I am. Smudged mascara. Broken button. A few love rolls ballooning out of my apron.

  Suddenly, the doors of the escalator pings open and a small crowd spills out, yanking me back to the realization that I’m silently flirting with a customer, all while still in his brawny hold.

  What am I doing” I can’t lose this job, too.

  “I… I… I… I’m sorry,” I cough up a few hurried apologies while backing away, and try hastening down the corridors, until his husky voice applies the brakes on my speedy getaway.

  “Forgetting something?”

  I turn around and catch my phone in his hand—strong veined hands—his thumb rolling along its side. For a second, I imagine his thumb rolling over something else, and an abrupt tingle sends my nipples hardening.

  His silvery glances travel down to the broken button of my shirt and back up to my face.

  The burn on my cheeks intensifies a notch. “My phone!”

  He pulls it back to his chest as I approach. “I owe you a phone... but you owe me your number.” He doesn’t make a request. Not even a question. It’s a statement.

  My heart vaults to the base of my throat.

  Plucking my phone from his large hand unsteadily. Our fingers brush, sending a warm zip through my arm and I swear out the tips of my toes. And I disappear from the corridor without a word.

  I lean back against the storage room door, my hideout.

  Number? Did he really say that?

  Stop dreaming, Iris. You might be a poor Cinderella, but he’s just a guy in the theatre, not a Prince Charming.

  2

  Thatcher

  Iris Morales. My fine focus narrows over her name on my screen.

  Beneath it, is listed her employment information, general details. Her personal details I know. Toffee colored hair. Buttery tan skin. Berry lips. Polished walnut brown eyes. The ethereal assets of an angel untainted by fakeness and fabrication. Somehow, some way, I’m going to keep it that way.

  Forever.

  “I… I… I… I'm sorry.” I recall her voice and my cock flashes with a burst of energy.

  Those puffy eyes smudged with mascara. Deep brown and filled with warm pearly dewdrops of sadness that can melt steely hearts and harden a cock into steel. She is refreshing. Arousing. Refreshingly arousing.

  “Iris.” I think her name and my cock excites again against the lining of my boxer briefs, the ache for a woman I’ve just met unusual for a man of my assorted experience. With an edgy grip, I remove my silk suit jacket and hang it over the head rest of my office chair. The thermostat is at its coolest setting, but my body has turned into a furnace of desires.

  As the CEO of a large cinema chain, I have thousands of things to work through, deal with millions of dollars that require my attention. Not the least is the upcoming gala that marks 50 successful years of Phenomenon.

  I am a work-warlord. Anyone who knows me, knows not to disturb my fortress when I’m busy. Those that do, have what’s coming for them. This young angel disarmed all of my carefully constructed barriers—no permission sought—and walked right into the depths of my chest and possibly soul. All she had to do was bump into me and gape at my face with those big doe eyes and I was done and over for her.

  “Holy hell!” If I hadn’t stopped into the particular branch earlier to check on the upgrades to the two largest theaters the interaction never would have happened.

  But it did, and here I am, my concentration considerably wrecked and my thoughts on carnal activities that I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  “So…” I line my shoulders against the backrest. How am I going to punish an angel for disrupting the Thatcher code of all business, little pleasure?

  A devious smile curls my mouth as a few visuals play in my mind.

  However, before I can revel in the heat of those steamy punishments, there are a few hurdles that will have to be crossed first.

  “I need a spare button… a spare phone… and a fucking-spare job!”

  Remembering the cry of her voice yanks at a few cords in my chest. Cords knotted with my pride and persona—as a protector and provider. Life’s being a jerk to her, and I’ve gone through most of my life dealing with jerks. No way is this woman going to be left wanting for any of life’s little or big luxuries.

  She’ll get a brand new cell phone.

  A brand new job.

  And brand new clothes that celebrate her curves, instead of that frumpy polo that hides it all, until the time comes for my lips to do the same.

  She deserves to be a princess. And I’ll make her one, by making her mine.

  A message flashes across my cell phone. I pick it up and unlock the screen. It’s an email from my trusted PA, Vicky, a godsend of a woman and I wouldn’t be the success I am without her. I know this and like all my employees, she’s rewarded for being good at her job.

  Mr. Scott,

  What role should I specify when I approach Miss Morales with an offer for the G
ala? Waitress? Bartender?

  Regards,

  Vicky

  I smile. An idea dawns upon me like fresh morning light after a series of rainy days.

  No. Offer her the role of party hostess. And I will be there to be the host. It will be my night to show her off on my arm and then make her mine.

  3

  Iris

  I’m humming a song so I won’t have to hear the dilemmas whirring in my head. Constantly and harshly.

  “What’s troubling you?” Dad’s gentle voice drifts from the couch. “You’re singing your worry-song.”

  Oops. I didn’t know I have one of those, but good to know for the future.

  “Oh, nothing…” My hands go cold in the warm soapy dish water. My guts are still a little scattered. I haven’t had the time to collect myself and tell him the truth that I haven’t gone to work this morning because I have no work to go to.

  Maybe, I should just take up the offer at the grocers and ignore the creepy vibes that the owner gives me.

  I shiver at the thought. I recall the way he chats me up with candy-coated words while he eye-gropes my boobs and probably butt. Asshole! Like the many others, who proposed some vertical fun so they could use me as another notch in their dirty bed posts before dumping me. In fact, a couple guys who asked me out, did so only because I was their winning ticket to a group dare of “who can get the v-card”. Grade-A assholes! An ugly shudder travels my spine.

  I owe you a phone... you owe me your number.

  His silky soft voice coats my thoughts and I can’t stop a smile. Now something about that proposal feels different. Very different.