Lunchtime Chronicles: Jolly Rancher Read online

  LUNCHTIME CHRONICLES

  Jolly Rancher

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Siera London

  writing

  as S. London

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Lunchtime Chronicles: Jolly Rancher

  ABOUT THIS BOOK | We might be enemies, but I’ll convince her she’s mine by Christmas.

  DEDICATION

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Consuming Logan

  A Note from Siera

  Lunchtime Chronicles Season 3

  Also by Siera London | The Bachelors of Shell Cove Series

  The Men of Endurance Series

  The Fiery Fairy Tales Series

  The Forbidden Series

  The Kelvinian Warrior Series

  Detective MaKenzie Young Series

  About Siera

  CONNECT With SIERA on Social Media

  JOLLY RANCHER

  Messy Mandy Presents: The Lunchtime Chronicles

  Copyright © 2020 K. PRINGLE, SIERA LONDON

  Kindle Unlimited Edition

  http://www.sieralondonauthor.com

  Cover art by Wicked Smart Designs

  Edited by Pam Gonzales

  First Edition, November 2020

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Certain real locations are mentioned, however, all names, characters, events and incidents described in this book are fictitious or a product of the author's imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  All trademarks, service marks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the current U.S. Copyright Act, with the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form in whole or in part by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without written permission from the author, Siera London.

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  We might be enemies, but I’ll convince her she’s mine by Christmas.

  DIESEL CONRAD

  Amanda says we’re enemies—I call bull.

  My mind is a bit tangled after my fall, but my gut tells me this woman is mine.

  Granted, I’ve forgotten some insignificant shit, like my name, but I’m certain of two things.

  She wants to get naughty with me, and I have the equipment to give her a very merry sleigh ride.

  Amanda “Messy Mandy” Murphy

  All I want for Christmas is my winter white vacation, but my twin sister’s grinch of an ex-boyfriend roped me into selling his ranch before Christmas.

  The arrogant, too gorgeous man is my personal bah humbug.

  Or at least he was until the accident. Now—he’s convinced I’m his.

  It’s messy, and I’m going to need a Christmas miracle—fast, because his mistletoe kisses jingle all my bells.

  DEDICATION

  As always thank you to the Lunchtime Chronicles Season 3 authors, L. Loren, Posey Parks, Keta Kendric, and Sonja B, for joining me on this project. To our readers, we love bringing you great stories, so keep asking for me.

  Thank you to Randy B. and Priscilla Johnson for helping with the book research, and Cristene M. for lending her name to one of the characters.

  Messy Mandy has more stories to tell, so don’t expect all her tea in this book. You’ll have to keep coming back if you want more of Mandy and the Murphy gang.

  Chapter One

  Diesel Conrad

  Lord, this woman. I swear she dreams of ways to irritate me. Just thinking about our recent communication starts me cursing on Sunday. One word text messages. What business owner dismisses a paying customer?

  Amanda Murphy.

  It’s two weeks until Christmas, and I need her Top 10 realtor skills to offload my father’s property. Gazing down at my cell phone screen I read her response to my latest inquiry.

  Typed in bold font were the letters: N-O.

  No.

  My fingers tighten on the phone’s hard shell case until it squeaks. Women don’t say no to me. Not in business, not in bed. And how does she manage to deliver a tangible dose of attitude via text? I can hear her lyrical rasp sassing me with one of her public service announcements. It’s no wonder her online gossip column fans and colleagues call her Messy Mandy. Not me. I call her—

  “Amanda,” I bellow over the music coming from behind the closed door, “open up before I spank your ass.” I tell myself her professional expertise is the only reason I braved the northern Virginia traffic to freeze my nut sack off outside of her Baltimore address.

  In response, Jennifer Hudson’s “Love You I Do” inches up a few decibels inside her place. The minx knows I hate being ignored. Along with Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton, Dreamgirls is her favorite musical escape. Don’t ask why I remember how much her tone deaf ass loves to sing.

  Lifting my hand, I rap on the solid oak again, the force of the impact ricocheting through my stiff knuckles stiff from the frigid cold.

  The music stops.

  High heels click on bare floors, the sound growing louder as she approaches. Relieved, I push out a breath, the warm release taking visible shape on the cold air. Amanda is the planet’s most infuriating female, but she can sell a pink harness to a wild stallion. I own five horse breeding ranches across three states, I don’t want Daddy’s handouts. Not now. She’s exactly who I need for this job.

  “We’re closed for Christmas.” From the other side of the door, her voice is filled with a teasing sarcastic charm that Southern women have mastered.

  “Christmas,” I grunt. In the six weeks since she expertly negotiated the sale of my mother’s luxury condominium, Amanda has transformed her two-story Charles Village home into a multi-colored eye sore. There’s a glittering fir tree with X-rated ornaments in every window. Bright white icicle lights dangle from the A-line roof, each string completing a flickering grope across a face down plastic Santa passed out in a candy cane patch on the front lawn littered with neon Martini glasses. Locking my jaw, I trap my chuckle behind clenched teeth at her twisted sense of humor.

  The one thing I hate more than being cold, ignored, and powdered snow ruining my boots —is Christmas. There’s nothing holly or jolly about this life. My father taught his lessons the old-fashioned way, and I’m a damn good student of hard knocks.

  Reminding Amanda it’s foolhardy to toy with me, I say, “You’ll need new hinges after I rip this damn door out of the frame.”

  She steps outside, not looking at me. Color me grateful because I can’t pull my eyes away. Her crimson hair falls in a sweeping wave over arched eyebrows, long lashes, and light brown irises. Festive red gloss covers full lips, and my mouth waters for a taste of her sugared plums. At five feet two, she’s a slip of a woman for a man my size, but damn if that stops me from chomping at the bit to peel her fuzzy white sweater and painted on jeans off her flawless chocolate skin. Lickable is an understatement. Then it hits me. The tight cut top, the low-rider jeans showing off her back tat captures my attention, and every red-blooded cowboy in a hundred mile radius.

  “Where are the r
est of your clothes?” I scowl. It’s cold as Eskimo shit out here, and her sexy ass is melting snow and hardening my cock.

  “So,” she gives a twisted smirk as if she knows her effect on me, “you think you can pop up, unexpected and uninvited... like herpes.”

  You hear this shit? Damn woman is impossible. Notice she didn’t answer my question. “Who the hell you calling a herpe?”

  “It’s a joke, Diesel. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

  I’m in a situation out at the Elfton ranch, and she’s trying to spread holiday cheer. Not interested. I’d be hibernating in my cabin, alone, if it weren’t for dear old dad’s final screw you, son.

  “Dick pox ain’t funny,” I grumble. “You’d know that if you had a man.” Why wasn’t she gracing a man’s bed anyway? It’s a question I’ve asked more than once.

  She lifts her hand, extending the middle finger. “And this little birdie,” she airplanes the lone digit with a painted holly wreath on her nail in a zig-zag pattern, “delivered you a gift-wrapped copy of Kiss my Booty for Christmas.”

  I know she’s antagonizing me, but my gaze drops to her plump ass.

  “We can start there.” I grin.

  She shakes her head before turning the key and pocketing the fob. Then she walks past me without a care. “My man is whisking this princess away for two weeks in a winter wonderland. Call someone else.”

  “No self-respecting man would let his woman show that much ass.” Pushing off the wall facing her door, I stretch to my full height. “Come better than that, or I have you.”

  “No,” she sing songs over her shoulder, “what you have is nerve. It’s Christmas, Diesel.” She waves. “Toodles to you and your Grinch vibes.”

  Before one of her red velvet boots hits the first step, I snag the weekender tote hooked over her shoulder, pulling her small frame up against my chest.

  “Bring your little ass back here.” Her thick bottom curves fit perfectly against my pelvis. I inhale. Her scent, a hint of brown sugar and tangy spice, enters my nostrils. My hold on her tightens, keeping her close. Yeah, that’s nice right there.

  “Unhand me, Mandingo,” she rasps.

  My voice drops to a husky whisper. “I’m asking real nice, Amanda. Do this for me.” Requests are out of character for Conrad men. But for some reason, I want her to choose me.

  “Oh,” she coos, “you feel that tingle, too?”

  Lowering my head, I drop my nose into her silky strands. Grinding my stiff erection into her fat ass “For weeks,” I groan, admitting what I’ve been wrestling. Being close to her is like AA hell, angry and aroused. “Once I get you to the ranch. I’m going to ride you—“

  “Okay,” she abruptly pulls away, “get your meat muppet off my ass. This ain’t that type of party. That tingle is me getting lady wood from your begging ass. The answer is still no.”

  “Crazy ass twin,” I mutter. The fact that the gods had the audacity to create an identical replica demonstrates the lunacy of the universe. Her twin sister, Maxi, is superficial to a fault and vain beyond imagination but definitely less ornery than this one.

  “Speaking of my sister, I don’t do her leftovers.”

  My smile slips. See what I mean? We were having a good time, our usual sparring, until she brings up Maxi.

  “Don’t start with that shit again. I went out with your sister, once.” As cantankerous as she is, Amanda is smart and funny. I never know what’s going to come from her mouth. It keeps me intrigued... and hard.

  She shrugs. “Sorry... not sorry. It’s sister code.”

  “If I’d given Maxi a whiff of me, there’d be no leftovers, sweetness. A man can tell when a woman wants the D.”

  “Her dildo,” she chirps and tries to bounce off.

  Fuck it. I tried nice. “I know what you need.”

  In one quick motion, I fold her hot, lithe body over my forearm and swat that juicy ass with my open palm. She yelps, but she ain’t struggling. Nope, her fine ass is writhing, and damn, the jiggle in her jelly has my shit on overload.

  “Diesel.” Her round eyes are wide and focused on me, but it’s her softening body and heaving breasts that draw my attention. She’s aroused. “Don’t try that shit again.”

  Slowly, I lift my hand, letting her see what’s coming. “You want more.”

  Instead of acknowledging, she pushes that apple bottom up in the air. I release a slow grin. “Naughty girl,” I growl.

  Seconds from tagging that ass, we’re interrupted.

  “Mandy, what the hell are you and that white man doing in front of your house?”

  Next door, a silver-haired older woman wearing a psychedelic tent dress stands on the porch, one hand on a wide hip, the other gripping a red spray can. A sharp elbow catches me in the ribs, and I let out an oomph.

  “Diesel’s a former client, Big Mama,” Amanda says, planting both feet down. “He’s leaving.”

  So, this was the grandmother she talked about in her column. No wonder the two women remained close. They practically lived together.

  “Don’t think so.” I gesture to my Hummer EV prototype parked in the driveway. “We have unfinished business.”

  Big Mama strolls over to us, her lively step belying her age. “You selling a product that delivers ass-spanking cowboys to your doorstep?” She eyes me with a lascivious grin, and then bites her lower lip. “Sign me up for a monthly subscription.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I think this is unbelievable. The shenanigans are an inherited family trait.

  “If you laugh,” Amanda threatens, “I’m kicking you in the nuts.”

  “Try it. I’ll have you licking the bruise with your tongue.”

  “You’re so nasty.”

  “Like it.” I grin, messing with her.

  Just then, a big ass Du-Haul truck pulls up in front of the house. Before I can ask what’s up, Big Mama does it for me.

  “The cowboy moving in?”

  “No,” we both snap in solidarity.

  A lean man, with close cropped dark hair, a goatee, and Timberlands approaches Amanda with his arms stretched wide.

  “What’s up, baby,” he says to Amanda. “Your prince has arrived.”

  Damn, she has a man. Now, why does that irritate me more than the woman herself? Before he can touch her, she smacks his hands away.

  “What the fuck is this, Keanu,” she demands, stabbing a finger in the direction of the idling yellow and green truck.

  “Aw, girl, don’t act all bougie,” he defends, hands over his heart. “This is our ride.”

  I burst out laughing. “This is the carriage to your winter wonderland vacation? A cargo truck?”

  I'm clowning her now. So, she's got on these tight ass jeans and that short shirt with her midriff showing for a man who's picking her up in a furniture wagon? Yeah, I don't even try to hide my amusement.

  She looks over her shoulder, rolling her eyes at me. Big Mama and I stand back, anticipating the holiday light show.

  Amanda crosses toned arms over full breasts that bounce when she animated. “You told me you were renting a luxury vehicle.”

  The guy scratches his head in confusion.

  “You know how much rental cars cost at Christmas time? I told you I was on a budget.”

  This fool can’t even see the takedown coming. But Amanda—brows furrowed, lips twisted in disbelief—is magnificent in her anger.

  “Budget, I support. A broke, trifling busta expecting me to ride all the way to the Poconos in a rent-a-wreck is unacceptable.”

  “Mandy, baby,” he smiles, rounding the front end, “it’s got bucket seats and plenty of leg room. With a Price Is Right showcase hand, he says, “Check it out. I got an air mattress in the back.”

  “Oh, hell no.” Big Mama frowns, shaking her head. “Something’s wrong with him.”

  “Shit,” I bellow. “You got her sleeping in that thing, too?”

  Amanda spins on me. “Shut the hell up, Diesel.”

  She
turns to look at her man.

  “Three months of drunch and you pull this shit. Bye, Keanu.” She gives me a hard time, but shared drinks and lunchtime with this guy? “I swear to God, I’m filing a damn FCC complaint on Deja’s dating site. Damn, N2U has messed me up again.”

  She looks totally deflated, so I step up behind her, thinking I might have a solution.

  It’s then that Keanu shifts his attention in my direction. He looks from Amanda to me, and then his eyes harden.

  “Hey.” he juts his chin out. “Back up off my girl, Optimus Prime.”

  Yeah, he’s a featherweight Tonka Toy compared to my six-three, two-twenty big rig build.

  Adjusting my Stetson back on my head, I meet my opponent, eye to eye. “You sure you want this ass whipping?” My motto hasn’t changed since my days as a ranch hand; bark, bite, and then break.

  “Down, cowboy.” Amanda holds out her hand, palm side facing her beau. “Keanu, just go.”

  “Naw, naw. I ain’t scared of his big ass.” Keanu “Fake Ass Neo” Reaves drops into a low fighting stance, his arms braced too far apart to protect his face or torso. “Bring it, Bronco Billy.”

  No sooner than I’d tucked a protesting Amanda behind me. I hand over my Stetson. “Not a stain.”

  I take care of my woman, my horse, and my hat.

  “My psychic told me to expect some mess today,” she proclaims as if this situation is confirmation. Suddenly, Big Mama raises her spray can, moving in a slow arc between me and Keanu. “If you got asthma, raise your hand,” she warns. “I’ll pepper spray you last.”

  Amanda slips from behind me. “Big Mama, save the spray for the New Year’s house party.”

  How do they ring in the season? The older woman hesitates, but then aims her nozzle at the ground.

  The matriarch says to Keanu, “Poor baby, you ain’t gonna get none this Christmas. Pull your Du-Haul truck in my driveway. You can help Uncle Earl get the armoire to the Goodwill before they close.”

  “Wait a damn minute!” Keanu yells, bouncing on his toes. “Mandy, I got us a truck, a box of wine, and sandwiches in the back. We can get a hotel when we get to where we’re going, princess.” Then the fucker flashes a bright smile. “I promise spending Christmas with me is better than being stuck with this big asshole.”