My heart soars. “I tried not to, but you’re not the enemy. I love you, too, Cash.”
We might have been going down, but there’s only up from here.
EPILOGUE
Stella
It’s as perfect a spring afternoon as I ever could’ve asked for. The sun is up, its warmth enveloping the people of the town amassed on the large expanse of the glistening green lawn. Dotted around its boundaries are short white posts embellished with pretty pink satin bows, cordoning off 200 white-wood chairs, arranged in neat rows. Against the backdrop of a small lake with flitting swans, he stands, handsomely sporting a custom-tailored. three-piece navy suit. His best man, my brother, and two groomsmen stand to his left and the minister flanks his right.
As the band begins playing the wedding march, the guests peep over their shoulder, towards the floral arch at the bottom of the lawn to where I’m hidden behind my maid of honor and two bridesmaids. Dressed in a beautiful off-shoulder pearl organza gown, I saunter through the floral arch, with my dad, the first man I ever loved, by my side. He taught me to be strong, but now I realize that love doesn’t make me weak, it makes me blessed.
The sun always seems to shine a little brighter in our presence and today is no different.
I smile at the employees of my café, at my brother and his family, at the familiar townsfolk—plenty of whom visit the new town coffee shop—and finally, at my mom, her eyes sparkling with tears. As I join him, my gaze floats over his face in a tender caress. This moment is nothing short of surreal. He’s even more handsome than the first day we’d met.
“Once a dreamer, always a dreamer.” I smile at where being a dreamer has got me now.
I love you.
I read the message behind Cash’s slow blink as he picks up my palms, his fascinated eyes wandering over my face and then lower. You’re going to be mine.
“I know.” I mouth back. “And I love you too.”
Cash’s wedding vows turn out to be unique with a tinge of bold, quite typical of him—
forcing a few chuckles out of me and our guests. Finally, he slips in the stunning diamond ring onto my hand and seals the ceremony with a kiss.
An hour later, as we wrap our arms each other, oblivious to the rest of the town around us, swaying to the soulful tunes of the wedding dance, I lean to his ear.
In the distance is the sparkling playground, complete with state-of-the-art barrier free equipment for those children with disabilities. My husband demanding it could be done when contractors balked and then he proved it could be done. He might act hard as nails on the outside, but inside there’s a gooey soft center. And now we’ll be visiting that playground more…
“Cash, guess what…” I bite my lip as I whisper in his ear. “I’m pregnant.”
He backs away slowly, his expression a soft haze of awe. It takes him a moment to recognize the blissful depths of what I’ve just whispered, and when he does, emotion reflects in dewy mist forming over his pupils.
“Oh Stella,” he picks me up and hugs her close, “Baby, I’m the happiest man alive.”
The dreams just keep coming true.
~THE END~
Coming soon!
Ally’s Amazon page for more stories— ALLY CREW
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Hugs and kisses, Ally
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Apple Pie in a Mug Recipe
Did Cash’s seductive apple pie scene make you crave apple pie? Me too!
So here’s my quick and easy one mug recipe!
Apple Pie in a Mug
Prep: 5 minutes
Cook: 3 minutes
Serves: 1
Ingredients:
1 large apple, peeled and thinly sliced or small cubes (I like Granny Smith, but Honey Crisp is another fav)
2 tablespoons of quick-cooking oats
2 1/2 tablespoons of flour
2 tablespoons of butter
2 table spoons of brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon of vanilla
Sprinkle of salt—just a touch
1/2 tablespoon of orange or lemon juice
Directions:
1. Place apple slices/cubes in mug and microwave for 45-60 seconds.
2. Add remaining ingredients and stir well.
3. Microwave for 30 seconds at a time, stir in between sessions, for about a total of 90 seconds, but sometimes I have to go a little longer.
Hope you enjoy!
Hugs and kisses, Ally Crew
Sneak Peek of EXTRA HOT- Instalove Hearts 1
1
Callie
I run the list in my head. One, file four project documents. Two, email three clients. Three, schedule two board meetings. And finally, brace myself for the new boss. A new boss who is still nameless. My theory is he’s either in witness protection or he’s playing games. The first is weird and the second is not cool.
Who is he and why the need for secrecy? The truth of his identity has everyone on edge and that means I’m getting a lot more work on my plate when they drop glass balls everywhere and I pick up the shards of pieces.
Like always.
But since I truly love my job, it’s all in a morning's work.
I blow out a long breath as the line at the coffee shop jolts forward.
My go-to size for a cup of joe is generally “tall”. “Grande” only if the day is dismal. But today seems like a shitstorm is approaching, and my brain needs premium and vat-loaded caffeine therapy, so I order myself a Venti—a size fit for a queen and queen-sized woman, like me. I brush my scarlet red dress over my bountiful hips while pulling my card from my skirt pocket.
“Callie,” I repeat my name twice at the cashier ensuring I stress on the ‘Cal’ portion. It’s right there in front of her on the computer. We all have a purchasing code to enter in the building to charge the drinks to our paycheck account. But still they never look.
Never. Ever.
The barista scribbles “Sally” instead. Typical. And not unexpected at all, even though I’ve been coming here for six years. Sure, the baristas come and go, but their ability to not remember me doesn’t. I’m forgettable is what I normally take from this.
“Thank you.” Forcing down my desire to say something, I smile at her, tucking back a errant piece of my brown hair, then wait at the end of the line for my order to be delivered.
Even with all that’s happening, the morning feels new. The smell of coffee and toasted breakfast sandwiches complements the sounds of clopping heels, pleasant greetings, and fleeting conversations. The cafeteria on the ground floor, an homage to mid-century modern chic design—with its cushy retro-green chairs, ebony wood flooring, and featured walls of grey slate—is bustling. No surprises there, since it is the only source of caffeine fueling hundreds of employees frequenting the multi-story office building.
I look around, observing the sea of people with steaming cups and croissants to-go, ebbing in and out of the café, wearing smart-suits and smarter attitudes.
Almost instinctively, my hand trails down the front of my dress to straighten out an invisible crinkle.
I sigh wistfully. If only I could pull off that look, but buttons only pull and gape on my abundant chest. It’s not a good look for me and with ninety percent of my co-workers being men, I try to stay on the conservative side. Although this jersey red dress isn’t my normal selection, sometimes the need for clean overshadows my desire to do laundry.
My glazed vision clears when I spot something in the crowded room. A pair of blue eyes. It’s not just any blue. It’s the most exotic shade of silvery blue. A quickening ruffles my chest, soon invading
the more intimate corners of my curvaceous body.
Holy frickin’ hell. What’s happening to me?
My body has barely come to terms with the invasion of these strange sensations, and I’m struck all over again and paralyzing me when I realize he’s staring back.
At me.
Mr. Blue Eyes is extremely tall, like MBA basketball player tall. But that’s only one of the many things that sets him apart from the rest. His features are deliciously handsome, so much so he turns heads even amongst a crowd of 8s and 9s on the 10-hotness scale. And he has the gait to match. A dusting of grey blends into the side of his dark hairline, allowing him to finish off the whole mature and magnetic look flawlessly.
Damn, I just met a man who has single-handedly recalibrated my inbuilt hotness scale.
My eyes stalk him to the counter, where he leans against it, with his hands gripping the edge. And his muscles clench into an inadvertent bicep-flex.
Yup. Fit as fuck, even in a muscle-hiding suit. Is there anything about this guy that isn’t perfect?
He mutters something to the girl behind the counter. I can’t make out what it is, my mind is too busy making notes on the tempting shape of his lips instead.
Suddenly, the barista breaks out into a loud giggle that effectively pops all of my bubbles. A second later, she tilts forward, closing the gap between them, until her cleavage is winking at him.
He notices. He doesn’t react. Why would he, when he’s probably used to one too many cleavages catcalling him? Ugh. Either way, why does it matter? It’s not like I’m ever going to be a pretty barista, with such a flirty game.
I swipe the negativity from my being. It’s not normally there and I don’t need it. It’s just sometimes it sneaks in when I least expect it.
I glimpse away, cramming myself into a corner with my arms crossed over my chest. “The wallflower pose,” I call it.
My hideout doesn’t last very long though. The edge of my vision catches his silhouette making its way towards the end of the line, entering my space. My heart beats jump-start into overdrive, as his shadow looms closer, and closer still, stopping three inches away from me. Three-fricking-inches. I can differentiate the spices from the woodiness in his cologne. I shift nervously, ruining my carefully laid out attempts to remain invisible.
“Black coffee—grande—extra hot,” the announcement comes from in front of us.
I lurch for the cup like it’s my lifeline. Another hand reaches for it at the same time. A second later, the paper cup tilts, succumbing to the micro tug-of-war. I watch in horror, as half the beverage ends up tumbling down the man’s trousers, forming a patch just beneath the buckle of his belt. A low wincing groan, throaty and sexy, draws my attention up.
Poor Mr Blue Eyes! Did I just spill coffee over Mr Blue Eyes? Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit.
“Sally…” The barista chirps strutting over to our corner. “This is yours.” She pauses with a muted giggle, my faux pas clearly the source of her morning entertainment. “Remember, you ordered for a Venti?”
Venti? Of course, I did. Premium caffeine therapy and all that.
My head can’t think, my hands can’t keep still. I grab a couple of paper napkins and apologetically begin patting away the extra dampness—because it is the most logical thing to do. Except it is not when it’s on a man’s crotch. A handsome man’s crotch. A handsome man I’m mini/majorly crushing on. My fingers come to a paralyzed pause, the outline of his generous bulge tangible through the napkins.
What in the world are you doing?
There must be about fifty stares holding on me, but they’re eclipsed by the phenomenal laser directness of his gaze and I can see nothing else.
“I… I…” I drop the napkins in the trash. I don’t need a mirror to know my cheeks resemble steamed beets—feverish hot and red. “I… I… I’m really sorry...” I manage a barely coherent stutter, and rush out of the café, before I end up doing something worse.
I look back and there sits my Venti all alone. He lifts the cup and toasts it at me with a wink before taking a big sip.
Mr. Blue-eyes winks at me.
At me.
Will Mr. Blue-eyes turn out to be as charming as he seems and will things get extra hot? FIND OUT NOW!
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