Hero of Mine (20 page)

T
YLER
B
EST WATCHED
his eight-year-old son, Noah Best, kick a soccer ball to Jeremiah Walton across the park. It was Noah's birthday, and they had invited all of their friends and family to the park to celebrate. Tyler couldn't help smiling at the relationship between Jeremiah and Noah, who were twelve years apart but as close as two brothers. When Jeremiah's mom had moved out of state with his stepfather, Jeremiah had split his time between his guardians' home and Tyler and Dani's place until he'd accepted a scholarship to run track for Arizona State two years ago. Now, when he came home, he usually crashed on their hide-a-bed if the Graysons had a full house.

Olsen Meyers and Dwayne Harlow were swinging Tyler and Dani's second son, Gareth, between them as they walked. The two-year-old's laughter reminded Tyler so much of Noah when he was that age.

There were a few other graduates from Alpha Dog standing around, talking with the other instructors, and of course, Dani's and his families were spread out. His dad was manning the barbeque while George, Dani's dad, told him everything he was doing wrong. Tyler laughed, just imagining how things would go in a few minutes, when his dad would start shouting at him. It was all done in good spirits. It was actually a little weird how easily the Bests and the Hills had meshed, even sharing holidays so their kids wouldn't have to split their time between them.

Which had been really helpful when Dani was pregnant with their daughter, Felicity, and so uncomfortable and crabby that no one could make her happy. Now that Felicity was four months old, Dani was back to her old self.

Her old, completely tone-deaf self, who was currently singing to their daughter as she rocked her in her arms.

“What's that you're singing?” he asked.

She looked up from the baby, her eyes twinkling. “Usually, you call it wailing.”

“I'm being nice today.”

“Ah, well, in that case, I'm singing ‘Baby of Mine.' ”

“Oh, yeah? How come you don't ever sing me to sleep?” he asked.

“Um, did I not mention that you mock me?”

He kissed her forehead. “Come on, show me you love me.”

“I show you I love you every morning.” Her tone was hushed and intimate, and he started looking around the park for somewhere to make out with his wife.

“I know what you're doing, pervert.”

He laughed, now considering the name an endearment.

“Tyler, you're going to have to show me again how to make Cookie stay when I tell her to!” his mother-in-law yelled, wagging her finger at her new golden retriever puppy. He'd started giving private obedience training, and it had expanded into a side business that had allowed Dani to drop down to part time at the emergency clinic.

Although it could be a little more frustrating dealing with actual owners instead of just the dogs . . . especially when it was family who'd hired him.

“I'll be right there, Laura.”

Noah came running up, his hazel eyes bright. “Is it time for cake yet, Dad?”

Tyler's chest swelled with pride, the same way it had the first time Noah had said the word. “Not yet. Go torment your cousins and tell them it's from me.”

With a grin so much like his mother's, Noah took off in search of Kyle and Kent, who still hadn't managed to mature, much to their mother's chagrin.

Dani laid Felicity into her playpen and while she was bent over, he came up behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back against him, he asked, “Are you sure you don't want to sneak off with me?”

“We'd be missed. Tonight, though”—she turned in his arms and ran her hand over his cheek—“I'm all yours.”

“Unless one of the kids needs something.”

“Hey, you knew what you were getting into the first time you bought me coffee.”

Bending to drop a long, lingering kiss on her lips, he ignored the catcalls and whistles from their family. “And I wouldn't change a thing.”

“Good answer.”

F
IRST AND FOREMOST
, I want to thank my amazing husband and children for being so understanding while my deadlines were so crazy. I love you. My fabulous agent, Sarah Younger, for making this series happen and to my editor, Rebecca, and the entire marketing, publicity, and creative team at Avon for working with me again. To my sister from another mister, Tina, for being there whenever I need to talk. Thank you to the rest of my family for being so supportive with every release. To my Rockers; I love your guts. And thank you to all of my readers who have followed me through the ups and downs of this crazy journey. You are beyond awesome.

An obsessive bookworm,
CODI GARY
likes to write sexy contemporary romances with humor, grand gestures, and blush-worthy moments. When she's not writing, she can be found reading her favorite authors, squealing over her must-watch shows, and playing with her children. She lives in Idaho with her family.

To keep up with new releases, contests, and more, sign up for Codi's Newsletter at
http://www.codigarysbooks.com/newsletter.html

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.

The Rock Canyon, Idaho Series

Bad For Me

Return of the Bad Girl

Bad Girls Don't Marry Marines

Good Girls Don't Date Rock Stars

Things Good Girls Don't Do

The Trouble with Sexy
(a novella)

The Men in Uniform Series

Hero of Mine

One Lucky Hero

I Need a Hero
(novella)

Give in to your Impulses . . .

Continue reading for excerpts from

our newest Avon Impulse books.

Available now wherever ebooks are sold.

THE VIRGIN AND THE VISCOUNT

A B
ACHELOR
L
ORDS OF
L
ONDON
N
OVEL

by Charis Michaels

LOVE ON MY MIND

by Tracey Livesay

HERE AND NOW

A
N
A
MERICAN
V
ALOR
N
OVEL

by Cheryl Etchison

Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes has a painful secret. At fifteen, she was abducted by highwaymen and sold to a brothel. But two days later, she was rescued by a young lord, a man she's never forgotten. Now, she's devoted herself to save other innocents from a similar fate.

Bryson Courtland, Viscount Rainsleigh, never breaks the rules. Well, once, but that was a long time ago. He's finally escaped his unhappy past to become one of the wealthiest noblemen in Britain. The last thing he needs to complete his ideal life? A perfectly proper wife.

 

B
ryse.

He had introduced himself as Bryson that night, so long ago, and despite her residual horror, she had clung to the sweet intimacy of that introduction. She'd devoted years of foolish fantasies to guessing whether those close to him referred to him as Bryson or Bryse or perhaps Court . . .

She looked up at him.
Bryse
. And now she knew. Now she was being invited to become one of those people close to him.

Cowardice compelled her to back away and retake her seat. “Forgive me, my lord.” She spoke to her knees. “I don't know what to say, and that is a rare circumstance, indeed.”

“I would also speak to your aunt,” he assured her. “It felt appropriate to suggest the idea of a courtship to you first.”

She laughed, in spite of herself. “I'd say so. Unless you wish to court my aunt.”

“I wish for you,” he said abruptly, and Elisabeth's head shot up. It was almost as if he knew she needed to hear it again, and again, and again.

I wish for you
.

He crouched before her chair, spreading his arms, putting one hand on either side of her chair, caging her in. “How old are you, Elisabeth?” he asked.

“How old do you think I am?” A whisper.

“Twenty-six?” he guessed.

She shook her head. “No. I am the ripe old age of thirty. Far too old to be called upon by a bachelor viscount, rolling in money.”

“Or”—he arched an eyebrow—“exactly the right age.”

She laughed and finally looked away. And she thought he'd been handsome at nineteen. Her stomach dropped into a dip. She reminded herself to breathe.

“Why me?” she asked, looking out the window. “Why pay attention to
me
?”

His voice was so low she could barely discern the words. “Because I think you'd make an ideal viscountess.”

An ideal what?
Hope became a living, pulsing thing in her chest. It became her very heart. She fell back in her seat and closed her eyes, but the room still swam before her.

He went on, “You are mature, and intelligent, and poised. And devoted to your charity, whatever it is.”

A thread of the old conversation. She sat up, determined to seize it before he could say another thing. “I've just told you what the charity is.”

“You spoke in vague generalities that could mean a great many things. I let it go because I hope for more opportunities to learn.”

Elisabeth breathed in and out, in and out. She bit her bottom lip again. She watched his gaze hone in on her mouth.

She closed her eyes. “My lord.” She took a deep breath. “Rainsleigh . . . Bryson.” She opened her eyes. “If your far-reaching goal is to earn an esteemed spot in London society, you're going about it entirely the wrong way. My charity is . . . unpopular, and no one has ever asked to court me before. It's really not done.”

“Why is that?”

Because I have been waiting for you
.

The thought floated, fully formed, in her brain, and she had to work to keep her hands from her cheeks, to keep from closing her eyes again, from squinting them shut against his beautiful face, just inches from her own, his low voice, his boldness.

“I'm very busy,” she said instead.

“Then I will make haste.”

“Is this because of last night? When I . . . challenged your dreadful neighbor?”

The corner of his mouth hitched up. “It did not hurt.”

“It's very difficult for me to stand idly by when I hear a person misrepresented.”

“And to think I was under the impression that you could barely abide my company. Your defense came as a great ­surprise.”

“Oh . . . I am full of surprises.”

“Is that so?” His words were a whisper. He leaned in.

She had the fleeting thought:
Dear God. He's going to kiss me
. . .

Click to buy
The Virgin and the Viscount
!

Tracey Livesay makes her Avon Impulse debut with a sparkling and sexy novel about a woman who will do anything to fulfill her dreams . . . but discovers that even the best laid plans can fail when love gets in the way.

 

C
helsea Grant couldn't tear her gaze away from the train wreck on the screen.

She followed press conferences like most Americans followed sports. The spectacle thrilled her, watching speakers deftly deflect questions, state narrow political positions, or, in rare instances, exhibit honest emotions. The message might be scripted but the reactions were pure reality. If executed well, a press conference could be as engaging and dynamic as any athletic game.

But watching this one was akin to lions in the amphitheater, not tight ends on the football field. Her throat ached, impacting her ability to swallow. She squinted, hoping the action would lessen her visual absorption of the man's public relations disaster.

He'd folded his arms across his chest, the gesture causing the gray cardigan he wore to pull across his broad shoulders. The collar of the black-and-blue plaid shirt he wore beneath it brushed the underside of his stubbled jaw.

When he'd first stepped onto the platform, she'd thought he was going for “geek chic.” All he'd lacked were black square frames and a leather cross-body satchel. Now she understood he wasn't playing dress-up. These were his everyday clothes, and as such, they were inappropriate for a press conference, unless he was a lumberjack who'd just won the lottery.

Had someone advised him on how to handle a press conference? No, she didn't think so.
Any
coaching would have helped with his demeanor. The man stared straight ahead. He didn't look at the reporters seated before him. He didn't look into the lenses. He appeared to look over the cameras, like there was someplace else he'd rather be. His discomfort crossed the media plane, and her fingers twitched where they rested next to her iPad on the acrylic conference table.

A female reporter from an entertainment news cable channel raised her hand. “Mr. Bennett?”

The man turned his head, and his gaze zeroed in on the reporter and narrowed into a glare. Chelsea inhaled audibly and leaned forward in her chair. His eyes were thickly lashed and dark, although she couldn't determine their exact color. Brown? Black? He dropped his arms, and his long, slender fingers gripped the podium tightly. The bank of microphones jiggled and a loud piercing sound ripped through the air. He winced.

“How does it feel to be handed the title by David James?” the reporter asked, her voice louder as it came on the tail end of the noise feedback.

The camera zoomed in and caught his pinched expression. “Right now, I feel annoyed,” he responded sharply.

“Annoyed? Aren't you honored?”

“Why should I be honored?”

“Because
People Magazine
has never named a non-actor as their sexiest man alive.”

“An award based on facial characteristics is not an honor. Especially since I have no control over the symmetry of my features. The National Medal of Technology. The Faraday Medal. The granting of those awards would be a true honor.”

The camera zoomed out, and hands holding phones with a smaller version of the man's frustrated image filled the screen. Flashes flickered on the periphery, and he rubbed his brow, like Aladdin begging the genie for the power to disappear.

“How does one celebrate being deemed the most desirable man on the planet?” another reporter asked.

“One doesn't.” His lips tightened into a white slash on his face.

“Is there a secret scientific formula for dating Victoria's Secret models? Didn't you used to be engaged to one?” A male reporter exchanged knowing looks with the colleagues around him. A smattering of chuckles followed his question.

“Didn't she leave you for another model six weeks before the wedding?”

“So you're single? Who's your type?”

“What's your perfect first date?”

“Can you create a sexbot?”

Questions pelted the poor man. The reporters had found his weakness: his inability or unwillingness to play the game. Now they would try to get a sound bite for their story teaser or a quote to increase their site's click-through rate. The man drove his fingers through his black hair, a move so quick and natural she knew it was a gesture he repeated often. That, and not hair putty, probably explained the spikiness of the dark strands that were longer on the top, shorter on the sides.

“This has nothing to do with my project,” he snapped, then scowled at someone off-camera.

Chelsea glanced heavenward, grateful she wasn't the ­recipient of that withering look.

Click to buy
Love On My Mind
!