No Perfect Hero(113)

I roll my eyes, swatting his chest. “Thanks, Shakespeare. How romantic.”

“Needed a crappy opener, Hay. You'll get me when you see your wedding present.”

My brows knit together. Still smiling, that's when he takes my hand, and then, leaning against the headboard, guides it to his chest.

“There, baby girl. I know it's dark but...there's enough moonlight.”

It takes my eyes a few seconds to focus. Then I see it.

Right above the mess of flowers and US Army patchwork on his chest, there's fresh ink. Surprise.

The words HALEY ERICKA FORD and our wedding date. Next to a big FOREVER, stenciled in flames.

I'm so moved, so gushy, so touched I...I can't even speak.

“When? When did you find the time, you sweet, crazy, ridiculous man? I can't believe you–”

“Believe, darlin'. Your name's the second and last I'll ever honor on my skin. Today I made you part of me, Hay. Part of me forever, just like it says.”

No words.

I have no words left to give this wonderful man.

So I just brush my fingers down his beard, loving the soft prickle, and kiss him until dawn.





*



Thanks for reading No Perfect Hero! Look for more Heroes of Heart's Edge coming soon.

Want to see Warren, Haley, and Tara again years later?





Check out life after the Happily Ever After in this unique flash forward read. – https://dl.bookfunnel.com/f12lxo7ahv

Then read on for a preview of another badass alpha hero, Landon Strauss in Still Not Over You.





Still Not Over You Preview





At Least It's Not Box Wine (Kenna)





Never trust a man who drinks Cabernet Sauvignon.

That’s always been my rule and it's never steered me wrong. Cabernet Sauvignon is for men who have certain ideas about themselves, but not a damn bit of what it takes to back them up.

All slick and shiny on the outside. Inside, it’s just empty promises and pointlessness.

No dreams. No heart. No grit. No soul.

Nothing like the man who set an impossibly alpha standard for every date I'll ever have. Right after he finished playing kickball with my heart. After the day that ended us, the one I swore I'd never fixate on again.

Welcome to my life in present day SoCal.

I’m not sure I’m going to find what I’m looking for out here in the plastic Ken-doll lineup of L.A. hotties, but I know Mr. New Money isn’t it. Not by a Tinder mile.

I’m not sure why I gave him a chance once he ordered his Cab with that shallow, overconfident smirk.

Maybe it was those blue eyes.

Empty as a bottomed-out glass. But they reminded me too much of someone I keep reaching for even though he’s forever out of my grasp.

Mr. New Money would’ve been easy, but I don’t do easy. I need more.

Although I wouldn’t mind Mr. New Money’s sleek Mercedes to come cruising by and rescue me, right now.

Half a block. Just half a freaking block around the corner from Skofé’s Wine Bar to my place, and I still managed to break a heel.

That’s the kind of luck I have.

Kenna Burke, human black cat.

At least it’s not Friday the 13th, or I'd be cursed double.

It’s a choice between walking barefoot on beat up L.A. sidewalks or limping along in one broken heel.

I choose limping – and regret it by the time I make it up the stairs to my apartment. I kick my shoes off with a little extra spite for the broken one, sending it rocketing across the entryway, and step forward. My aching foot comes down on something cool; an envelope. I pick it up and flip it over.

My name's on the front, neatly handwritten. Landlord’s letterhead logo in the upper left corner.

Oh, crap.

Just another thing I don’t want to open tonight.

I need something to fortify. Wasn't that the whole reason I went out, anyway? Not to meet some Cabernet-swigging wannabe Casanova.

I’ve been ignoring an email from my publisher all day. Subject line? “Re: His Royal Nuisance.”

Pinch me. I sent the manuscript in over two months ago. Normally I get a response back within weeks. The silence has been deafening, and I’m afraid the email will be damning.

If I’m going to author-hell, I'll do it on a five dollar bottle of pink Moscato.

Never trust a girl who drinks Barefoot Cellars, either.

She’s usually broke and chases her wine with straight up bad luck.

I drop myself on the barstool in front of the kitchen island, pour a glass, and toss it down. Courage comes in pink fizzy form.

I close my eyes, letting the tingles go to my head until everything feels a little floaty. Sweet distance. That’s what I need. That muting layer of mild intoxication that makes everything feel just a little farther away, and a little less likely to stab me in the heart.

Okay. Now for the envelope.

I slit the top with my fingernail, so not in the mood to care about my manicure. The single sheet of paper spilling out is obviously a form letter. The blue ink swoop of my landlord’s name gives it away. So does what’s supposed to look like a signature, but is obviously a rubber stamp smacked on by a tired secretary. A number in the middle of the top paragraph jumps out at me.