Winter Kisses (A 3:AM Kisses Novella Book 2)

Winter Kisses

A 3:AM Kisses Novella Book 2

Addison Moore

Edited by: Sarah Freese

Cover design by: Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations

Photo by: Regina Wamba of
www.MaeIDesign.com

Interior design and formatting by: Amy Eye of
The Eyes for Editing

Copyright © 2013 by Addison Moore

http://addisonmoorewrites.blogspot.com/

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

All Rights Reserved.

Books by Addison Moore:

New Adult Romance

Someone to Love (Someone to Love 1)

Someone Like You (January 2014)

3:AM Kisses (3:AM Kisses 1)

Winter Kisses (3:AM Kisses 2)

Beautiful Oblivion

The Solitude of Passion

Young Adult Romance

Ethereal (Celestra Series Book 1)

Tremble (Celestra Series Book 2)

Burn (Celestra Series Book 3)

Wicked (Celestra Series Book 4)

Vex (Celestra Series Book 5)

Expel (Celestra Series Book 6)

Toxic Part One (Celestra Series Book 7)

Toxic Part Two (Celestra Series Book 7.5)

Elysian (Celestra Series Book 8)

Ephemeral (The Countenance Trilogy 1)

Evanescent (The Countenance Trilogy 2)

Ethereal Knights (Celestra Knights)

Laney

I used to believe in love. I used to believe that two people and one lifetime equaled happily ever after. I used to believe that the strong arms that once held me tight would always protect, never leave, never give up on us.

Maybe he didn’t give up on us. Maybe I did.

At the end of the day, maybe we both did.

And yet, here I am in his penthouse, devoid of clothes, low on dignity, loaded with whiskey.

“Let me into your heart, Laney,” he pleads with those deep navy eyes as we stand just shy of his bed. “Let me crush every memory you have of the two of us and make something new, something better, something that never disappoints because it doesn’t know how.” He dots a series of hot kisses slowly up my neck, and a shiver runs through me.

My skin touches his, and then it’s over. I’m all in. Every last inch of me has been so thirsty for Ryder, and now, here I am, ready to drown in the cool spring of his affection while my entire body reanimates under his willful supervision. A part of me died last winter in a very real way, and, here he is, reawakening me, breathing life back into my soul by way of his mouth, his fingers—his bare flesh.

He pulls back and rakes over me with his slow gaze.

“Get in my bed,” he growls it out, sharp like an order.

“If you want me in your bed you’ll have to damn well put me there yourself.”

Ryder gives the ghost of a smile.

And he does.

Laney

Playing the part of a wench isn’t easy, especially when the very people who have accused me of being the real deal are sitting in the front row. I’m sure that in just a few short minutes they’ll be smirking at the way my boobs keep threatening to unleash themselves from this demonically tight corset.

“Good luck, Laney!” Baya helps adjust the seventeenth-century ball gown I’ve crammed myself into.

“Don’t say that!” Roxy swats Baya as she pushes me onto the stage with the rest of the cast. “Break a leg!”

I scuttle out, trying not to focus on the fact I spotted my ex in the crowd just a few minutes ago, and now I’m nervous as hell, and breaking a leg seems a literal possibility in my sky-high heels.

It’s the night of the
Gala of the Stars
, an annual fundraiser for the drama department, but if I had known who would be here, gawking at both me and my cleavage, I would have gladly bowed out. Of course, the trauma of the evening is multiplied a thousand times over, due to the fact my ex-boyfriend happens to be sitting front and center, smack in between his judgmental mother and the girl he left me for. Well, I’m not sure if he really left me for Meg, but, nevertheless, they’re an arms length apart.

I move along with the rest of the drama department as we walk the expanse of the stage like runway models. Tonight we’ll be auctioned off like objects to the highest bidder in the name of school spirit—and, hopefully for the department, some serious cold hard cash.

I take the turn at the head of the stage and force my eyes to remain on the girl in front of me. I lose myself in the bird’s nest her hair has been teased into, the full crimson gown she’s wearing that balloons from her waist like a parachute.

Walk the line, I keep telling myself. Madame Thenardier doesn’t need to smile, and neither do I.

A pressing heat fills me as I pass my ex. The air crackles, it sizzles and snaps from his direction. Ryder Capwell commands the attention of every estrogen bearing female in the room—and, damn straight, he gets it.

Finally the long tongue of the stage is behind me as I scurry back to the curtain and peer out at the crowd. I see my mother and sister, Izzy, as they wave to me from the side. Even though Izzy is five years older, we still look like twins with the long dark hair, the stonewashed blue eyes.

Mom strums her fingers over the table, a clear sign she’s anxious about something. I’m guessing she’s seen the Capwells and is ready to bolt like a cat from a bathtub. Her jet-black hair curls out of her head like claws, and she insists on wearing the brightest shade of pink lipstick known to man. Despite the fact Mom is a larger woman, no matter what her size, her lips are the first and last thing you see when she’s coming and going. She’s tough as nails but independent and fierce to a fault. I’ve always admired those attributes about her most. Everybody respects my mother, well except for Rue Capwell. According to Rue, my mother is the kind of slimy invertebrate you find living under the belly of a rock.

Mom points a finger at Ryder and shakes her head at me. She isn’t exactly Ryder’s biggest fan, then again, neither am I. But no matter how hard I try, my eyes gravitate to him like fire to oxygen. This is the kind of compulsory mess that no matter how much effort you put into avoiding, you know what the outcome will be. Ryder Capwell still has a very real piece of me. I’m going down in flames, I can feel it, and I’m already enjoying the burn.

I cast my eyes over his perfect eminence for just a moment. All I can see from this vantage point is his blessed-by-God face—that perfect bone structure, his Roman nose. The muscles in his jaw pop as he darts a look this way, and I’m quick to jump back from his line of vision. For just a brief moment he was examining me in the way that only his gorgeous eyes could do. Ryder had a way of bringing me to life like a picture slowly developing before his beautiful eyes. He brought out the color in me—the vibrancy from deep within my soul that I never knew existed.

“Holy hell,” I mutter, diving back behind the curtain as my best friends Baya and Roxy try to discourage me from hanging myself from the rafters. Honestly, a public hanging seems a much more appealing option than facing Ryder, especially since Meg boyfriend-fucking Collins has planted herself right next to him. Well, I seriously doubt she’s fucked him outside of her wildest dreams, at least I hope not, but, that too, seems beside the point because my blood boils at the sight of her, and the urge to puke is coming on strong. Maybe I should go with it. Who knows? A little projectile vomiting might be exactly what the psychiatrist ordered, that is if I land my target. Either Meg or Ryder’s mother will do. Ryder doesn’t deserve my vomit.

“Every person on the planet who hates me is here tonight—and, by the way”—I look to Roxy—“I’m including my own mother in that equation.” Quite possibly my sister, but that’s probably not true—Izzy and I just aren’t that close.

“My mother doesn’t hate you.” Roxy averts her eyes as if this were an impossibility.

Baya touches her hand to her chest while her dark hair quivers back. “And I’m sure
your
mother doesn’t hate you.” Baya is gorgeous, and she’s got a body for miles. It’s no wonder my friend Bryson fell so hard for her. I’m glad they’re happy—hell, I’m glad someone’s happy.

“Oh, you don’t know my mother,” I’m quick to correct. “And, for the record”—I turn to Roxy—“you don’t know
your
mother either. Hate is just the tip of the iceberg of what that woman feels for me.” I look to Baya. “True story. She hates me and loves Meg Collins.” Meg comes from money, was gently reared, and annoyingly insisted on calling my ex-boyfriend’s mother,
mom,
long before we were ever over. “Face it, Rox, both your mother and Meg are thrilled that Ryder and I called it quits.”

“Ryder didn’t call anything quits—you did.” Roxy tugs at my corset until my boobs pop up, creating a dramatic décolleté that Ryder only wishes he could bury his face in. The dress I’m wearing has the girls on a perch, ready and willing to jump off the ledge at a moment’s notice. The gown in general is a period piece, a dirty blue brocade with a full bell skirt and tight waist, low cut to the nipple line, and I must say I look every part the wench. Actually I’m Madame Thenardier the keeper of the inn. Whitney Briggs is putting on
Les Mis
for their Winter Spectacular, so here we are at the country club trying to raise funds for the department.

“I don’t care who called it quits. The important thing is that it’s over.” I untie my bustle only to retie it six times tighter than before. “To hell with breathing, I have far more important things to do like bring you-know-who to his drop-dead gorgeous knees for everything he put me through last year.”

“Hey, relax. Nobody is out to get you,” Baya says it sweetly while combing the hair away from my face. “Can I ask what happened with you and—” She ticks her head toward the crowd. I have a very strict do-not-use-the-asshole’s-name-in-my-presence rule, and if you should feel the need, kindly replace his moniker with Bastard, or what he’s more formally known as, Rat Bastard.

“Nothing happened.” Roxy dares defy the circumstances that got the breakup ball rolling, thus openly rejecting my reasoning for the horrible relationship demise. “My brother still loves her.” Roxy’s eyes swell with tears. “Laney is just too stubborn to hear the truth. See this, Baya? This is what happens when someone isn’t willing to listen to a logical explanation. She just hopped to her own conclusions and, poof, a thing of beauty disappeared into thin air.”

“I’m not listening.” I pick up my dress and stalk off toward Bing Chase, my partner in
Les Mis
crime who happens to play the part of my perverted husband.