Borrowing Bentley (Wishing Well Texas Book 9) Read online

  Borrowing Bentley

  by

  Melanie Shawn

  ‡

  Melanie Shawn © 2020

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing from Melanie Shawn. Exceptions are limited to reviewers who may use brief quotations in connection with reviews. No part of this book can be transmitted, scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any written or electronic form without written permission from Melanie Shawn.

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, names, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older.

  Cover Design by Wildcat Dezigns

  Book Design by BB eBooks

  Published by Red Hot Reads Publishing

  Rev. 1.0

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Loving Jackson

  A Note from Melanie Shawn

  Other Titles by Melanie Shawn

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Maisy

  “The thin line between love and hate disappears real quick when ya use a lust eraser.”

  ~ Granny Turner

  My heart is racing as I stand face to face, nose to nose, lips to lips with him. He makes my stomach turn. I’m not sure if that’s because I have butterflies, or I need to be sick. Maybe both.

  “You want to kiss me.” Bentley’s deep voice rumbles from his chest.

  I wish that he was wrong. I hate that he’s right. Pride and self-respect fight against every base need roaring to life within me.

  “No, I don’t.” The bald-faced lie comes out as a breathless denial.

  The right corner of his mouth tilts in what can only be described as a cocky half-grin as he places his hands flat on the lockers behind me. His chiseled arms on either side of my head, broad shoulders, and sculpted chest surround me, caging me in. The clean scent of his aftershave combined with his natural masculine musk is catnip to my senses.

  At six foot two, he stands an entire foot taller than my petite five foot two frame. He towers over me. Acting purely on instinct, my chin lifts, tilting my head up. I stare into denim blue eyes, losing myself in his Sinatra gaze. His thick brown hair is disheveled, like he just rolled out of bed. His strong, masculine chin is covered in stubble and I imagine what it would feel like rubbing against my skin. Would it leave a burn? Would it tickle?

  He licks his full lips and my mouth waters as I see his tongue run along the seam of those tempting lips.

  My breath catches as he leans down slowly. Confidently. His face hovers above mine, a mere whisper away.

  A tiny voice in the back of my head screams in protest.

  Don’t do it.

  Save yourself.

  Run.

  I lift my arms, attempting to push him away. I need to put distance between us. The moment my hands press against the muscular plane of his chest, heat radiates from his body through my palms. Tingles burst like fireworks on the Fourth of July at the contact, sending a delicious sensation rushing down my arms and through my body.

  I can’t push him away. I just don’t have the strength in my limbs.

  This is it, I prepare myself. It’s finally going to happen. So many feelings crash over me at once. Panic. Excitement. Fear. Desire.

  I’m drowning in them. I’m underwater and I can’t reach the surface. A buzzing sounds in my ears, but it’s muffled.

  I turn my head toward the noise, but Bentley’s hand gently cups my face, bringing me back so that our mouths are once again aligned.

  If I do nothing, I know what’s going to happen. He’ll kiss me. His lips will press against mine.

  I close my eyes. Everything is moving in slow motion and even though I don’t want to want him, the truth is, I do.

  The sound comes again, this time louder, and I start to open my eyes.

  “Ignore it. You know you want to.” His deep voice tempts me in ways that I don’t like…but also love.

  I shake my head. I can’t ignore it. It’s the bell. We have to get to class.

  “We have to go.”

  I try to step away, but his large arms keep me trapped. I scan the area. Panic clouds my senses.

  “You don’t have to follow the rules all the time,” he growls next to my ear and goosebumps rise on my skin. “Kiss me.”

  No. This is wrong. I start to shake my head.

  “Just one kiss. That’s it.”

  He swipes his thumb across my lower lip and my entire body turns to melted butter. His eyes stare at my mouth with an intensity that heats me up from the inside out. My sex clenches at his predatory gleam.

  Unable to reason my way out of this colossal mistake, I give in. I surrender. I yield to my worst impulse.

  Closing my eyes, I exhale slowly and wait for the sensation of our mouths meeting. When it doesn’t happen, I rise up on my tiptoes, searching for the forbidden satisfaction of his kiss.

  When I don’t find what I’m looking for I clench my fingers into an iron grip in an attempt to pull him near me, but I feel nothing. I reach out and touch nothing but air. Then I’m falling. Fast.

  My eyes opened with a start and I winced at the bright light shining in through my window.

  After a few moments of confusion, I wasn’t a teenager standing in a darkened hallway in my high school with Bentley Calhoun anymore. I was an adult, in my bed, alone. I realized that it hadn’t been a school bell I was hearing. The loud sound was my alarm going off.

  I grabbed my phone from my nightstand to turn off the alarm and saw that I was late. That stupid nightmare had caused me to oversleep. Again.

  “Crap,” I mumbled as I sprang out of bed and rushed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee brewing and throw two pieces of bread in the toaster.

  With breakfast and my daily dose of caffeine taken care of, I jumped in the shower and tried not to think about the recurring nightmare that had been haunting me since my senior year of high school, when a version of the horror I’d just relived during the REM cycle had actually happened.

  The only times I ever overslept were when I had that nightmare. Which only ever happened when I was stressed or nervous about big events and life changes. Ya know…times when you’d want to be at your best and show up on time.

  I’d almost missed my college orientation. I’d barely made it to graduation. I’d had to run to make the flight before I left for a t
hree-month solo backpacking trip in Europe.

  The Europe trip might not’ve been a big deal to other people, but it was huge for me. Since the moment of my conception, I’d been part of a trio. I was looked at as part of a set of three. I was a Turner triplet. We were identical, and most people in town didn’t even know which one I was. And it wasn’t like I lived in a sprawling metropolis. Wishing Well was a small town of less than five thousand people.

  Everyone, including my parents and little sister Delilah, got it wrong. I’d been called Melody or Madison at least as many times as I’d been called Maisy. I understood the confusion. We all shared the same dirty blonde hair, and light brown eyes. We each stood a petite five foot two, had a slender frame we inherited from our mother, and the same upturned nose in the center of our heart-shaped faces.

  There was only one person in my life that had never mistaken me for my sisters. Granny Turner. She always knew the difference. Never once had she gotten us confused. She’d passed away a couple of years back, and I still had a Granny Turner-shaped hole in my heart.

  She’d been ahead of her time. She was a feminist before there was even a name for it. In WWII, she’d worked in a factory and been quickly promoted to foreman. She’d retained her job even after the men came back from war.

  She’d had the quickest wit of any person I’d ever met and always said what was on her mind, whether it was appropriate or not.

  There was one other person that had only mistaken me for another triplet one time in the near twenty-five years I’d known him. It was the same event, and person, that I had recurring nightmares about. Senior year of high school, Bentley Calhoun had kissed me in the hallway between the gym and the cafeteria. And called me Madi after.

  The same sick feeling I’d gotten that day returned to me, but I tried to rinse it out along with my conditioner. I couldn’t let the man that had tormented me, not only in my dreams but also in my waking life, cause me to self-sabotage.

  Today was my first official day as city manager. It was a giant promotion for me–but one that I never would’ve been given if my predecessor hadn’t embezzled over a million dollars and skipped town the week before.

  The head of my department, public works, had come into my office right before five o’clock on Friday and told me that he’d thrown my name in the hat to replace Rebecca Novak. He’d explained that after my last two projects, one of which was renovating City Hall, had come in under budget and ahead of schedule, he believed I was a good fit for the job.

  Oh, and they were desperate to find someone.

  I’d thanked him but figured nothing would ever come of it. I was sure there would be much more qualified applicants for the position. And after what had happened, I thought they might just go with an outside hire. But, to my surprise, I’d opened my email on Saturday morning and saw that I had an offer. As excited as I was to face the challenge, I was also peeing my pants a little from nerves.

  Today is a new day full of new opportunities, I reminded myself as I stepped out of the shower, dried off my body, and picked up my hairdryer.

  My younger sister Delilah had gotten me started on mantras, and they seemed to be working out okay for her. She was three years younger than me, owned her own business, was married to the man that she’d been in love with for over a decade, and most importantly, she was happy.

  That’s what I wanted. To be happy. So, for the past year, every week I chose five mantras to repeat every day. Even if I didn’t truly believe them yet.

  So, as I dried my hair, I recited my daily mantras out loud and tried to ignore the tiny voice in the back of my head that commented after each one.

  “Everything that is happening now is happening for my ultimate good.”

  Even if I’m terrified.

  “My positive mindset will attract new and exciting opportunities.”

  Even if I have to fake it ’til I make it.

  “I am unaffected by the judgments of others.”

  Even if my emotions think otherwise.

  “I live less out of habit and more out of intent.”

  Even if that means leaving my safe and cozy comfort zone.

  “I am ready to receive and give healthy love.”

  Even if the thought of dating makes me want to puke.

  Once my hair was no longer dripping wet, I used the wet/dry brush to straighten it. I slathered lotion on my body. I’d wanted to do a full face of makeup, contour and all, but thanks to losing a valuable forty-five minutes to a nightmare retelling of a kiss that never should’ve happened in the first place, I only had time for my five-under-five look. Five products, under five minutes of application time.

  Eyelash curler. Eyeshadow. Mascara. Lipstick. CC cream. Done. I stared at myself in the mirror, I wasn’t going to win Miss Texas, but it’d do.

  I checked the time on my phone and saw that I had ten minutes until I needed to be out the door. Just enough time to get dressed, feed Smurfette, pour the coffee into my What Would Rachel Hollis Do? travel mug, and get my derriere into the car.

  Not wasting a second, I took the outfit I’d had dry cleaned for this occasion out of the plastic bag. The red blouse and black pencil skirt always made me feel like Emily Blunt’s character in The Devil Wears Prada—like I could handle anything.

  Once I was dressed, I rushed to the kitchen and emptied a can of Fancy Feast into Smurfette’s Mother of Kittens GOT bowl without incident. Next up, coffee. I began to pour my coffee and spotted the toast I forgot I’d made.

  That was where I made my mistake. I thought I could butter my toast and pour my coffee at the same time.

  Yeah. I got cocky.

  In fairness, I might’ve been able to pull it off if not for the five-minute warning alarm going off on my phone, which scared Smurfette, who was peacefully enjoying her breakfast at my feet. She hissed and spun around, in full attack mode. Her booty hit me smack dab in the center of the back of my knees, causing them to buckle.

  The next thing I knew, I was wearing the coffee I’d tried to pour in my mug.

  “Ahh!” The high-pitched yelp that escaped from me sounded more like something that should’ve come from the feline who’d started this whole mess than a human being.

  Polyester and silk were no match for steaming hot liquid, and it instantly soaked through to my skin. Large brown drops fell from the ends of my blonde locks onto the Spanish tile of my kitchen floor.

  My back went into a C curve as I pulled the material away from my body, not that it made much of a difference now, and rushed back to my bedroom. When I got to my closet, I snatched the only other red shirt I owned and frantically searched through my hangers for my backup black pencil skirt.

  Could I wear my navy slacks? Sure. Could I throw on my camel suit and call it a day? Absolutely. But I wanted to wear black and red. Power colors. I needed my Devil Wears Prada energy, today of all days.

  After my second trip flipping down hanger alley, I still didn’t see my skirt hanging up. That’s when I noticed something on the floor of my closet. It was a small black ball.

  I picked it up and felt like I’d won the lottery. At least a scratcher. I’d found my skirt.

  On examining it, though, I saw that unfortunately, it was more wrinkled than Rose at the end of Titanic.

  Still not willing to give up on my power color ensemble, I tossed it into the dryer with a few dryer sheets. Adding a quick wish and a prayer, I changed out of my damp clothes, rinsed out the ends of my coffee-soaked hair and restyled it.

  When I opened the dryer minutes later, I was relieved to see that the tiny web of wrinkles had been tamed. I got dressed again and was sitting behind the wheel of my Prius headed downtown only ten minutes later than I’d planned.

  Oversleeping and getting covered in hot coffee was not how I’d imagined this morning starting. But maybe this was good luck. Like rain on your wedding day. Alanis had said that was ironic, but she didn’t know about our good ol’ Texas superstitions. Thanks to Granny Turner, I did, and
it was amazing the wide range of you’d-think-they-were-crappy-if-you-didn’t-know-better things were, in fact, lucky. So, maybe my morning of mishaps was a sign that my new position was going to be rewarding and successful.

  Or, hell. Maybe it was a sign that it was going to be a disaster.

  Chapter 2

  Bentley

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies so close ya know what they ate for dinner the night before.”

  ~ Granny Turner

  “Wake up.”

  The sound of my brother’s voice had barely registered before I felt the mattress shift beneath me.

  I opened my eyes and saw my older brother Brady looming over me. His arms were crossed as he stared down at me with murder in his eyes. I’d crashed at his place the night before because it was walking distance from The Tipsy Cow and I was in no condition to drive.

  The sunlight drifting in through the closed blinds was not doing my pounding head any favors. I closed my eyes—trying to block it out. When I did, my brother kicked the mattress again.

  “Your phone’s been blowin’ up!”

  I winced at the volume of Brady’s declaration. My head pounded like a drumline was using it for rehearsal space, my body ached like I was recovering from a triathlon, and my mouth was drier than the Sahara. And I knew exactly who was to blame for my current miserable state. My libation nemesis.

  Tequila.

  We’d never gotten along. Ever since I’d started drinkin’ in my teens, it had never agreed with me.

  And the party responsible for the dance with my sworn enemy was plain and simple boredom. Over a month ago, a hostage situation that I’d been involved with had gone terribly wrong and I’d been put on paid leave.

  Physically, I was perfectly fine. I’d been shot, but the bullet had gone straight through my arm, missing any bone or nerves. It’d been little more than a flesh wound, and it had healed weeks ago.

  It was my mental state that was keeping me on the sidelines. After several trips to the department shrink, I still hadn’t been cleared to return to work.

  I wasn’t one to accuse someone of abusing their power, but I had a feeling that her decision might have more to do with a weekend we spent together a few years back that involved some feelings on Kate’s part, that weren’t reciprocated on my part.