Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series) Read online

  Not In My Wildest Dreams

  by Isabelle Peterson

  Copyright © 2013 Isabelle Peterson

  Kindle Edition

  WARNING: EROTIC ROMANCE… This book contains subject material of an adult nature intended for readers of 18 and older, maybe even 21 and older. In these pages you will find graphic language and sexual encounters that some readers might disagree with: regular sex, BDSM, oral, sex toys, and more. You’ve been warned. Happy reading!

  DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. It is not based on my life, nor any person living or dead. Names, characters, places, and events are the creation of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously, and any resemblance is entirely coincidental. Any reference to historical events, real places or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Isabelle Peterson

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover designed by Kari Ayasha, Cover To Cover Designs

  Formatting by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my husband, Marcus. He’s the best part of all the men in my books. Supportive, generous, loving, exciting, and romantic.

  I love you Marc.

  Iz

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Chasing The Dream Synopsis

  Trademark Acknowledgment

  Acknowledgements

  Again I sit down to hammer out an acknowledgment section. And there are so many people I have no idea where to start! It’s been an impressive ‘army’ of friends who have helped make Not In My Wildest Dreams bigger, better, faster and stronger.

  My family, who has been patient and ridiculously supportive and overlooking my mania and listening to me ramble and freak out—Marc, Taylor and Ian—thank you isn’t enough.

  My friends—Nancy, Marquette, Mary, Brit, and Chris, I believe I owe you a drink!

  Alpha, Beta and proof readers – Wow! Your comments, connections, and insight – along with your eagle eyes for typos and such – you are all a blessing. Not one stands ahead of the other, so I am listing you alphabetically: Ana, Brit, Brittany, Courtney, Dottie, Jade, Jennifer, Jessica, Kelley, Kim, Lisa, Raquel, Rebecca, Shannon, Stephanie M., Stephanie S., Terri and Valerie!!!

  Thank you to the authors who inspire, support me, advise me, and offer kind words (again, alphabetically): K. Bromberg, Emme Burton, L. Chapman, L.L. Collins, Melissa Collins, Jennifer Anne Davis, K.M. Golland, Sydney Landon, Jodi Ellen Malpas, Raine Miller, N.M. Silber, S.C. Stephens, Skye Turner, and A.L. Zaun.

  Thank you to the bloggers who have supported me. So many to mention here, and daily there are more, but here’s a short list of those who have been superstars with promoting Ditching the Dream, and I have already been so helpful with Not In My Wildest Dreams: After Dark Divas, Elle’s Book Blog, Erotica Book Club, Eye Candy Bookstore, Fictional Boyfriends, For the Love of Books, Hooked on Books, Love Between the Sheets, and Maria’s Book Blog.

  Thank you to the thousands of women (and a few men) who have bought, and read, Ditching the Dream. Your excitement for what was written and what is to come, connections to the characters, and enthusiasm for my writing is what pushed me further into this world of Indie Publishing, and had me once again staring at a cursor on a white screen to put Jack’s story into words. You trusted a new author, and I’m so happy you were not disappointed.

  Thank you Kari, of Cover to Cover Designs, for your beautiful covers…

  And Paul, from BB eBooks Thailand, for the beautiful touches you’ve put on the Dream Series with the formatting.

  As is the nature of the beast—I’m fearful that I’ve missed someone, somewhere. It’ll hit me at 3am some morning and know that I won’t be able to sleep.

  PROLOGUE

  Jack handed his jacket to the flight attendant of the ridiculously expensive private jet and settled into the leather seat. He could have flown commercial, but he wasn’t in the mood to be around other people.

  “May I get you something to drink, Mr. Stevens?” the cheery attendant asked.

  Accepting her interruption as politely as he could muster, Jack glanced at her name tag. “Yes, Katie. Thank you. I’ll have a Scotch, please.”

  “Right away, Mr. Stevens. Macallan 18, correct?” One thing he loved about flying private was the pre-flight questionnaire. That way, you’d get on the plane and not have to explain a thing.

  “Thank you.” He nodded, distracted in thought.

  Moments later Jack was sipping the brown spirits and trying to calm his nerves. I should be drinking water after soaking my liver like I did these past few days, he thought. But his heart ached. A chunk had been ripped out leaving a gaping hole that continued to bleed, so he continued to drink.

  He thought about the past week. Beth showing up at his home, so sad and quiet…then telling him that she was going back home to her husband… to try and work things out with him. It’s not right, he thought. Beth is mine. He downed the rest of the Scotch and, shifting in his seat, waited for the Captain to announce clearance and takeoff.

  Jack’s phone buzzed in his pocket, distracting him from his thoughts. It was a text from his secretary and best friend, Becca.

  6:39pm

  Schedules rearranged. Peter

  and Terri on next week’s shows.

  Return flight from Napa to JFK

  confirmed for Sunday. Details in

  your email, along with Beth’s

  address in Napa. Best of luck. Go

  get your heart back. I look forward

  to seeing BOTH of you next week.

  Taking a deep breath, Jack shut his phone off and put it in his pocket. He closed his eyes to try and get some much needed sleep during the six hour flight to California.

  This has to work. It just has to.

  CHAPTER 1

  Thirty-four years ago… June, 1979.

  “Clean up in aisle seven,” the speakers in the tiny, rural Colorado grocery store squawked. Angela
sat behind the front counter, just ten feet from me, smirking. Was it really necessary for her to use the speakers? No. She was just being a bitch because she was friends with Jenny. Fucking small town. God, it was last summer that Jenny and I had broken up and still, no one would let it rest. Jenny and Suzie were so mad at me that they started calling me ‘Jackass Jack’. So what if I wanted to have a threesome with my girlfriend, and her best friend. I was in high school. I’d read about it in Playboy and Penthouse. It sounded like a good time. C’mon all that soft skin, double the tits, two mouths…

  And it’s not like I was looking to get married or anything, especially to Jenny. I wanted Suzie, anyway. She had this rack and an ass that you could bounce a quarter off of. It was kinda why I went out with Jenny in the first place; to hang out with Suzie. But learning that Suzie played for the ‘other team,’ I had to break up with Jenny after she blabbed to all the girls in school. It was too embarrassing. Hell, I was probably never getting married. I didn’t want a ball and chain. Why get pinned down to just one flavor for the rest of time? Four of my seven brothers and sisters were already married, while the other three were in serious committed relationships. The life and fun was just sucked right out of them even before they got hitched.

  “You hear that, son?” Mr. Thompson called down aisle nine at me. I was stocking the sugar shelves in the baking aisle. “And it’s Tuesday. You know what that means.”

  Yeah, Tuesday meant delivery day. Around four o’clock, the truck would show up, and I’d be lifting and storing fucking heavy boxes for hours afterwards. I was strong enough, but I’d always leave here aching like an old lady, not that I’d admit it out loud.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Tho—” I called over my shoulder, but he was already gone.

  God, I hate this job. But I hated working on the ranch more. They didn’t need me there anyway. That was clear. My seven brothers and sisters, their husbands and wives and my parents, even though they were in their late 60s, took care of everything from the fields, to the cattle, to the milk. They loved putting me on muck duty. I didn’t want to be a fourth generation rancher, but I didn’t want to be a small grocery store stock boy either. Honestly, I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do with my life.

  I shoved the last of the five-pound bags of sugar back on the shelf and went to get the mop. Aisle seven meant one of two thing: ketchup or pickles.

  After cleaning up the red tomatoey mess in aisle seven, I clocked out on my break and headed out back for a smoke. It was pretty warm for the late June afternoon. I leaned on the wall along the side of Thompson Market that faced Davis Street and lit up a Marlboro. I took in the thick smoke and felt myself mellow as I leaned against the peeling painted wall of the building.

  I stood a bit straighter when a sweet ‘Vette pulled up. Not a new one. A 1966, cherry-red, convertible Corvette. Gorgeous condition for being 15 or so years old. And then there was the sweet thing behind the wheel. Blonde. And stacked. She was no high schooler.

  “Do you work here?” she called out.

  “Yeah. Who’s askin’?” I said back, trying to act cool.

  “How old are you?”

  Now we’re talkin’. “Old enough. What do you have in mind?”

  She turned off the ignition, pulled something from the visor, and stepped out of her car. She stood and faced me, her tight top left little to the imagination.

  “Do you like living here?” she asked.

  Okay, these questions were getting a little weird, even for me. And I had a lot of weird ideas.

  She started to walk up to me, and I got to take in the full effect of ‘Ms. ‘Vette’, and I didn’t give a shit anymore that she was asking strange questions. I tugged at my jeans to shift the growing beast that was tucked inside a little too tightly now. She had legs that went on for days under a super short skirt that could be left on for what was going through my mind. And those legs were only made hotter by the black stilettos on her feet.

  She stopped a couple feet in front of me. She studied my face, then walked to the side of me. I followed her with my head as she chewed on her lower lip.

  “Look forward, please,” she said.

  “Uh, okay,” I scoffed. “Mind clueing me in on what you’re doin’?”

  “I’m looking.”

  I glanced to the side, and she was looking. Up and down. Felt weird to be standing on Davis Street, with a smokin’ hot babe checkin’ me out, but I couldn’t help being totally turned on by it either. I knew I was hot. But when an older chick thinks you’re hot, it’s a whole new ballgame.

  “What are you? Six foot three? Six foot four?” She walked back in front of me and studied me again.

  “Somethin’ like that,” I shrugged.

  “Smile.”

  “What?” I laughed. I was actually starting to get freaked out. She nodded, and a smile slid across her face.

  “You might want to take a picture, it lasts longer.”

  “That’s sort of what I’m hoping for.” She finished her appraisal of me and leaned against the wall next to me. Taking the cigarette from my hand, she took a drag. She handed it back to me and I almost came in my pants looking at the red lipstick she left on the butt.

  “Eighteen?” she asked, letting out a slim stream of smoke.

  “Almost nineteen.” I replied.

  “You going to college in the fall?”

  “Going to the community college just north of Boulder, if I can save enough money.”

  She nodded pensively and handed me a small card. I took it, but didn’t look at it. She pulled her shades off and had me pinned with her shocking blue eyes. Extending her right hand toward me, she started, “Penny Paulson. I’m with Ford out of New York.”

  I laughed a bit, weakly shaking her very soft, delicate hand. “Sorry, hon. Ford is in Detroit. And wouldn’t a Corvette break some sort of rules?”

  She looked at me for a second, almost confused, then she started to laugh. “No. Good god, you are a country boy, aren’t you?”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Who is she calling a country boy?

  “Ford Modeling. Out of New York City.” She looked at my face for things to register with me, which they didn’t. “As in, my company represents models. The people you see in ads.” I raised a brow, still not understanding what this had to do with me. “We’re going to turn the male modeling world upside down with a new direction. And you have the ‘look’.”

  I was just taking a drag off my cigarette, which turned out to be a bad idea, because I started coughing on the smoke. When I’d regained most of my cool, I coughed. “Come again?”

  “Look, it pays well. Granted it’s long hours, under hot lights. Clearly you’re a hard worker,” she said, checking out my phenomenal biceps. “Modeling isn’t easy work. You’ll earn every dollar. What’s your name?”

  “Wait, you’re serious? You want me to pose all pretty in front of cameras? Wearing fancy clothes and shit.”

  “I’m saying, if you can take the time off, I’d like to have you come to New York. We’ll get some test shots, see what the clients think.”

  Shit! She’s serious.

  “Well, you have my card. I’m on my way back to New York today. Call me. What’s your name?”

  “Uh, okay. It’s Jack. Jack Stevens.”

  She winked and started to strut back to her car. “Talk to you soon, Jack Stevens!” she hollered, slipping behind the wheel and turning over the engine. She turned up the radio, threw the car in reverse, and after making a three-point turn, got herself back onto Main Street.

  I looked around me. Not in my wildest dreams could I wrap my head around what just went down. And, fuck me, there were no witnesses to what had just happened. It must have been a figment of my overactive, virile, teenaged imagination. Surely a hot chick, in a bitchin’ car, didn’t just stop and offer me a job in New York City—to have my picture taken. But looking down into my hands, I was still holding the cigarette butt with her red lipstick in one hand, and her busin
ess card in the other.

  Penny Paulson

  Ford Models, Inc.

  (212) 555-FORD

  The card looked legit. She looked legit. Fuck! This is crazy.

  “Stevens! Break is over! Quit bein’ such a slacker and get back on the job. You’ve still got two aisles to straighten and the delivery truck will be here any minute,” Mr. Thompson shouted from the doorway.

  I looked at the round, red-faced, balding man, and then back at the card in my hand.

  “Mr. Thompson. I’ve wanted to say this for two years now.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me, daring me to say whatever it was I had on my mind.

  Don’t ever dare a Stevens, I thought. “Mr. Thompson. Sir. You know that song that’s playin’ on the radio by Johnny Paycheck? Well, it’s like he said: Take this job and shove it!”

  I took one last drag of my cigarette and stomped it out. I untied the apron. I balled it up, threw it toward the door, and walked away.

  “Stevens! You walk away now, you won’t get your pay for the week!” he shouted. “And don’t even think of groveling for this job back tomorrow,” he went on. “I’ll have a new kid in your place faster than you can say…”

  I never heard how he finished the sentence. I didn’t care. I laughed all the way to my beat up F-100. I set my prized, red-lipsticked butt in the ashtray and popped Ms. Paulson’s business card into the visor.

  I twisted the side view mirror to check out my reflection in the metal-framed square. I knew I was good looking. Shit. Even with a nickname like Jackass Jack I still had girls falling for me. I ran my hand through my thick, dark brown hair playing with the waves that drove the chicks crazy. I kept my hair longer, more for the ladies to run their fingers through and grab. I stared at my dark brown eyes. They were so dark that you couldn’t even see the pupil. The girls like to say my eyes were like chocolate. I admired my nose. My mother always said I had a noble nose, straight and narrow. I thought my face was long, but had good bone structure. I had a good chin and cheek-bones, I guess.