Quiet Man(Dream Man #4.5)
by Kristen Ashley
Kindle Edition, 1st edition, 256 pages
Published August 13th 2019 by Evil Eye Concepts, Incorporated
ASINB07L9HV1BP
From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Kristen Ashley comes a new story in her Dream Man series…
Charlotte “Lottie” McAlister is in the zone. She’s ready to take on the next chapter of her life, and since she doesn’t have a man, she’ll do what she’s done all along. She’ll take care of business on her own. Even if that business means starting a family.
The problem is, Lottie has a stalker. The really bad kind. The kind that means she needs a bodyguard.
Enter Mo Morrison.
Enormous. Scary.
Quiet.
Mo doesn’t say much, and Lottie’s used to getting attention. And she wants Mo’s attention. Badly.
But Mo has a strict rule. If he’s guarding your body, that’s all he’s doing with it.
However, the longer Mo has to keep Lottie safe, the faster he falls for the beautiful blonde who has it so together, she might even be able to tackle the demons he’s got in his head that just won’t die.
But in the end, Lottie and Mo don’t only have to find some way to keep hands off until the threat is over, they have to negotiate the overprotective Hot Bunch, Lottie’s crazy stepdad, Tex, Mo’s crew of frat-boy commandos, not to mention his nutty sisters.
All before Lottie finally gets her Dream Man.
And Mo can lay claim to his Dream Girl.
Excerpt:
I unlocked and opened my door.
Then I immediately, and automatically, took a step back.
All right.
Whoa.
I could get a hint from the chest and what it might be attached to with what I’d seen of that throat, but this guy had to be six five, maybe taller.
And his height was only a part of why Smithie described him the way he did.
He wasn’t “motherfucking huge.”
He was motherfucking huge.
I was average height.
But slender.
My sister had ass.
My job was physical. It wasn’t just the nightly dancing. It was the practice and constantly choreographing and adding new routines. I could probably eat a boatload, but I didn’t because I was too busy to eat, and when I did, I’d learned long ago what all the experts said was what an expert would know from studying it. Eating good food gave me more energy, made me sleep better and put me in a better mood (most of the time).
So unless the occasion was special, I put good food in my mouth and didn’t drink much outside water, flavored water, sparkling water, with the odd antioxidant vitamin drink thrown in.
So yeah, I was slender.
And two of me could make this guy.
Maybe three.
He moved forward.
I moved back.
His movements were unwieldy. Not clumsy—heavy and plodding.
It didn’t matter this guy was a bull in a china shop.
He’d terrify small children.
Hell, he’d terrify grown men.
And that had nothing to do with the gun worn openly on his hip.
It had to do with what that compression shirt barely contained, not to mention the carved protrusion of the muscles of his biceps exposed by the short sleeves, the sinewy, richly veined lengths of his forearms and the trunks of his long legs covered in dark gray commando pants.
He shut the door behind him, twisted at the waist and I heard the lock click.
He twisted back to me.
“Hey,” I forced out.
He dipped his chin.
“You’re Mo,” I stated unnecessarily.
“Yup,” he agreed.
I unlocked and opened my door.
Then I immediately, and automatically, took a step back.
All right.
Whoa.
I could get a hint from the chest and what it might be attached to with what I’d seen of that throat, but this guy had to be six five, maybe taller.
And his height was only a part of why Smithie described him the way he did.
He wasn’t “motherfucking huge.”
He was motherfucking huge.
I was average height.
But slender.
My sister had ass.
My job was physical. It wasn’t just the nightly dancing. It was the practice and constantly choreographing and adding new routines. I could probably eat a boatload, but I didn’t because I was too busy to eat, and when I did, I’d learned long ago what all the experts said was what an expert would know from studying it. Eating good food gave me more energy, made me sleep better and put me in a better mood (most of the time).
So unless the occasion was special, I put good food in my mouth and didn’t drink much outside water, flavored water, sparkling water, with the odd antioxidant vitamin drink thrown in.
So yeah, I was slender.
And two of me could make this guy.
Maybe three.
He moved forward.
I moved back.
His movements were unwieldy. Not clumsy—heavy and plodding.
It didn’t matter this guy was a bull in a china shop.
He’d terrify small children.
Hell, he’d terrify grown men.
And that had nothing to do with the gun worn openly on his hip.
It had to do with what that compression shirt barely contained, not to mention the carved protrusion of the muscles of his biceps exposed by the short sleeves, the sinewy, richly veined lengths of his forearms and the trunks of his long legs covered in dark gray commando pants.
He shut the door behind him, twisted at the waist and I heard the lock click.
He twisted back to me.
“Hey,” I forced out.
He dipped his chin.
“You’re Mo,” I stated unnecessarily.
“Yup,” he agreed.
About the Author:
Kristen Ashley was born in Gary, Indiana, USA. She nearly killed her mother and herself making it into the world, seeing as she had the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck (already attempting to accessorize and she hadn't taken her first breath!).
Kristen grew up in Brownsburg, Indiana but has lived in Denver, Colorado and the West Country of England. Thus she has been blessed to have friends and family around the globe. Her posse is loopy (to say the least) but loopy is good when you want to write.
Kristen was raised in a house with a large and multi-generational family. They lived on a very small farm in a small town in the heartland and existed amongst the strains of Glenn Miller, The Everly Brothers, REO Speedwagon and Whitesnake (and the wardrobes that matched).
Needless to say, growing up in a house full of music, clothes and love was a good way to grow up.
And as she keeps growing up, it keeps getting better.
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