Daydreams and Fantasies

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Cooper McK, LLC Book

Erotic Romance

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DAYDREAMS AND FANTASIES ANTHOLOGY

Copyright © 2018 by Cooper McKenzie

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

PUBLISHER

Cooper McK, LLC

Georgetown, Texas

In Her Dreams.........................................................................8

Ransom....................................................................................24

Carson......................................................................................46

Strangers in the Morning..................................................62

Trey’s Angel...........................................................................78

The Proposal Tree................................................................98

Dedication

For Charlotte, who taught me that daydreaming was not a bad thing.

I still miss you.

In Her Dreams

So, what are you working on these days?

The question was one Rachel Anders heard often these days. From family, friends, loyal readers, and even complete strangers who knew she was a published author.

Her answer was always the same, I’m playing with a couple of ideas. She tried to smile as she spoke in order to project an air of contented confidence in what she was saying.

In truth, she had nothing. Not a single thread of plot to knit into a new story line. No new and interesting characters to put high in a tree and throw rotten tomatoes at.

Nothing.

She’d been writing stories for more than twenty years, though saw publishing success only in the last few. Currently she felt tired, burned out, dried up, and out of touch with everything. Mostly she was tired of trying to live two lives – the imaginative creative life of a daydreamer and writer as well as the practical in-the-world life of a single woman living on her own. Thank goodness she had her bread job as a medical transcriptionist to keep a roof over her head and her bills paid. It wasn’t rocket science or the job of her dreams, but it paid well enough though the budget had little wiggle room. Retiring anytime in this lifetime depended on her writing career taking off. Sometimes she wondered if she should give up writing altogether and find some other creative outlet.

After four published novels that sold only a few hundred copies each, nearly all of which Rachel sold all by herself, holding signings at coffee shops, gift stores, and other local markets, she’d begun wondering if she was really meant to be a writer. Ever since she’d learned about letters and words and reading all she ever wanted was to be part of the world of books. She wanted to carry people away with her storytelling. She wanted to go on television, Good Morning America and Oprah, to share her stories with the world.

As a published author, she discovered a truth that few non-writers fully appreciated. Writing as a profession was not about creating the perfect setting, conflict, and characters. Being a professional encompassed the other side of the business as well–the selling side. Promoting, marketing, getting the book buying public to discover her book among the thousands and thousands sent to the world each year. That was the grim reality of being a career author.

With no money to hire a publicist or even find a good agent who believed in her and her work, Rachel was on her own. At this moment, she was ready to hold a bonfire in her backyard and burn every scrap of paper in the house that had to do with writing. She thought about taking a job as a waitress in one of the nicer restaurants in town. She’d never been a waitress, but working two jobs and having money in a savings account had to be better than where she was now, barely making ends meet, and frustrated because she couldn’t find the creativity to write a new story. Nevertheless, she knew she would never be able to give up her daydreams, words, or stories.

After yet another book signing where she sold only a few copies of her latest novel, Rachel went into her office closet and pulled out the box she’d put together over the years. Good ideas, bad ideas, unfinished scenes, bits of descriptions, scraps of dialogue, pictures of settings, and possible characters filled the blue plastic bin.

As she flipped through the papers, reading a page here or a paragraph there, she felt nothing; no joy, no excitement, no urge to try to use those old ideas to create something new. Just a somber feeling that she might never again find an idea or a character that would consume her thoughts and make her want to hole up with a notebook while the story carried her away.

She went through the entire box and remained uninspired. Finally, she put the idea box back in the closet with a sigh. There was nothing in there that could help her now. Would she ever find her dreams again?

That night, after brushing her teeth and washing her face, Rachel stared hard at herself in the mirror over the sink. This is crazy, she told her reflection, looking into tired, bloodshot, golden-brown eyes. "You are a writer. You have four books to your credit. Stop worrying about the selling. Stop listening to well meaning advice. Ignore those people who keep asking when your next book is coming out. Block out everything and everyone except the writing. Let yourself dream again. That’s where your best stories always come from, your dreams."

Problem was, she admitted to the woman in the mirror, she was too tired to dream. Too tired from not sleeping well, burned out from dealing with the business side of her barely existent career, stressed from worries about the current economy, keeping her job, and simply surviving.

Or was fear stopping her? Was she too afraid of where her dreams might take her? Of where a blockbuster book deal would lead? Of not being able to write the next book after that?

Get past the fear. You are a writer. It’s time to find your dreams again and write about them, she ordered the woman in the mirror before turning off the light and going to bed. As she settled under the covers, she prayed to dream of a new project that would consume her thoughts and dreams and have her writing again. One that would set the publishing world on fire and give her the future she dreamed of for so long.

* * * *

He approached one slow step at a time. The sun streamed through the open French doors behind him, obscuring his face in deep shadow. One honey brown hand reached for her as if inviting her forward. His build was that of the man she always wanted in her life. Broad, muscular shoulders narrowed to a slim waist, hips, and long muscle lined legs. All he wore was a pair of worn, blue-white, loose fitting jeans. The rest of him was bare, even his feet, which seemed to Rachel the sexiest thing about him. His feet, like the rest of him, were long, lean, and tanned.

All at once, the temperature in the room soared and she was hot. Too hot for clothes. Too hot for anything except a glass of sweet ice tea and lazing under a slow moving ceiling fan, or maybe a round of sex, hot and spicy enough to curl her straight hair and relax away all her tensions.

He continued toward her in slow motion, as if determined to ignite the sexual hunger she kept so deep under wraps that she wasn’t sure she was even a woman any longer. She didn’t want to think about the sexual firestorm she had worked so hard to ignore for the last two years.

It’s been two years since Joe left her just three days before their wedding to run off to Aruba with his father’s latest personal assistant. Rachel had been devastated and his father had been furious. She recently heard through the grapevine that Joe’s father forgave him when Joe brought his wife and infant daughter home to meet grandpa.

That didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered except for the hot itch in her cunt and this half-naked stranger who was now halfway across the room. She tried to look into his face, to read his eyes, but couldn’t completely make out his features because of the deep shadows cast in the room.

Looking around, Rachel tried to figure out where she was and how she came to this place. This wasn’t her bedroom. Her bedroom was winter white and made a nun’s cell look luxurious. This room looked familiar, however, with the painted iron bed and whitewashed pine furniture. Even the woven straw hat hanging on the wall and the armless rocker made her think of the room she always wanted. This room was simple in décor and design, feminine, yet not frilly. Just the kind of room she always wanted but never had the trifecta of time, money, and creative energy to pull together.

The man was closer now and stopped with less than a foot of space between their bodies. Only then, did Rachel look down and realize that, like the room, she had undergone a change. Her body was tone, slim, and tanned just enough. She wore a simple cotton dress of pale blue material with tiny daisies scattered over it. The dress ended at mid thigh, and by shifting from one foot to the other, she could tell that the light cotton dress was all she wore.

The hunger for