Out of the Blue Read online

  Out of the Blue by Kayt Miller

  Description

  Sophie Kincaid knows how to find her brides the perfect dress for their dream wedding. A little overweight and a lot under tall, Sophie faces age thirty knowing she’ll never have her own happily-ever-after and she’ll soon need a cat to complete her self-fulfilling prophecy. However, when a ruggedly handsome customer enters the shop in need of a tuxedo, Sophie finds herself dreaming of the tall, broad, and hot-as-sin Henry Flynn. The only problem is guys like Henry don’t look twice at women like Sophie. It’s just a fact of life.

  Henry “Hank” Flynn is a foul-mouthed detective with the Chicago P. D. who knows all there is to know about solving crimes. He’s big, strong and stubborn as hell. At thirty-five, he has no interest in finding a woman unless it’s for one night in his bed. Been there. Done that. Divorced years ago from a spiteful gold-digger, Hank doesn’t need or want to know anything about his hookups. That is until he walks into a shop to get a tux for his brother’s wedding and is drawn to a little beauty named Sophie.

  When Sophie’s tenant is found murdered, Henry Flynn finds himself on the case with a need to solve one murder and prevent another. Keeping Sophie safe and in his arms is his number one priority even when she doesn’t think she needs saving. Henry believes fate has brought them together. Sophie doesn’t think a man like Henry Flynn would seriously want her. Can a sweet, plump wedding dress consultant and a crass, over-protective cop find love?

  You’ll have to read their story to find out.

  This book is intended for a mature audience––ages 18+. It is a stand-alone with a sexy hero and an HEA.

  If you are offended by coarse language, you may want to skip this because Henry Flynn has a dirty mouth.

  Copyright Information

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Kayt Miller

  Cover image standard license from Adobe Stock.com

  Cover Copyright © 2017 Kayt Miller

  All rights reserved.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author @ [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to all of those who inspire me and help with this process. This book dedicated to Elizabeth, Kay, Ann, Diana, and all of my lovely Beta Bitches. Oh, and thanks to my husband for giving me inspiration everyday.

  Table ofContents

  Cover Page

  Description

  Copyright Information

  Acknowledgements

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Hank

  Chapter 2: Sophie

  Chapter 3: Henry

  Chapter 4: Sophie

  Chapter 5: Henry

  Chapter 6: Sophie

  Chapter 7: Henry

  Chapter 8: Sophie

  Chapter 9: Henry

  Chapter 10: Sophie

  Chapter 11: Henry

  Chapter 12: Sophie

  Chapter 13: Henry

  Chapter 14: Sophie

  Chapter 15: Henry

  Chapter 16: Sophie

  Chapter 17: Henry

  Chapter 18: Sophie

  Chapter 19: Henry

  Chapter 20: Sophie

  Chapter 21: Henry

  Chapter 22: Henry

  Chapter 23: Sophie

  Chapter 24: Henry

  Chapter 25: Sophie

  Chapter 26: Henry

  Chapter 27: Henry

  Chapter 28: Sophie

  Chapter 29: Henry

  Chapter 30: Sophie

  Chapter 31: Henry

  Chapter 32: Sophie

  Chapter 33: Henry

  Chapter 34: Sophie

  Chapter 35: Henry

  Chapter 36: Sophie

  Chapter 37: Henry

  Chapter 38: Sophie

  Chapter 39: Sophie

  Chapter 40: Henry

  Chapter 41: Sophie

  Chapter 42: Henry

  Epilogue: Sophie

  Epilogue: Henry

  One Year Later: Henry

  Sneak Peek: The Portrait Painter

  Also by Kayt Miller

  Chapter 1: Hank

  I fucking hate weddings. Why the hell my brother thinks he needs to marry that harpy is beyond me. No amount of talking will get him to change his mind. You’d think he would have learned from my mistake. Legally tied to that spiteful gold-digger, Angela, for a year should have been enough for every guy in my family to stay the fuck away from marriage.

  Even after ten years, I’m still pissed that she took me to the cleaners. It’s a good thing I’m resourceful and recouped my money otherwise, my bitterness would be worse. She even tried to get alimony out of me. My attorney laughed her out of divorce court having proof of her many infidelities. Groaning, I mourn the loss of my little brother. No, he’s not dead, but his soon-to-be-wife will likely kill his spirit. She’s a clone of Angela. Fucking idiot.

  Walking into the damn tux store, I’m reminded of my own wedding day. Everything was over the top. Angela spent thousands on a wedding dress and for what? Her daddy paid for most of the circus we called a wedding thank Christ. Okay. That’s enough. Instead of making my mood worse, I’ve got to do my best to focus on the task at hand, getting measured for my tux. As best man, I’m expected to do whatever my little bro needs me to do to make his wedding day pleasant. Yeah, right.

  Shit, I need to let the past go. You never know, his marriage could last. I snort a little laugh to myself and clear my throat, attempting to get the attention of the kid unpacking the box on the floor. Customer service must not be this store’s forte.

  “Excuse me? I need a little help here,” I ask in my demanding cop voice.

  “Oh, um, I’m sorry?”

  The person I mistook as a kid turns out to be one of the tiniest women I’ve ever seen. She can’t be more than five feet tall, which puts her over a foot shorter than I am. As a detective, I catch things like that right away.

  Like the fact she’s small––she can’t weigh more than a buck twenty––while also being curvy. She’s got nice tits for a little gal. Her hair is so shiny it could be silk. It's brown, but the color reminds me of dark chocolate. It’s pretty short––cut bluntly at the top of her shoulders––she’s got both sides pulled back behind her ears and a pen rests above her right ear. I prefer a woman with long hair, but shorter hair seems to suit this woman. I suspect her diminutive body would get lost in long hair.

  My eyes move from the pen to her face. Goddamn, she’s pretty. I’d guess her age at about twenty-two with her turned-up nose sprayed with tiny freckles and her full rosy lips. I could picture her doing some amazing things to my dick if she weren’t so young. Damn. That’s a shame. I continue my perusal and catch a sparkle in her big, brown eyes––the color of melted milk chocolate with specks of gold around the iris. Damn, I must be hungry. Everything about this little honey is making me salivate.

  She’s wearing black from head to toe––a long shirt and those legging things the ladies are wearing these days. Some guys hate those tight stretchy pant things but I love them. They show off a woman’s legs and if I’m lucky her ass. I love a plump little rump, and this angel looks like she’d have ass for days.

  I decide to play with her
a little, “You’re not sure?”

  “Sure? What?” She blinks like a scared little doe. She’s fucking precious.

  “You’re not sure if you’re sorry?”

  The brown-eyed beauty stands fluttering her long dark lashes as she peers up at me. I seem to have confused her. Maybe she’s not very bright. That would be a shame. I like my fuck buddies to have something going on upstairs. Nothing is more tedious than hooking up with a bimbo. I mean, I’ll do it, but it annoys the fuck out of me. This girl, though, I don’t get the impression she’s dumb. She’s just spellbound by me. Yeah, that’s it. I can be a little intimidating.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Sure about what?” Okay, now it’s me that’s confused.

  “I’m sure I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I thought Ari was up front greeting customers.”

  “Well, there’s no one here but the two of us,” I say in my sexiest voice. I walk to get closer to my little peach. Sophie. Her nametag reveals her pretty name.

  “Sophie? Is your name Sophie?”

  She peers down at her nametag and then up at my face. She touches it with her left hand. No ring. “Yes, I’m Sophie. How can I help you today?”

  She’s now in sales mode.

  “I need to get a tux for a wedding.”

  “Oh, um, that’s not my area. I’m bridal.”

  “Well, there’s no one else here, and I need to get this done. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Um, well, okay. Follow me.”

  I can tell she’s reluctant to help me. Am I making her nervous? Usually, the ladies fall all over me. “Are you sure? Do you know what to do?” Her hesitation makes it seem like she might be new at this.

  “No, that’s not it. I know what I'm doing. I’m supposed to stay over on my side of the store. But, I’d be happy to help you.” A fake smile has spread across her sweet face.

  She sounds unsure. This little thing is likely frightened of her own shadow. We walk to the other side of the store to the side designated for tuxedoes and suits. Mannequins wearing suits in black, gray, and navy surround the area. There’s even a tux with a camouflage design. Who would wear a camouflage tux on their wedding day? If a guy finds a woman who lets him wear camo on his wedding day, he’s one lucky bastard. His woman will be putty in his hands. Either that or she’s an idiot like her future husband. Camouflage? God, it’s fucking hideous.

  Sophie leads me over to a small table surrounded by stools. “Um, is it your wedding?”

  I wonder if she’s asking for herself. “God no! My little brother’s getting hitched. I’m the best man,” I say proudly for some inexplicable reason. Before this moment, I gave two shits Dave chose me as the best man.

  “What's the bride’s name and the wedding date?” she asks getting professional on me.

  “Jen and it’s in about two weeks, Saturday the 23rd.”

  She waits like she wants me to say more. “Does Jen have a last name?”

  I guess she wants more. “Probably.” I’m not sure what it is.

  “Well, let’s try this. What is your brother’s name? Hopefully, you know his last name,” she smirks.

  Cute. Now I see a spark to little Sophie. “David Flynn.” See, I knew.

  Sophie walks into a back room and comes back with a file folder. “Okay. They’ve got everything chosen, so I’ll just need to measure you to make sure we get the sizes you need.”

  “Which tux did they pick? Please tell me it’s that one.” I point to the display of the camouflage tux.

  She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. I chuckle aloud knowing I’ve shocked her.

  “No, they’ve chosen from the Downton Abbey collection.”

  I groan, loudly. Fucking pussy. My brother let Jen pick some snooty British shit? “Well, wonderful,” I add sarcastically. “Which one of these is the suit?” I’m cringing already, and I haven’t even seen it yet.

  Sophie points to a tux prominently displayed near the door. It must be a popular choice to garner that spot. I walk over to see the suit close up, and I’ve gotta say it ain’t bad. Thank fuck. It’s navy and black. The jacket has a subtle pattern of black and dark blue plaid. The pants are black, and the vest is blue. It’s cut higher in the chest with four buttons instead of the usual three. It’s not bad at all. I suspect I’ll look great in that style. Yeah, I’m a little full of myself––nothing wrong with being confident is there?

  “Okay, what do we need to do to get this thing ordered?”

  “I need your name so I can write down your measurements on their order form.”

  “Henry.”

  Sophie’s head pops up from her worksheet, “Henry?” She blinks. “Hmm. Yeah, that suits you.”

  “You think? Everyone calls me Hank.”

  “Why? Henry is a very strong name. It’s Germanic for Ruler of the Home.”

  “Really? That’s cool. How do you know?”

  Sophie shrugs her shoulders. I continue, “I am the oldest in my family, and I’m usually pretty bossy.” I wink. Hopefully, she gets my little innuendo.

  Sophie doesn’t respond to my comment and changes the subject to the task-at-hand, “If you’ll stand up and take off your jacket we can get started.”

  She’s all business now as she reaches into a wooden box in the center of the table and pulls out a long tape. It’s one of those things tailors use to measure you. As she approaches me, she seems tentative.

  “Have you done this before?” I ask.

  “Of course," she says defensively.

  “Well, you seem a little nervous. Do I make you nervous?” I whisper to her.

  “No. It’s just that, well, you’re very tall. But, I’ve got this.”

  She walks over to the side near the entrance to the back room and pulls out a step stool. I’m surprised it doesn’t have her name stamped on it, like Sophie’s Step Stool. I chuckle at my little joke.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Her face is suddenly pink.

  “No, sweetheart.” What should I say? Think idiot. “I was thinking about my idiot brother and his Downton Abbey tuxes.” I hope she believes me.

  “Oh, okay.”

  She sets the stool down right in front of my feet. She sighs and steps up. Now the top of her head is lined up right with my chin. “Lift your arms straight out please.” I lift my arms. Taking a deep breath, little Sophie reaches around my chest, holding the tape with one hand as she attempts to grab the other side of the tape behind my back.

  I may have mentioned this earlier, but I’ll repeat it. I’m a big guy. No, I’m not fucking fat, asshole. I work out, a lot. I’m a cop, so I need to stay in shape. Not only that, I’m naturally broad. I’m not sure her little arms will make it around me. I can sense frustration. She’s trying not to touch me, but it’s not working.

  “Um, can you come a little closer to me?” she asks nervously.

  “Sure thing, sweetheart.” I know, probably a little too familiar but we’re so close we’re practically fucking right now. I step closer––so close that our chests are touching. I can feel her perky breasts against my abs. Nice. I can smell her hair too––Jasmine. Beautiful. Her hair looks so silky I want to run my fingers through it. Maybe grab some of her hair in the back and pull her in for a sweet little kiss. Jesus, I need to get a grip. She’s twenty-two for fuck's sake.

  Her face is turned to the side, and it’s pressed up against my chest. Her breathing is getting a little labored. I hope it’s me that’s making her breathless. Her quiet little grunting sounds are adorable. Holy hell. She’s giving me a woody.

  “Shit,” she whispers. “I’ve almost got it.”

  It’s then I hear a woman’s voice that makes my ears bleed. “Sophie! What on earth do you think you’re doing?” the woman screeches.

  Sophie’s head jerks up and pulls away from my chest abruptly as she turns toward the voice from hell. Her tiny hands are resting on my chest now. They look perfect there. I’d love to move my arms down and around my po
cket-sized Sophie to protect her from the evil that just walked into the room, but I resist.

  “Um, I’m measuring this customer for a tuxedo, Ari.”

  Duh. What did it look like she was doing?

  “Well… Sophie,” the woman, says Sophie’s name like she’s an idiot child. The woman, Ari, smiles at me with a fake smile that makes my skin crawl. “You know you’re not supposed to be over here. You need to stay over in bridal.” She says pointing a red talon toward the wedding dress area. “How many times do we need to tell you, men don’t want you to touch, I mean, measure them.”

  What the fuck? Is there something wrong with Sophie? I look at her then at the bitch that’s chastising her. Tall, too fucking skinny, blonde, with fake everything. Typical. She got one look and wanted me for herself––I know the type.

  Before I know it Sophie is down from her stool, she’s placed it near the back door, and she’s rushing back to her bridal area. What the hell just happened?

  “I’m so sorry about her. Sophie has no business dealing with the men, er tuxedos,” she whispers like we’re friends, “We’ve had complaints…”

  I highly doubt that, but I remain silent.

  “Now. Where were we?” She moves over to the order form that Sophie was using before, “Your name?”

  “Henry,” I say with pride. Sophie made me feel like it was a great name. No reason not to use it.

  I hear the blonde, Ari, snort out a laugh. “Henry? Really? You do not look like a Henry. That’s such an old man’s name.”

  As it happens, it was my grandfather’s name. I scoff at her comment. “It means Ruler of the House,” I say defensively.

  “You’re too gorgeous to have that name. You should be Dirk or Mitch, not Henry,” she giggles.

  “I’ll be sure to tell my mother she fucked up,” I sigh. “Can we move this along, I need to get back to work?”

  “Let me get you measured.” She grabs the measuring tape that Sophie left on the table and wraps her arms around me. Ugh. “You know,” she coos, “I think I measured the other groomsmen in from this wedding. Any relation to you?”