Dear Soldier: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Read online

  Contents

  Dear Soldier

  NEWSLETTER

  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

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  Collaborations

  About the Author

  Dear Soldier

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 254

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  Dear Soldier

  When I write a letter to a soldier as part of a charity program, I’m not supposed to leave my address. It’s supposed to be anonymous.

  But I’ve spent my life being nervous, never acting on impulse. Maybe it’s fate or stupidity or just plain madness that makes me put not just my name, but my address too.

  So what?

  The handsome, rugged Ex-Navy SEAL Zack Stone isn’t going to contact me, I tell myself.

  He’s forty-two years old, with steel in his hair and heaving muscles. He looks like a predator in the photograph, alpha in the extreme, and I just know he gets way more attractive women than me.

  I’m a curvy twenty year old virgin, a wannabe artist who’s never even kissed a man.

  But then, unbelievably, Zack Stone turns up at my apartment… just in time to stop my long-time stalker, from acting on his perverted desires.

  Zack says I need to stay with him for safety. “I can’t let anything happen to you,” he growls, with a possessive note in his voice.

  I think he’s just being nice, but then he claims me in the most dominant way a man can.

  He tells me I belong to him. With jealous fury, he tells me if another man so much as tries to touch me, he’ll kill them.

  Maybe I should be scared of this intense and dreamy soldier, but the only part of this that scares me is the thought of my stalker taking away what we’re building before it has a chance to begin.

  And when the outside forces get involved, I know we’re going to have to fight like hell to keep what we have.

  *Dear Soldier is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  Chapter One

  Zoey

  There are many downsides to being a waitress at The Greasy Spoon, and not just how unimaginative its name is. My boss, Clive, seems to think I’m on call every day of the week, even on my days off, many of the customers are rude and talk down to me, but most of all it’s the fact I have to buy my own plain white T-shirts if mine get stained… and never mind that the stain was caused by Clive spilling some ketchup on me.

  I sigh as I walk under the bright lights of the shopping center, my shoes click-clicking and seeming to echo all around me.

  I find myself cringing with each noise they make, as though the passersby are going to stop and spin on me, aiming accusatory fingers with fierce glints in their eyes.

  “How dare you march through here like a herd of stampeding elephants?” I imagine them saying. “Just who do you think you are?”

  I stare at the floor as I walk, annoyed at myself for letting my self-consciousness flurry so effortlessly into my behavior. But this is nothing new. I start the day by telling myself, firmly, I won’t behave so anxiously, so obviously uncomfortable.

  But shyness will laugh at my efforts the moment I try as if it’s freaking sentient or something.

  I head toward the Goodwill that sits at the very end of the shopping center, hoping they have some plain white T-shirts in my size. I don’t like to think about that.

  My size.

  I’m not exactly what you’d call swimsuit ready.

  Again, there it is, that niggling voice, that you’re-not-good-enough voice.

  I hate it.

  I would’ve had enough to buy some new T-shirts if I hadn’t splurged on art supplies at the start of the month, but submerging myself in my work is the only way I can blot the nasty thoughts from my mind.

  The thoughts come night and day, slithering into my daydreams as well as my nightmares.

  It’s your fault, a voice hisses, a tangled cross between Mom and Dad, their memories fragmented and cruel as the voice ricochets through me. You could’ve saved us.

  I shake my head as I walk past the ice cream shop, pushing the internal monologue to a deep and ignored part of me. I’ve become skilled at dancing away from the guilt, the ever-present gnawing accusations that flurry into me like a whirlwind of pain.

  “Excuse me?” a lady calls out.

  I keep walking, certain she’s talking to someone else.

  “Miss?”

  She strides out in front of me, a tall woman with hair cut into a short pixie bob, her features sharp as she stares down at me with what looks like a kind smile.

  But he had a kind smile.

  Jerry.

  And look where that led.

  “Yes, hello?” I say.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was wondering if you’d like to do a good deed today?”

  My defenses prick at once. I did a good deed a few years ago, and it led to a whole saga of pain and paranoia, and rage. But I can’t keep letting myself live under the shadow of Jerry, of his stalking, of his twisted obsession. Can I?

  “What sort of good deed?”

  She gestures to a booth on my left. I was so focused on staring at my feet – my regular state when I’m out in public – I didn’t even spot it. It’s a big airy space with placards on the walls showing various war scenes.

  Soldiers hang out the side of helicopters. A group of them wrap their arms around each other and grin at the camera. A dusty road shows a few of them silhouetted by the sunlight.

  “We’re running an event today,” the lady goes on. “We’re asking members of the public to write uplifting letters to members of our armed services. It doesn’t have to be long. A few lines will suffice. Just something to let them know we’re grateful for their service.”

  Something stirs in me, an ember telling me that humanity isn’t as bad as I sometimes allo
w myself to believe.

  “Oh? That sounds nice.”

  “So you’re interested?”

  “I’m not much of a writer,” I tell her.

  Give me a canvas and a paintbrush, or even a notepad and a sketching pencil, and I’d be much better equipped. But somehow I don’t think they’re going to let me freestyle this.

  “I’m Sara.” The lady offers me her hand. “Do you mind if I ask your name?”

  “Zoey,” I tell her, as we shake hands.

  I’m glad when she doesn’t mention how sweaty I’ve become. I can’t really help it. Put me in any social situation and I start to blush, sweat, and act like nervous prey, as though there’s a joker living inside of me who wants to see me suffer.

  “Come on, Zoey.” She nods toward the stand. “It might be fun.”

  “I’m not sure what I can say that will make their situation any better.”

  “These are for veterans if that helps. Men and women who have already served.”

  “Oh.”

  “So…” She drums a manicured hand against her leg, her eyes flitting to more passersby as though she’s wondering if she’s wasting her time with me. “Are you interested?”

  Part of me wants to tell her no – I have no clue what to write – but that would be allowing my nervousness to rule me again. I start every day specifically saying I won’t do that, and even if I fail a lot of the time, I refuse to stop trying.

  “Okay.” I let out a long breath, far heavier than the situation warrants, probably. “Let’s do this.”

  Her grin spreads widely. “Wonderful. Follow me.”

  I walk beside her into the booth, glancing at the photographs on the walls as I pass. There are small tables laid out here and there. One elderly man hunches over one with a pen in his hand, scrawling at a piece of paper. I imagine he served once upon a time and he wants to show his appreciation to his fellow troops, and my chest grows hot and love-filled for a blistering moment.

  See, I tell the cynic inside of me. Not everybody is out to cause harm.

  Sara walks us over to a table set in the corner.

  There’s a box laid out on it with a big question mark on the front.

  “So you reach in here for an envelope to find out who you’re writing a letter to.” She gestures to the box. “There’s a photo of the veteran and a little biographical information, to help you decide what to write. Once you’re done, you post it in the box outside and go on your way.”

  “That sounds… simple,” I say with a short laugh.

  The laughter just comes out, all jagged and strange-sounding. I regret it already.

  I also regret the regret, because it means I’m failing at living in the moment.

  A self-help podcast I listened to recently said that one of the ways to overcome nervousness is to look out instead of in, to stop analyzing my own behavior.

  I try, but it’s freaking difficult when I’ve lived so long as the shy girl trying my best to be invisible.

  “Exactly.” Sara beams. “Are you ready?”

  I reach into the box and root around and then pull out an envelope.

  “Great.” Sara nods over to an empty table, where a pen is already waiting for me. “The only thing we ask is that you don’t leave your address. Otherwise, you can write whatever you want.”

  “Do you check them?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “We’ve done this event fifty-seven times all over the country, and so far we haven’t received one complaint about the letters our veterans have received.”

  “I guess people can be pretty nice sometimes, huh?”

  “Most times, in my experience.”

  I wander over to the table and sit down, laying my envelope flat and running my hand along it.

  I wonder who it is, where he – or she – served.

  Finally, I open the envelope and pull out the photograph.

  A gasp tries to explode out of me as I study him, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest, my whole body tingling as though a fire has started inside of me.

  Zack Stone, retired Navy SEAL, 42 years old, served five tours, owns and operates self-defense gyms in…

  Here, in my city, where I live.

  But it’s not the fact we live in the same place that sends flurrying compulsion all through my body.

  It’s him.

  The photo is taken from the waist up, showing Zack in a military uniform. He’s a huge man, his shoulders wide, his muscles seeming like they could erupt from his jacket even in the still image. His hair is steel, iron, metal, silver, making way for his searing ice-blue eyes. He stares at the camera as though he’s filled with rage and desire at the same time.

  The envelope comes with a smaller envelope inside, big enough to hold a short letter, with Zack’s name on the front. I guess they collect them all at the end of the day and then send them on.

  I tap my pen against the table, staring at his photo as my thighs start to whir with sensations I never let myself feel.

  There was a time when I allowed my fantasies to spiral, but that ended in a hailstorm one summer when Jerry came into my life and changed everything.

  I sit and think for a long time, wondering what I could say to this man, to this stranger who has ignited such sudden need inside of me.

  Is it just sexual?

  Or is there something else here?

  I find myself wanting to be held by him, to feel those thick arms wrapped around me, hugging me close.

  Okay…

  I need to write something.

  I can’t just sit here like a weirdo all day, plus I need to get a new T-shirt in time for my shift at the diner.

  Leaning forward, my thoughts swirling with a thousand things, I begin to write.

  Once I start, I find it difficult to stop, the pen moving frantically across the page the same way my paintbrush often does when I’m lost in the madness of creativity. I write until I’ve filled the page and then sit back, breathless, wondering if I should do it…

  They said not to.

  But I can’t resist the urge.

  I’ve not made any friends since I left high school. I live on my own in a crummy one bedroom apartment. I don’t have a mom or dad anymore.

  I’m tired of being alone.

  It’s not like he’ll contact me anyway.

  Screw it.

  I’ll do it.

  I leave my address at the bottom, and then quickly put the letter in the envelope before Sara can see what I’ve done.

  Chapter Two

  Zack

  I let out a growl as I finish the last set, pushing the bar from my chest up to the brackets.

  But fuck it. I might as well do a few more.

  Sweat pours down my shirtless body as I pump the bar, over and over and over, my chest roaring at me to stop, my body screaming at me to take a rest. But it’s hard to rest when I’ve got demons sprinting around my mind, always taunting, always promising to drag me down into the deep where I’ll never be able to climb out.

  I snarl as I’m finally done, sitting up and resting my elbows on my knees.

  Morning sunlight filters through my floor to ceiling windows, lighting up my open-plan apartment, making the sleek metal surfaces of the kitchen glimmer on the other side of the cavernous room.

  I like the open-plan look, everything laid out. It reminds me of the barracks I stayed in on my first tour, back when I was fresh-faced and naive and I didn’t realize that every single one of my friends could die in front of me.

  Be killed like fucking dogs.

  I grit my teeth and stand, stalking across the room to pour myself a large glass of water.

  My workouts normally calm me down, which is why I start every day with a grueling one even if I’m going to be coaching at the gyms later in the day. I don’t care if my body aches so much it feels like it’s going to crumble.

  Anything is better than remembering.

  But this morning the letter sitting on my kitchen counter is distracti
ng me. Part of me wants to snatch it open and read it, get it over with, but another part wants to toss it right in the trash.

  I didn’t even remember signing up for that veteran’s charity thing until the letter arrived yesterday afternoon. Then it hit me. A lady came by the gym to see me personally, and there were a bunch of the kids watching. I’m always telling them to remember their manners, so I couldn’t exactly tell her to go fuck herself like I wanted.

  I don’t want to remember my tours, my service, any of it.

  My gyms… turning a profit, helping my students, staying focused. That’s all that matters to me now.

  But there’s something about the letter, making my stomach tight, making my whole body grow hot.

  I wonder if it’s the memories crackling through me, the gunfire and the hellfire and the smoke and the pain and the pride and the service, a job well done.

  Yeah, a job fucking well done.

  Until it wasn’t. Until it all came crashing down.

  “Fuck it,” I snarl, grabbing the letter and tearing it open.

  I might as well get it over with.

  I can tell right away a woman wrote this. There’s something feminine about the handwriting, and I quickly glance at the end just to be sure.

  Yep.

  Zoey Baker.

  And hang on…

  Yeah, she’s left her address, a rundown apartment building on the other side of the city. Why the hell did she do that?