Off-Limits for You

  FATED TO LOVE YOU

  Lindsey Hart

  CONTENTS

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  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

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  COPYRIGHT

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the publisher. While all attempts and efforts have been made to verify the information held within this publication, neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, omissions, or opposing interpretations of the content herein. The book is for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed are those of the author alone and should not be taken as expert instruction or commands.

  Copyright © Passion House Publishing Ltd 2021

  All rights reserved.

  Edits by Charmaine Tan.

  Cover Stock Image by Wander Aguiar Photography LLC

  Cover design by Cosmic Letterz.

  Need to get in touch with the author?

  Email: team@lindseyhartromance.com

  Facebook: facebook.com/groups/lindseyhartromance

  CHAPTER 1

  Elodie

  We’re getting to that part. You know, the good part as far as weddings go. The part everyone wakes up for, and the one bit of the ceremony that isn’t a snooze fest. The in sickness and in health part. It’s only a few minutes away now, and after that, I’ll be in for a lifetime of marital shit. In the department of I do, I’m very solidly in the I don’t. As in, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life married to a man I don’t love.

  Where is he? Where the hell is he?

  He promised. If there’s one person I trust in the world more than Jeffers—okay, Jeffers is a dog, not a person—it’s Taylen. He’s a practical joker with a sharp, acerbic wit, and he’s my childhood best friend. He’s still my best friend. We tell people that we met in a support group for people who have meddling, eccentric grannies. He has an important role to play in my wedding ceremony today, so he better be freaking here.

  Fuck my life with a dill pickle.

  I’m starting to sweat, and I’m most definitely perspiring onto this ridiculous dress, which has ruffles and bows. It’s a monstrosity of eighties proportions. Mom picked it out. My dad picked the groom, so I guess that gave her dibs on the wedding dress. They either had it all figured out, or they rock paper scissored for it. Maybe they drew straws.

  Where the H-E-L-L is Taylen?

  We’re in a church, and right now, the pastor with the shiny bald head in the white robe is getting to the part that I am in serious need of being rescued from. No matter what I do—pass out, puke, or have my legs turn into actual sludge—I know I won’t be able to save myself. This wedding will go on even if I sprout nine additional heads or pull a flaming sword out of my ass. If the pastor goes any further, I’m going to end up as Mrs. Henry Martin Johnathan Chadwick Horton Peterson Jr.

  Yes. As if it was necessary to stick a Jr. to the back of such an atrociously long name.

  I’ll be Mrs. Henry Martin Johnathan Chadwick Horton Peterson Jr. for life. I’ll be a woman with approximately six hundred names. I’m clearly not so good with numbers, so how did I become a teacher, you might ask? Well, I’m good with what counts when it counts, and right now, standing here at someone else’s idea of a fairy tale wedding, minutes away from being forced to promise my life to a man I hardly even know, and the parts I do know, I don’t like, it’s not a good moment. So how did I get myself into this situation?

  The long and short of it is that my parents are sinfully rich, and in the world of rich and not-so-famous people, I guess fathers like to choose husbands for their daughters. Or at least my dad did. He did give me a fair warning, though. He told me if I wasn’t married to some equally rich guy—handsome, rising star, old money, already a star, or someone with lots of new money even if it isn’t as good as old money but would still pass, and did I mention rich—by the time I was thirty, he was going to choose for me. Naively, I didn’t believe him.

  That is until Henry Martin Johnathan Chadwick Horton Peterson Jr. showed up at dinner one night. The rest is, as they say, history. It’s been three years, but at least my parents put up with a longer engagement so we wouldn’t be complete strangers, although we technically still are. I think in the past three years since Henry got down on one knee at the very first dinner where I met him, we might have been in the same room all of three times, and usually only for a few minutes. It’s about all we can stand being in each other’s company.

  Every single time I saw Henry, he wore a polo shirt and white pants. I half expected him to show up today wearing the same, but no. He came in a white tux. My parents took care of all the details for the wedding, so my bridesmaids are also women I barely know. I would never have wanted my real friends to be a part of this sham of a wedding anyway. Plus, I had plans all along to ditch it. Or is it trash and crash it? Well, whatever it is, I don’t care since I have no plans whatsoever of marrying Henry.

  The pastor then turns to me and gives me the are you ready to promise your life away look. Henry’s already done his part.

  This stupid dress is so soaked with sweat that it feels like it weighs a hundred freaking pounds. I think I might throw up. I’m also sure I might have to do this myself, even though I have no idea how I’m going to pull it off. Frockstickle. How will I get away without a getaway car? All my shit is with Taylen—my dog, my escape bag, my wallet, and a pouch of all the cash I could scrape together without raising my parents’ suspicions since they still have my finances on a tight leash.

  Obviously. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to make demands of me, like that I marry a polo shirt and white pants wearing, old money, phony smiling douchebag I barely know. My dad expects the same thing from me that my mom gave him. She was a former beauty queen raised by parents from old money, and she happily went into a marriage that was basically arranged, dutifully had two children, and never said no to her husband on any matter whatsoever. My mom is placid, sweet, biddable, and still a size two. She’s naturally blonde with hardly any grays—she announces this nearly every day like it’s something I should thank her for passing along—she plays tennis, goes to dinners with my dad when it’s required, belongs to two country clubs, swims every morning in the backyard pool from five to six, can prepare a gourmet meal at the drop of a hat, and has impeccable taste in everything fashion, though apparently not when it comes to this wedding dress. She is also charitable, although doing charity work and being charitable might be two different things, and she was the model mom for my brother and me as we grew up, where she did all things model mothers do.

  Anyway, where was I? Right.

  Where the ever-loving fuck is Taylen?

  I start to panic—meltdown style—when I get the faintest whiff of pungent smoke. Two seconds later, the fire alarm goes off, blaring through the place. Everyone remains frozen in the pews, where there are three rows and two aisles in between. It’s almost comical for me to be standing at the front, watching everyone’s heads swivel back and forth like a bunch of shocked owls.

  Oh, it’s on. It’s so bloody on.

  I don’t miss my cue. Or rather, I’m preparing to hightail the hell out of there when Henry’s arm shoots out, catching me smack in the middle of my chest as I’ve angled myself such that I’m facing the stunned crowd. No one has moved an inch except Henry, who screams the highest, most teeth-clenching, skin-shriveling, bone-melting scream I’ve ever heard before shoving me.

  Literally, he shoves me. Then he grabs my arm and whirls me around in front of him. “I don’t want to die!” he screams. “Take her instead! Her first!”

  What the hell is up with him? It’s just a fire alarm.

  So much for my noble white knight of a husband that was never to be.

  Since Henry’s basically given me a clear path while he’s cowering behind me, and now that everyone is watching him and his shameful display of very cowardly public indecency, I snatch up the skirts of the horrible monstrosity I’ve been crammed into, hitch them up daringly high, and bolt down the thankfully still clear aisle.

  My grandmother is sitting in the front row, and as I go tearing past with my blonde ringlets and a twenty-foot freaking veil fluttering behind me, she screeches at me in a way that only she would dare. She only wears haute couture, which today means a bright red dress with hoops sticking out at least two feet around her waist, such that she’s barely in the pew she’s suppos ed to be seated in. She’s also wearing a hat that stands about two feet off her head, and it is decorated with scarlet feathers that wave in the air as she turns her head to yell after me.

  “Get back here, you little missy! I shaved my legs for this!”

  I let out a gleeful whoop as I clear the doors and burst into the back of the church. The double doors are only a few feet away, and the most beautiful sight awaits me there. Taylen Cromwell. My dark-haired, gray-eyed, six-foot-four, muscled god of a partner-in-crime best friend, who no, I’ve never thought was attractive because we don’t do that. I know he’s handsome, lickable, and sexy, but for me, it would be like ruining something beautiful by wanting it. If I licked him, I’m sure he would taste like wet paint. He might be sexy, but he’s so much more than that to me, so it has drowned out any physical effect he might have on me.

  We made a pact long ago that we wouldn’t do the whole stupid falling in love with each other thing and ruin our friendship, so there you have it.

  Taylen is firmly on the list of people I don’t bang. My list is simple. Just enemies and friends, which means people have to be in neutral territory before they become bangable.

  “What took you so long?” I huff as I race to the doors. “I almost had to marry the bastard!”

  Taylen’s grin is like ink spreading across creamy white paper. It’s kind of fascinating and totally shit-eating on an otherwise perfectly composed face. “I’m sure you would have thought of something.”

  “Think of this.” I pull up my middle finger and wave it in his face.

  He laughs and lets the church doors bang shut behind us. Miracle of all miracles, his big black, sleek, shiny truck is sitting parked at the curb, and Jeffers’ big slobbery mastiff head is hanging out the back window, trailing saliva all down the side of the truck. My bags, on the other hand, are all packed and in the back. Yup, that’s right. I’m ditching my own wedding ceremony, and technically, the reception too—the whole damn wedding shebang. I’m going out there on my own since I have my degree and money scraped together. I’m bugging out hard. I even left my phone back in the church’s dressing room on purpose, and last night, I cut up all my credit cards. My parents will have no way to track me until I choose to call them.

  I let out a joyous bellow as I rip the veil from my hair and hurtle into the passenger seat. Unfortunately, it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be to get in with this stupid dress on. Taylen has to ram me from behind—when I say that, I mean my ass and all the layers of the dress—before he can shut the door. I look like a car wash just exploded inside the truck with suds everywhere, except the suds are freaking lace, crinoline, satin, and crap.

  Running around the front, Taylen hops into the driver’s seat and guns the truck to life. The thing has a beefy exhaust on the back, and it’s lifted too, plus he’s done some other under the hood stuff, so when he stomps on the accelerator, we shoot forward somewhere close to the speed of light.

  “What took you so long?” I ask again, more calmly this time. We’re now a few blocks away, and I can finally start to contain the wild heartbeat that is kicking like a bronco at the underside of my ribs.

  “I had to make a stop.”

  “A stop?” I ask incredulously. “You almost didn’t get there in time!”

  “But I did. And I started the very contained fire in the trash can and pulled the fire alarm, just like you requested. Right. On. Time. I would never have been late, and I would never have let you marry that asshole.”

  I sigh hard, which makes absolutely no difference with the number of frills and ruffles I have going on. I sink a little further in the seat. “So, what was the detour?”

  Taylen winks at me, and his handsome, carved face with his square jaw, high cheekbones, solid brow, and aristocratic nose, which he hates, by the way, because he thinks it’s too pretty and perfect—his nose, not the rest of him—lights up with mischief.

  “Look in the back.”

  I whip around at his devious tone, scared into thinking he might have really done it this time, done something we can’t undo. That perhaps he’s gone off the deep end of practical jokes. But all I see back there are my bags and his, and also Jeffers, who is doing one heck of an admirable job sliming up the leather seats. I love his jowls, and I don’t care how much he drools. Jeffers is my massive baby, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly unless the fly tried to hurt me. In which case, he’d fuck the fly shit up. But only if I asked him to.

  Suddenly, Taylen slams on the brakes, and I nearly bash my head into the dash. Belatedly, I realize I don’t have my seatbelt on yet, but how I’d ever get it on around this dress, I have no idea. Taylen jumps out, leaves his door hanging open, grabs something out of the truck box, then comes back to the driver’s side door. Holding a giant, one-layer cake in one hand, he takes a photo of me gaping and himself grinning like a fool, with the cake featuring prominently in the foreground.

  Holy. Shit.

  Taylen went to the hall where the reception was going to take place and stole the cake.

  “I have all four tiers of your wedding cake in here. Epic, hey?” he asks from outside the truck.

  “Leave it there!” I command.

  He shrugs and does as I ask, setting it down on the sidewalk. We’re not in a bustling part of the city since the church was a ritzy one set in a neighborhood with primarily luxurious houses.

  I put up a hand to stifle the giggles, but they pour out of me anyway. Taylen took out all four tiers of the wedding cake from the truck, arranged them right there on the curb, and then took another photo with the whole thing.

  “Taylen, we have to go!” We wouldn’t want my granny, parents, or—god forbid—Henry to catch up with us if they were looking for me.

  He jumps back in the truck, leaving the four-tier cake right there on the curb, and soon, we’re roaring off down the street again. This time, I have the seatbelt jammed on over the stupid pile of pouf caging my body in. I’m sure this dress could act as an actual airbag if we were in an accident, but I don’t really want to test that theory.

  “You stole it,” I gasp between gales of laughter.

  “That’s right. Today, I stole all the cakes!”

  “Technically, it’s just one. One extremely tall one with four layers, or rather, four tiers. Whatever.”

  “That’s right. Whatever. Because this is a grand ass cake heist. Were you in any doubt?”

  “I thought you and your siblings and cousins just licked cakes?”

  The Cromwell kids have a tradition. Their granny always brings a cake to every family event, and the kids, ever since they were little, will try and sneak into wherever the cake is hidden and lick it. Or put their fingers in it and taste it. It has gotten a little bit out of control over the years, and now, it’s like a challenge. Their granny will hide the cake, and they’ll try to find it and lick it in the least obvious spot to see if anyone can find it.

  Regardless, this takes things up a notch.

  “I have to send that photo to Ash and Kirian. And to Toren and Leandra.”

  I grab his phone when he passes it over. Pulling up the ever-long group text, I send the photo with a brilliant caption, saying, I’ve outshart myself. I mean outdid myself. Shart…I mean, shoot. Sharts not included.

  Once I hit send, I pass his phone back, barely able to stifle a devious grin of my own. The shart thing is an inside joke. It dates back to when Taylen was younger and had a bit of an accident because he was nervous. I mean, things happen when a person is nervous. Almost immediately, his phone starts blowing up, but since he’s driving, he can’t look.

  God, I love my best friend, but this one is payback for making me sweat through half of those rancid vows back at the church before he saved my bacon at the very last possible second. All because he had to steal the stupid cake to prove a bloody point.

  CHAPTER 2

  Taylen

  When we pull over for gas at some tiny little station about an hour outside New Orleans, I check my phone. I’ve heard it constantly buzzing since Elodie sent the text about the cake. I can’t wait to read what my twin, Toren, sister, Leandra, and cousins, Ash and Kirian, think about the biggest lick heist of all time. Oh, yeah, the cake was most definitely not just stolen. I also licked it thoroughly. On. Every. Tier.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16