Sacred

By Donya Lynne

A wrong turn brings two broken hearts together for one unforgettable weekend.

After the inability to have children ended her marriage eight years ago, Journey Monroe has turned her focus toward running her business. Marriage and children are the last things on her mind.

Fate has other plans.

After getting lost in a freak snowstorm, Journey takes a wrong turn and skids into a ditch. Mysterious mountain man “Paul” rescues her, patches up the bump on her head, and offers to let her stay with him until the storm passes and he can get her car back on the road.

Paul has experienced his own share of tragedy, losing his wife to a drunk driving accident several years ago. The loss has left him cold, lonely, and abrasive. But as Journey’s presence warms his home—and his heart—he realizes how much he’s missed a woman’s company.

Before the weekend is over, Journey and Paul will become everything the other needs. But will they recognize what they’ve found with each other in time to let fate finish the job, or will they realize only too late that Journey’s wrong turn was no accident?

Dr. O returns with a Forbidden Flowers story that will grab your heart and squeeze.

Books in the Forbidden Flowers Series
Sushi
Meet Me at Midnight
Jaw Breaker
Sacred
Noise
Hitting the Spot
Show and Tell
Sway
Rough Ride

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donya Lynne
• Release date: Aug 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781938991523

Donya Lynne

Donya Lynne is the bestselling author of the award winning All the King's Men and Strong Karma Series and a member of Romance Writers of America. Making her home in a wooded suburb north of Indianapolis with her husband, Donya has lived in Indiana most of her life and knew at a young age she was destined to be a writer. She started writing poetry in grade school and won her first short story contest in fourth grade. In junior high, she began writing romantic stories for her friends, and by her sophomore year, she’d been dubbed Most Likely to Become a Romance Novelist. In 2012, she fulfilled her dream by publishing her first two novels and a novella. Her work has earned her two IPPYs, five eLit Awards, a USA Today Recommended Read, and numerous accolades, including two Smashwords bestsellers. When she’s not writing, she can be found cheering on the Indianapolis Colts or doing her cats’ bidding.

Book preview

1

Dr. O’s Office . . .

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Some people claim that life is what you make it. They believe that if you work hard and do good deeds, you’ll reap the rewards.

Others believe life is a game of fate or chance. That it doesn’t matter what you do. If the universe feels like throwing a bag of shit at you, you have to take the hit square on the chin and find a way to deal with the smell, then hope one day the universe throws you a stroke of good fortune to make up for it.

Then you have people like Journey Monroe.

Journey is what some people might call woo-woo. She owns her own spa and wellness center in Midtown Manhattan, called Sunflower Health and Wellness. She meditates every morning, does yoga four times a week, has her chakras aligned once a month, sets daily intentions, thinks that finding success is less about hard work and more about doing what you love, is an energy healer—Reiki practitioner, she says when I ask about it—and finds the silver lining in every stroke of bad luck.

Case in point: she’s five months pregnant.

How is that a silver lining? And how does bad luck factor in? I don’t know yet, but I can’t wait to find out. All I know is that she included that information on the questionnaire she filled out when she applied to be a research subject for my book, so it must be important.

I’d also like answers to a few other open-ended doozies she wrote on her questionnaire. Such as why she can’t find the baby’s father, why she doesn’t even know his name, and what she means when she says taking a wrong turn was the best thing that ever happened to her.

In other words, she provided just enough information to pique my curiosity, but not enough to sate it. And with a mountain of questionnaires to sift through—I swear every woman in New York wants to tell me about the best sex they’ve ever had—one that stands out like a tree in the middle of the ocean demands an interview.

Which is why she’s sitting in the seat across from mine in my Manhattan office, her pale-blue tunic protruding over her pronounced baby bump, and her compelling questionnaire resting on top of my yellow legal pad in my lap.

In addition to her long, flowing blouse, she’s wearing loose-fitting baby blue pants that drape over her legs like melting butter. They look like the most comfortable pants on the planet, both casual and stylish. She could be taking a yoga class or attending a cocktail party and would still be dressed for the occasion.

But as lovely as her outfit is, it’s her hair that makes me green with envy. Journey has long, naturally curly blond hair that falls over her shoulders in coiled, whimsical spirals that remind me of Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex in the City, just not quite as messy. It’s the kind of hair every woman wants. The kind of hair that never goes out of style.

But not even her gorgeous blond hair can distract my naturally inquisitive mind from its need to find answers to all the cliffhangers I highlighted in yellow on her questionnaire.

So, I say, tearing my gaze from her locks, I’m dying to dig into your story.

She laughs, and the sound is like the rest of her: airy, bright, and a little bit dreamy. I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I was a little bit vague in my answers.

Being vague worked. It got you here.

Yes, well, mine is an unusual story, I suppose.

What an understatement.

I press the tip of my index finger beneath one of the highlighted sections on her form. What do you mean when you say that the father of your baby is a ‘mountain man’ you met after you got stranded in a snowstorm, and now you can’t find him?

Because, yes, it’s perfectly normal for a woman to lose track of the man who helped her make a baby.

Her face flushes deep crimson as she gives a little shake of her head, as if even she can’t fully fathom how she got herself in this condition.

It’s complicated, she says.

I lift her questionnaire. Given what you wrote on here, I’d say ‘complicated’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

She laughs again. I guess that does read like a really bad romance, huh?

"Actually, it reads like a really good romance, because if this were a book, I wouldn’t be able to stop reading until I reached the end."

More laughter, from both of us this time, then she tucks a wayward curl behind her ear and sobers. I don’t even know how the story ends yet.

I know she’s desperate to find her mountain man, but that’s not pertinent to my research.

I don’t need to know how it ends, Miss Monroe. At least, not today. I offer her a compassionate smile. I do hope you find him, though, and if there’s anything I can do to help, I will. But all I need today is the story about how this man gave you the best sex of your life and why you feel that way. That’s why we’re here.

She looks at her swollen belly before caressing it with long, graceful fingers. This is why, she says meaningfully. This is why it was the best sex of my life.

I’m not sure I understand what she’s trying to say just yet, but it’s obvious Journey loves this baby more than anything in the world. Given the way her palm rests lovingly and protectively against her stomach, she would undoubtedly give her life for her child. The fact that she can’t find the father seems to be merely a minor inconvenience, not an earth-shattering tragedy. Clearly, the only thing that matters is bringing this baby safely into the world.

What do you mean? I ask, pen poised over my legal pad.

She places her other hand over the first like she’s guarding the tiny, precious life growing inside her. I was told I couldn’t have children. She looks up, and her eyes shimmer with tears. I was married eight years ago. Did I mention that? She gestures toward her questionnaire. I can’t remember.

I know for a fact that she didn’t include any details about an ex-husband, but I still give her form a once-over, mostly to allow myself to catch up to the bomb she just dropped about not being able to have children. Because, obviously, she can.

Uh, no, you didn’t, I say a moment later. I set the form back on my lap and look up at her for more of an explanation, because she wouldn’t have brought it up if she didn’t plan on talking about it.

I couldn’t get pregnant, she says quietly. "My ex-husband and I tried and tried, but I couldn’t conceive. And with every disappointing pregnancy test, the tension in our marriage grew thicker and heavier. He couldn’t grasp what was wrong with me that I couldn’t give him a child, and I couldn’t deal with the guilt of failing him every month. Not even daily affirmations and meditation helped.

"We began arguing over every little thing and stopped