Innocent 1: Simone: The League of Worldly Wise Innocents, #1

By L. A. Zoe

Simone plans to spend her postgraduation summer painting, taking care of her great-aunt, and working in an art gallery -- not mud wrestling and giving her first time to the yard boy.

In this new adult contemporary romance with sex, of innocence lost, Simone discovers the real meaning of high class and how her feelings can sweep her away.

The glamorous artist or the down to earth hunk who makes a living cutting grass?

Four-year college degree in hand, Simone goes to stay with her great-aunt. Free room and board in exchange for taking care of the elderly lady while she's sick. Simone can paint in the day, work at the local art gallery in the evenings. She escapes her mother and stepfather.

While she figures out how to advance into the world of fine art, meeting and marrying a wealthy, successful artist.

And saving her first time innocence for him.

She soon meets Brett. True, his paintings look . . . odd -- downright horrific. Simone accompanies him to his friend's parties. Lots of weirdos, but what can go wrong?

Terry Leonard wants to expand his lawn care business. He and his buddy Cal can cut only so many yards every day. He understands the real money is in adding many more services. Calling himself a landscaper. Buying more equipment. Hiring more laborers.

His best lawn cutting customer, Mrs. Garrett -- Simone's great-aunt -- hires him to renovate his entire yard. His biggest job. His hope for cash to expand, and referrals from Mrs. Garrett's friends.

Simone meets Terry when his lawn mowers raise dust that ruins her painting.

Yet, she doesn't fail to notice his big, outdoor-work hardened muscles. Or his handsome -- nearly cute -- face.

Terry falls for his customer's great-niece right away, but understands a high class woman doesn't want a man who cuts grass.

Worse, Terry's relationship history consists of a long series of one-night stands. He enjoys sampling every woman, but never goes back for seconds.

Not even with his father's fiance.

His overpowering attraction for Simone disturbs him when he realizes he wants her for life. But can that feeling survive their first sexual encounter?

Besides, she wouldn't give up her innocence to the son of a rich lawyer, so why should she let a mere lawn boy possess her?

A new adult contemporary romance of two people in their early 20s learning about the world, themselves, and each other. And what adult love means for them.

3 Flames

64,000 words

Therefore, scroll up and download Innocent 1: Simone now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Conquers All Press
• Release date: Sep 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516316533

Book preview

Chapter One

At Aunt Wilma’s House

The box elder tree grew tall and lush, even in the early morning sunlight casting a large shadow over the shaggy grass.

In her excitement, Simone Beverly stood up to mix the acrylic paints to capture the mottled brown-gray of the tree trunks beneath the green leaves. She sat back down on her small, folding canvas stool to steady her hand when she applied brush to paper.

As she worked, Simone bobbed up and down in front of the easel. Mixing, painting, studying the tree, up and down. Standing up, sitting on the thick woven cloth.

Perfect. She would express the tree’s true spirit.

The paints smelled so refreshing, so alive, they exhilarated her spirit. Nothing could be more fun than using them to capture on canvas the spiritual essence of the world.

Simone wore simple cotton, faded blue gym shorts and a size-too-large I Heart Nowhere t-shirt. Elaborately woven leather sandals protected her bare feet from the clumps of grass and dirt. She kept her long auburn hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail, out of and away from the paint.

Holding the brush in one hand, she wiped her forehead with her forearm, hoping she wasn’t smearing paint over her face. Even this early, even with just a minimum of clothes on, the heat made her sweat.

Before long the sweltering air, saturated with the humidity of an African jungle, would drive her inside her great-aunt’s air conditioned house. That compressor, along with the compressors of the central air conditioners for every house in the neighborhood, ran ceaselessly.

That, plus the more intense sunlight, would burn her alabaster skin. Even in the shade, even with a fresh coating of SPF 50 sunscreen.

Besides, later on that morning Simone had to drive Aunt Wilma to her doctor appointment in Cromwell. They probably wouldn’t return until late afternoon, leaving Simone just enough time to keep her interview at the Greenwood Gardens Art Gallery and Shoppe.

Even more than she needed the nine dollars per hour the evening assistant job paid, she needed experience and contacts.

Not for her own paintings. They were nothing. A fun hobby. They might help to prove her own commitment to art, to help her achieve rapport with REAL artists. At least she understood some of their technical struggles, if not how they could dig into their very souls to light up the world with their work.

And, yes, somewhere—she didn’t know yet where or how or who—some handsome, young, successful artist would understand she could be his perfect helpmate. His muse. His devoted fan. His partner for the business end of their operation. While he wrestled to perfectly express his vision, she would promote and sell his work. To galleries. By auction. Books. Online. Even to museums.

They would live downtown in a Washington Avenue loft. Make the club scene while cozying up to the owners of the sophisticated, important art galleries. Not bourgeois, provincial shops in the boring suburbs, such as the Greenwood Gardens Art Gallery.

After that—what else?—Manhattan, and fame and fortune.

Hah! Let the other worldly-wise virgins try to beat THAT.

A loud, grinding engine pushed down the street, but Simone didn’t pay attention. Then the noise stopped.

Now, leaves. How to best convey the sense of the box elder tree’s luxuriant foliage? Large splotches of green to express the overall impression? Or lots of tiny blotches representing individual leaves? But the tree had so many . . .

What would Professor White, her best teacher at the Cromwell School of Fine Arts, advise her?

A loud iron, metallic clanking. Iron hitting concrete. A drive chain clinking.

Simone didn’t know. As an art hobbyist, she took only a few how-to courses. She filled the rest of her required hours with classes on art history and appreciation.

Which qualified her for virtually zero well-paying jobs. Ergo, the need to apply to the Greenwood Gardens Art Gallery for a position just a notch above minimum wage.

She could take a few education courses and then apply for teaching jobs, but the idea of teaching art to high schoolers was just so utterly, like, totally...alien gruesome, she wanted to upchuck.

Not that there was any big demand for art teachers.

If Aunt Wilma’s illness went on for years, so Simone would have free room and board that long, maybe she could save enough money to get her Masters. That would qualify her to teach art to undergrads, if she could find an open position.

But was grinding out a living the goal here?

Most of a certainly not!

She deserved the best of life. That required money. It took meeting and marrying her ideal man.

That’s why her legs remained crossed throughout high school and college, when almost every other girl was spreading theirs. The boys didn’t deserve her. Not yet. Some, no doubt, would go on to success. Even some of the crazy art majors she met. Maybe one of the ones she dated.

But college was too soon, too early. They had lots of work to accomplish first, before they earned their place with her between the sheets.

They didn’t like her attitude, some calling her a cock tease, but she had no intention of being some future great artist’s fond memory of youthful irresponsible good times, or his ‘virgin’ story for cocktail parties or his memoirs, while he devoted his affections and earnings to his wife.

She would be the beloved, wealthy wife.

A loud, mechanical buzz ripped through her ear drums. One of Aunt Wilma’s neighbors mowing their lawn before the mid-day heat?

A strong wind nearly knocked over her easel. Simone grabbed the painting just before it hit the grass. The end of her ponytail smacked her mouth.

The box elder’s branches bent way over like an aerobics teacher demonstrating an overhead arm side-stretch. The leaves shook. They and the clumps of whirliwigs added an undertone of restless, fibrous vegetation.

The lawn mower sounded really loud then, practically right in her ear, coming from Aunt Wilma’s front lawn. The dust particles and pieces of cut grass it threw into the air flew over the one-story house’s peaked roof, and the wind blew it right at Simone.

The force hit her back. The dirt flew into the open containers of paint, and spattered her painting, ruining it.

Simone carried the canvas, her easel, and the paint containers to Aunt Wilma’s back sun porch.

Behind her, the wind slapped the canvas stool down.

It blew the screen door wide open despite the tension spring, then slammed it shut in Simone’s face.

She threw her canvas and the paint to the porch floor, then hurried around to the front.

She held her head high, her back straight. She wasn’t going to bend to the wind. Nor let some grass-mowing ruffian disturb her precious painting time.

In Aunt Wilma’s large front yard, two young men pushed dirty, greasy lawn mowers. Simone stood in front of the first one, who wore tight black pants and a Phish t-shirt. He had long, wet black hair. She crossed her arms.

Without looking, the man veered around her, but nodded toward the second young man, who was working on the area around the roots of the sweet-gum tree.

Something about the set of his eyes and mouth made Simone want to slap him, although—outwardly—he appeared normal enough. Almost handsome, even. Something about his thick lips screamed intolerable arrogance, or lush sensuality.

He wasn’t paying any attention to her, just maneuvering the mower with strong, thick arms and wide shoulders. Red-gold blonde hair. As shaggy as Aunt Wilma’s lawn, but not really long. He wore ragged, faded blue denim overalls and a flaming red t-shirt.

As Simone stomped over to him, the smell of grass forced its way up her nostrils. She could hear nothing but the two loud motors.

A large, rusty pickup with most of its original paint chipped away, occupied the driveway.

Just as Simone reached the sweet-gum tree, the first man yelled at the second. That young man, presumably the boss of the two, looked up, saw her, and let go of the handle, cutting the engine off. He pulled out a dirty yellow scarf and wiped his forehead.

How can I help you? he asked Simone.

What’re you doing here?

He began to smile, and to spread his arms, pointing out the obvious: cutting grass.

I mean, so early!

He smiled at her with gray and blue eyes, like storm clouds blocking a clear daytime sky. One of those delighted, arrogant, male-meeting-an-attractive-new-woman smiles, as though she were some slut for him to screw and dump. She wished she could slap him just for the presumption she saw glowing out of his eyes.

She still sometimes noticed that look in her stepfather, when out taking care of business, and she hated it on him, when he tried to charm clerks and tellers.

We always start here, he said. Every Monday morning. On cloudy days, sometimes it rains later, but at least we finished Mrs. Garrett’s lawn.

Well, stop it! Right it right now, do you hear? Simone shouted.

That made his face fall, all right. He frowned as he wiped his face again with the rag.

But Mrs. Garrett...

Just come back later.

Ask her, please. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name—

Simone, she said. I’m Mrs. Garrett’s great-niece. She’s sick, and I’m staying here to take care of her now.

Just tell her Terry and Cal want to finish mowing her lawn.

Simone turned and headed for the front door. Just as she remembered it was locked and she didn’t have the key on her, Terry yelled at Cal, who let his mower die.

The sudden silence jarred, but relieved, her.

Terry reached into the front seat of the pickup trick, then tossed Cal a bottle of Evian.

Simone circled around to the porch/sun room, went inside, and then paused outside the door to Aunt Wilma’s bedroom. She didn’t want to wake Aunt Wilma up, but the two lawn mowers probably already had.

Aunt Wilma had some kind of lump deep inside her abdomen. The doctors were still trying to figure out exactly what it was and what to do about it. But in the meantime, it gave Aunt Wilma a lot of pain. She didn’t sleep well at night, so she needed all the early morning dozing she could get.

Simone knocked softly.

Come on in, child, Aunt Wilma said in her disturbingly weak, croaking voice.

For some reason, Aunt Wilma’s pale yellow, straw-soup bedroom always made Simone nervous. From its watered-down urine colored walls to the pale pastel shadings of her three chest-of-drawers and makeup table, from her queen-sized, four-poster bed with blonde oak columns to the cream rug.

She always disliked the scents of Aunt Wilma’s old lady bath powder and perfumes. And now those came mixed with the scent of BenGay. And the sweat of the pain Aunt Wilma suffered, especially at night.

She lay on her back, half-sitting up on a thick pile of feather pillows. She must have already been up, however, because the nearest window shade was in the daytime position, allowing in a generous stream of bright golden sunlight.

Aunt Wilma, those two guys just started cutting the grass. I was painting in the backyard, and you were sleeping...

Aunt Wilma looked up at her with a miserable, still-sleepy face. It’s only Terry and Cal. They cut it every week. Let them be, Simone, honey.

But, your rest—

I don’t even notice the noise anymore. I’m sorry about your painting. And last night I forgot to tell you. But I just last week signed a contract with Terry to do a lot more landscaping for me.

What?

Aunt Wilma waved her fingers. It’s on my desk in the spare bedroom. Read it if you wish. I decided this summer I wanted to make my yard as pretty as it should be. I’ve been too lazy.

Appalled, Simone felt her stomach sink. She didn’t mind caring for Aunt Wilma. Taking her great-aunt to the doctor, shopping, cooking—all that came with the financially free room and board. And, besides, all that made her feel useful—a welcome change from four years of college, when nothing depended on her, except her grades. Even her boss at the dormitory cafeteria where she worked twenty hours a week, didn’t care if she clocked in or not. Plenty more undergrad students wanted the chance to put in a few hours to earn the minimum wage.

But to have to put up with more landscaping,—noise, dirt, and confusion—not to mention rude, greasy dudes walking all over the yards outside...nobody told Simone about that before she moved into Aunt Wilma’s spare bedroom.

And what was Aunt Wilma talking about ‘lazy’ for? Even if she weren’t sick, she was too elderly to work outside in the yard. Simone couldn’t remember Aunt Wilma ever having a garden of flowers, even in her far-away memories of when Uncle Howard was still alive.

‘Cheap’ was the first word that came to Simone’s mind. Everybody in the family talked of how she didn’t like to spend any of the money Uncle Howard left her. Several million or more, at least, from selling his Ford dealership.

What made Aunt Wilma care so much about her yard now, when she was too sick to walk outside to see it? When she might die any month, if what her son Uncle Bob told Simone turned out to be true.

I’d like my house to look nice and pretty like the rest of the neighborhood does, Aunt Wilma said, voice still cracking. So the neighbors don’t talk about me again.

I’ll tell them to get back on the job, Simone said. Then I’ll cook you a soft-boiled egg and some oatmeal.

That’ll be nice, dear.

Simone opened the front door and stood on the small concrete front porch in front. She shouted at the two lawn mowers, My aunt says to go ahead and finish cutting the grass.

Cal walked toward his mower, but the boss, Terry, strode quickly to her, holding out something in his hand.

She took the business card he held up. Leonard Lawn Care Services. His snail mail address, email address, plus several phone numbers.

Doesn’t my aunt already this information? Simone said.

I wanted you to have it, too, Terry said. I was hoping you’d give me your card.

My card?

In case I need to send you a text message.

Don’t you have my aunt’s number?

Your aunt’s only phone number is a landline.

She’s got an answering machine. Just leave a message. You don’t need to text.

You want me to leave an invitation for you to go out with me on your aunt’s answering machine?

The impudence! Astonishment took Simone’s breath away. Shock left her unable to move a muscle. She just gaped at his smiling face. Mocking her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cal stood by his mower, shoulders hunched, chuckling loudly as he shook his head.

Simone forced her mouth to stay closed. Any words she spoke then would not only be unsophisticated, they’d certainly be unladylike. Not to mention obscene.

And she didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of letting rage get the better of her.

A*holes.

She spun, rushed into the kitchen, and found the contract.

She studied it while boiling Aunt Wilma’s egg and oatmeal.

Not just cutting the grass at least once a week, but fertilizing it, spreading herbicides to kill weeds, aerating the soil, putting down sod, watering it during dry spells—guaranteeing a bright, green, weedless, golf course-like lawn.

Raking leaves during the fall.

Keeping the driveway and front walk safe and dry during winter.

Cutting back the two front sweet-gum trees.

Pulling out the bedraggled old spruce, along with most of the front bushes.

Planting rose bushes, plus a zillion flowers.

Flattening the slight slant of the backyard.

Pruning all those trees.

More beds of flowers, bordered by large white blocks of limestone, mulched by smaller white rock.

Unfortunately, the only thing wrong Simone could detect was its length. It would take weeks or months to accomplish all that.

Not having any experience hiring out lawn care services, she had no way of knowing whether that Terry was overcharging Aunt Wilma or not.

Had Uncle Bob seen the contract? She better ask him. He and Aunt Beth already had their own nice house, so she supposed, if Aunt Wilma did die, they would want to sell her house. Maybe these improvements would make the house more valuable? She was no expert.

She decided to ask him that night when he came over, just in case.

No way did Simone want to spend her days this summer keeping a watch on that smart-ass Terry dude to make sure he didn’t cheat Aunt Wilma.

What really ran a cheese grater over her nerves, though, was how, that afternoon while she sat in the doctor’s waiting room trying to read Pride and Prejudice, she could not get her mind off Terry’s broad shoulders, and how, because he worked so hard, thick and muscular his chest must be.

Chapter Two

Terry, Cal, and Pop

After finishing the last job, Terry Leonard drove his pickup back home to Sandusky. A working class white neighborhood in Cromwell, just beyond the university neighborhood and housing.

Most people there over 40, if they didn’t have their own business, worked for the nearby Sandusky Paper mill. Most people there under 40 applied for a job at the mill, but nobody could remember the last time the company hired anyone, even a janitor, even relatives of management and union officials.

When Terry and Cal entered The Cheater’s Palace, Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer played over the loudspeakers. A few regulars raised their hands or nodded toward them.

The purple Michelob neon light set on the wall over the cash register burned through the night dark. Flashing on the rows of bottles of hard liquor lined up on the shelves.

After spending the whole day outside in the high 90s heat, the arctic air conditioning hit Terry like ice fresh off a glacier. A quick shower and change of clothes barely cooled down his core body temperature.

Terry and Cal sat at their usual table. Cory, a blond, chubby waitress with a cute smile stood over them, order pad in hand.

The usual, guys? she said.

Terry and Cal nodded.

Don’t you all ever get tired of pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom pizza? How about adding a salad? You know, green stuff.

We spend all day cutting green stuff, Cal said.

Terry said: Or planting it, or transplanting it, or trimming it, or pulling it, or composting it, or fertilizing it, or raking it up after it turns brown and falls off the tree.

Cory snapped the book shut. Don’t blame me when you guys keel over at forty-five, like my old man.

She set their first iced pitcher of River Mud Brew on the table, and the cold malty taste out of the frosty glass never tasted so good. On such long,