Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  The hold is loose enough for me to roll my body facing him. His handsome face is sporting his signature smirk. “Morning, beautiful.”

  He’s shirtless!

  God.

  Fuck.

  Sweet Jesus, he looks breathtaking with that tussled hair, bedroom eyes, and two-day stubble. His gaze is so intense I move mine, and it falls onto his inked skin. Above his left pec, there’s an inscription, ‘what we do in life echoes in eternity.’

  I trace the words with my hand. “Gladiator.”

  “You know your movies.” He winks at me.

  “Some, Dad loved that one.” I sigh remembering him. “Why am I here?”

  “Margarita number five didn’t agree with you,” he explains. “Kevin lent me his truck and he took the bike.”

  “Kevin!” I sit up finding the strength to push away his limbs, looking on the other side of his bed. Did the three of us sleep in the same bed? He’s not here, but I spring out of bed picking up my top that reeks of vomit. “Ugh, did I?”

  “Afraid so, twice.” He scrunches his nose, propping his arm on top of the bed and resting his head on his hand. “When was the last time you ate?”

  Last time I ate? Sifting through my fuzzy memories, I can’t recall.

  “We planned on eating something along the way, we never did. Sorry,” he apologizes shrugging slightly. “It slipped my mind. How’s that head?”

  “Pounding less than when I woke up.” I pull down the shirt, covering my legs. I’m embarrassed by my behavior. As I said earlier, I’m too old to do this shit. Behaving the same way I did back in college is unacceptable. Numbing myself only happens at home with my friends. Looking at Anderson’s friendly face, I recall that we are indeed friends. I scrub my face. Kevin.

  “Is Kevin okay with this?” I lift my palms shaking my head, walking around. Unbelievable. I slept in the same bed with a man who isn’t my boyfriend. Anderson might be gay but this is unacceptable. What will Heath think? Is Anderson gay? He’s a flirt. Then again, my brother is gay, and he drops a casual wink/grin combo to anyone who speaks to him. “Are you gay or bi like your partner?”

  He drops his head on top of his pillow releasing a loud laughter that resonates through the entire room, vibrating in my chest. Or is it my heart thumping fast at the display?

  “Kevin is my business partner.” He pushes himself off the bed wearing nothing but tattoos and a pair of boxers. Heat spreads through my body as I stare at his broad shoulders and defined muscles, rippling abs, his boxers showing the edge of the perfect v of his hips. Sauntering toward me, he stops only a couple steps away, lifting his hand and tracing the cool letters of my shirt. He gazes at me smiling. “I’m a tattoo artist, Aspen. Ink Art Gallery is the only thing Kevin and I share—besides friendship. Is that why you loosened up?”

  I chuckle, giving him a glance over. He’s perfect, has a great body and an amazing personality. He’s caring, attentive, and a sense of humor. I’m attracted to him. No. I have a boyfriend, Heath. Anderson is a great friend. What is wrong with me?

  “Do I need to be in a relationship to be your friend, Aspen?”

  “No.” I exhale, covering my eyes. “We can’t. I have a boyfriend, we’re friends. Things like this can’t happen among friends.”

  Good looking, panty melting, caring friends.

  “Nothing happened between us. You weren’t feeling well and I brought you home.”

  “Your home, not mine,” I protest weakly. If he had taken me back, I would’ve been able to sleep in my own bed without him.

  “My place is closer to the bar.” He gives me an exasperated look. Poor man, he’s talking more than usual. He might’ve used all the words assigned for the day—or the week. “You took a shower, borrowed a pair of boxers, a t-shirt, and those socks. You made sure to explain how imperative it was to sleep with socks.”

  “My feet get cold easily.”

  “Yes, and you might catch some bug.” He bites the smirk. “For a doctor, you have plenty of strange quirks.”

  “My profession doesn’t define my bad habits.” I give him a shrug, quirking my lips. “What else happened?”

  “I made you some tea and you asked me to stay with you.”

  I lower my hands, not understanding him. “Why in the world would I ask you to keep me company?”

  “Hugo isn’t here, and you couldn’t go to bed alone. ‘Not tonight’ you said.”

  I stare at him, my mouth hanging open in shock. Did I? He turns around leaving the room.

  Following behind, I demand more information. “That can’t be it, I must have said more.” Wow, his place is impeccable compared to my house. Brynn and I are a pair of slobs. “I’m a talkative drunk.”

  “You were worried about Kevin, but I repeated several times ‘this is okay. we’re friends.’” He enters a small room where a stacked washer-dryer is. He pulls my jeans out of the dryer, handing them to me. “They are clean. I didn’t wash your blouse because you said it’s dry cleaning only.”

  He grasps my arms, lowering his face so we can see eye to eye. “You talked about Michael, his mother and the party you refuse to go to. Nothing happened between us.”

  “Other than that kiss,” I remind him. My heart’s accelerating as his green eyes darken.

  A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That too.” He leans close enough I can feel his warm breath against my face. “One hell of a kiss, which I swore not to repeat.”

  Anderson kisses my cheek, close enough that he almost touches my lips. “Unless you ask for it.”

  “Friends don’t kiss,” I protest, frozen in place, demanding my legs to stay in place and controlling my pulse.

  “They do.” He winks at me. “Casual, stolen kisses—you said so yesterday night.”

  “No.” My tone is amicable, but my heart rises in anger. “What else did I say?”

  He shakes his head. “I already said everything I recall.”

  I refuse to accept his explanation, as much as I refuse to continue this useless discussion without a cup of coffee—black like my memories. I never blackout, why this time? Slipping on my jeans, I start looking for my phone and my jacket.

  “There’s a Gatorade and a bottle of Tylenol on top of the table.” His voice sounds further away. Where did he go? Anderson is dressed, combat boots on and cell phone in hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The coffee shop down the street,” he explains putting on his jacket. “Black, no sugar for you.”

  My stomach flips when he describes how I take my coffee.

  No swooning, Aspen. He’s a friend.

  “Do you want a pastry or a sandwich?” He cocks his head. “Something greasy?”

  “Hmm.” My stomach growls. Coffee and a pastry won’t be enough to settle it. Grease, I need tons of bacon. I find my boots next to the leather couch. “I’ll join you.”

  “Here.” Anderson hands my jacket over once I’m done with my boots. He pulls me toward him, not letting me go as we march to the door.

  “Aspen, I think this is the beginning of an amazing friendship,” he whispers so close I shiver. “Or if our status changes, we can recount it to our children as our first date.”

  Our kids, date, friendship? I massage my temple with my free hand pushing away the idea of Anderson being more than a friend. He’s…no. I refuse to describe him, to see him as something other than a companion, a person I can call if I need to change my tire or go to the movies with. We can’t. I have a boyfriend. Heath and I are together, he’s safe. My heart is too broken to accept anything more.

  11

  Aspen

  We walk in silence around the block, Anderson holding my hand. I know I should say something to him; release it from his grasp and ask him to drive me home—or take a Lyft. Instead, I enjoy the vibe around me. The people walking back and forth while jogging or pushing strollers.

  “This is where I work.” Anderson points to one of the shops.

  Ink Art Gallery, th
ere isn’t a big neon sign hanging on the wall, only the three words are written in a fancy script lettering on the glass door. The smeared brick and concrete building blends great with the hipster vibe in the neighborhood. The terracotta border on the edge of the glass windows adds an oriental like touch.

  “You don’t open often.” I re-read the hours of operation following my finger with my eyes. “Oh, by appointment too.”

  I glance at him. “What kind of tattoo artist are you?” I narrow my gaze, there’s no way he only works here. “Friends tell each other what they do for a living.”

  He huffs, walking further and pulling me along with him. Opening the door to the coffee shop, he finally releases my hand. The emptiness is back. It’s a dark void consuming me. The same one that’s left me feeling nothing since Michael died. Swallowing the sudden knot forming in my throat, I rush behind Anderson. We wait for a woman and her daughter. They’re deciding between a fruit smoothie, or one of those chocolate, mocha shakes with extra whip cream.

  “Is there a difference between one or the other?” Anderson edges closer to me, mumbling.

  I shake my head pointing at the chalkboard. The smoothies are made from syrup and preserves. They have the same amount of calories.

  Let the kid have the chocolate, he whispers in my ear.

  “You’re going to spoil your children.” I laugh as I picture him high-fiving his children each time they eat dessert before dinner, finish their Halloween candy within an hour, or break the window because they hit the ball like pros.

  He chuckles, opens his mouth and shuts it as the barista calls us. “Next.”

  “Hawk, man, how are you?” They fist bump, then shake hands, and finally clasp each other’s backs into what seems like a bro-hug. Then he glances at me giving me an up and down glance. “What’s it going to be today?”

  “Large black coffee, a large latte with soy milk no foam. One celery, carrot and kale juice…” Anderson turns to me. “Do you want juice or what would you like for breakfast?”

  He hands me a menu. Turning it several times I find what I need.

  “I’ll have the orange and carrot juice, and the hangover breakfast, extra bacon.”

  “That’s my girl,” he kisses my cheek. “Three of those, John.”

  The words trundle through my brain like a train with no intention of stopping heading toward a steel wall. Anderson pays for our breakfast, insisting this is on him. The entire outing has been on him. He paid for my drinks and I assume the cover to listen to the live show and now breakfast. Not a date, not a date, I repeat to myself. Placing his long fingers on my back, he steers me away from the counter, but stops in front of the tables.

  “Do you mind if we ask for it to-go?”

  “To-go is perfect, you can drive us to my house.”

  “John, can you box our breakfast and send it to my apartment, please?”

  “You got it, Hawk!” He flashes a smile toward us. “The coffees and juice should be ready soon. Give us around ten minutes for the rest.”

  “Everyone calls you Hawk, huh,” I state, picking up my coffee and taking a sip of caffeine. Heaven. Maybe I’ll remember everything that happened last night after I finish it.

  “Since high school, how about you?” He angles his head slightly. “Any unique nickname?”

  “Nothing. Aspen. There’s no cool nickname attached to it.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Winter, Mom’s middle name. I’m named after the place, in case you’re wondering. But I want to think it’s after the trees. They have this gorgeous golden-orange color during fall.”

  “Why after the place?”

  I flinch. “That’s where Mom and Dad believed I was conceived.” I roll my eyes, laughing at my parent’s lack of originality or sappy reasoning. “My brother’s name is Austin—same reason.”

  He laughs, sipping his juice. I yearn for his hand, carrying two drinks makes it impossible for him to hold mine. We walk in silence the rest of the way. He lives above the tattoo parlor, but the shop and the living area’s doors are on different streets.

  “Kevin lives across the hall,” Anderson explains stopping at the door across from his place. He hands over his juice, knocking on the door and setting down the coffee next to it. “I got your fancy coffee.”

  “He lives next door?” I inquire.

  He nods, turning around and opening his apartment door.

  “Kevin and I own the building,” he explains as I enter his apartment, and close the door behind me.

  “How did you become a tattoo artist? It’s obvious you were in the force—your mom said so.” I glare at him before he denies the obvious.

  Anderson places his juice on top of the counter, I do the same with mine and keep the coffee in hand.

  He explains how his dad was a Ranger and how he died when Anderson was only six. How his genetic code told him to be a warrior, to defend his country. Sophia, his mother, didn’t want that life for his children. She encouraged him to find another career. Sports and art attracted him.

  “Once I decided to retire, a buddy of mine hooked me up with a job and introduced me to Kevin.” He brings out cutlery and napkins, and drags the table toward the couch where I sit. “A couple of years later he offered me a partnership, it included buying half of the building.”

  “What job did your buddy hook you up with?” I smile. “You do more than tattooing inconspicuous drunks, don’t you?”

  Anderson scratches the back of his neck, shaking his head. There’s a knock at the door. “Thank you for the coffee, asshole. Your food is here—it wouldn’t hurt to fix your doorbell.”

  “So, you work for the private sector,” I guess, finishing my coffee. “One of those companies that take wealthy contractors to dangerous zones.”

  “Nah, I don’t babysit—much.” He flinches, opening the door and picking up the bag of food. “If I’m free, I oversee the security of the Silver Moon—the place we visited yesterday. I’m a preferred security detail for my boss’s family.”

  “When you’re not free?”

  He rubs his chin. “I do some private work.”

  “Yes.” I clap excitedly. “You are the type, one of those men who are committed to the mission. So why retire?”

  “There’s a point when I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t place the mission first. I lost too many brothers during battle. Innocent people died…”

  “What’s the difference between that one and the job you do?”

  “I have freedom to operate and to choose my mission.” He sighs, handing me my breakfast, then opening a container filled with crispy bacon. “I’m glad I retired. Now I can see Mom often, care for her now that…”

  There’s pain in his eyes, seepping out in his words. Placing a hand on top of his arm, I kiss his cheek.

  “She'll be all right, we’ll find a new treatment.”

  Anderson leans back in his seat, holding the takeout box in one hand and a fork in the other. “Yesterday she made me promise to stop if this new treatment doesn’t work.” He digs into his eggs, taking a few bites before speaking. “She’s the only family I have.”

  “She’s your mom,” I add, squeezing his muscular leg. “Tomorrow we’ll be in San Jose. I researched Dr. Vadapalli, he’s one of the best in the country. I wished I had found him when Dad was diagnosed. He might still be around.”

  He sets the empty container on top of the table, his attention completely toward me. “Sorry for your loss.”

  I shrug. What can you do? Life happens. “We detected it too late; his body couldn’t withstand the treatments,” I give him the quick notes. “He left peacefully, one night while I cared for him.”

  Anderson takes my food, places it next to his container and hugs me. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

  I don’t know what to do with his words, or the ticking bomb that is my heart. Logically I should fight him, fight this attraction and leave. Instead, I hug him back. My mind might not like it, but my heart and my
body feel safe. He fills the void.

  “Where have you been?” Brynn looks over the door as I shut it close.

  I blink twice, side walking toward my room.

  “Aspen Winter Zimmerman, bring your ass to the living room!”

  “No!”

  “The walk of shame? Really? How old are you?”

  “Judging by the tone of your voice I’d say five,” I retort hurrying into my room, changing my shirt for a tank top and a light V-neck sweater. “It’s not the walk of shame if sex wasn’t involved.”

  “No sex?” Her voice is right next to me. I jolt as I turn and see her light gray eyes staring at me. “You’re smiling, and there was no sex. Fuck, I can’t imagine what’ll happen when you two finally fuck.”

  “He’s my friend. I have a boyfriend—”

  “Ah yes, a friend.” Brynn walks to the dresser showing me my cell phone. “Heath came earlier to check on you. You haven’t been answering your phone.”

  I rub the corner of my eye. “Heath and I aren’t working out, are we?”

  Brynn gives me a ‘you think?’ glare. “What’s going on with Anderson?” I open my mouth, and she shakes her head. “No, no, no. Please, don’t bullshit me with that ‘we are friends’ line. Answer my question.”

  A complicated question. Analyzing each word and touch between us worries me. I hate thinking about the different comments, smirks, and tones he uses. The panty melting, heartwarming treatment game he’s playing is hard to ignore.

  “Not enough to worry about being a cheater, sufficient enough to call it off with Heath,” I explain, taking out my luggage from the walk-in closet. I’m happy that I took my time to pack yesterday after my nap.

  Brynn crosses her arms, waiting for more. “You were gone all night, what else happened?”

  I plop onto my bed, adjusting the pillows and hugging the body pillow while resting my head on top of it. My journey started when I opened the door, and found him holding a helmet, asking me to wear a warm jacket, leather if possible. I changed my flat shoes for a pair of riding boots. We drove along Interstate five toward Seattle, then east to Redmond, and back to downtown—the Silver Moon to be precise. Brynn and I share everything. I explained the kiss, the delicious margaritas, and my morning after.