Table of Contents
One More Time
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Books By Aurora Rose Reynolds
About Aurora Rose Reynolds
Copyright © 2021 ARR-INC. E-Book and Print Edition
Cover Image Wander photographer
Cover design by RBA Designs
DesignsFormatted by CP Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons or living or dead, events or locals are entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ Use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Aria
I SIGN MY name for what feels like the millionth time, and then look up from the paperwork under my palm when my realtor Sara claps and shouts, “Congratulations!”
I smile, because her excitement is contagious. Still, I know the only reason she’s excited is because her commission is close to fifty thousand dollars. Hell, I’d be excited too if I made that kind of dough after showing someone one single house.
“Thanks,” I mumble, glancing at her briefly before pushing the stack of papers in front of me across the desk. The lawyer accepts them with a smile, setting them aside before rolling her chair back and opening a drawer. When I see the set of keys she pulls out, my stomach fills with anticipation.
“Congratulations, Aria.” She grins.
I hold out my hand then wrap it around the cold metal, feeling a bite from the sharp edges of the keys as they dig into my palm and fingers. It’s happening. I’m moving on with my life, and now I have a place to call my own. A place that, for once, belongs to no one else but me. I want to cry. I want to dance around the office. But I don’t do either of those things. Instead, I murmur a quiet “Thank you.”
“Do you still want me to connect you with the construction company I told you about during our walk-through?” Sara asks, and I turn my attention to her.
The twenty-five hundred square foot house I just purchased is beautiful. It’s on the side of a mountain, set back from the road and surrounded by six acres of woods. The first time I saw it, I knew it was the one. Then I saw the inside and had second thoughts. The previous owners finished most of the kitchen and the entire master bedroom and bath before their divorce, but they left the rest of the house incomplete. It looks like something from a ’70s sitcom. Including lots of crazy wallpaper and even more shag carpet and linoleum. It’s going to take time and a whole lot of money to get things just how I want them.
The good thing is I have an abundance of time. Money is a different story. My job as an author has allowed me to feel comfortable in my finances. Or at least I was comfortable until I divorced my husband. Since he worked for me and I took care of him during our marriage, I have to pay him alimony, which means I not only have to take care of myself, but I have to take care of a man I wasted years of my life on. A man who I never should have dated, let alone married.
Why the hell does hindsight always have to be twenty-twenty?
“I’ll get the number from you, but it might be awhile before I get started on construction,” I tell Sara.
The smile on her face never falters as she reaches out to squeeze my arm. “I’m sure they will make room for you in their schedule whenever you decide to get started.”
I want to roll my eyes. Since she found out I’m an author and my pen name, Spencer Heart, she’s convinced herself that I’m someone famous. I’m not famous, not by a long shot. Yes, I’ve hit the New York Times bestsellers list a few times and had articles written about my books, but if you were to show a random person on the street my photo, they would have no clue who I am. Hell, they would probably not even know of me if you gave them the titles of my books, unless they happened to be a reader.
Now, if you asked people in this town who Aria Heart is, they will tell you she’s the rich girl who grew up here with a silver spoon in her mouth, the one who moved away because she thought she was too good for this place. No one knows that silver spoon I was fed with growing up was bitter as hell as it was shoved down my throat, and the beautiful house with the pretty white picket fence I once lived behind was just an illusion.
My parents were and still are dysfunctional- my mother, a habitual cheater, and my father, a functioning alcoholic. Now, I’m a twenty-six-year-old divorcée who’s moved back to the place I grew up, because as sad as it might be, this is the only place I’ve ever considered home.
Even with the strained relationship I have with my parents and absolutely zero friends here, I couldn’t think of a town besides this one that I wanted to live in after my marriage ended. Lucky for me, I don’t have to depend on my parents for support, financial or otherwise. Unlucky for me, they will only be a short distance away, which means I’ll have to deal with them even when I don’t want to.
I lean back in my chair and pick up my bag from the floor. I need to get out of here. Now that the house is officially mine, I want to go there and really look around without someone watching my every move. Maybe I’ll even stop at Target, pick up one of those inflatable mattresses and some necessities, and sleep there tonight instead of in the hotel room I’ve been in for the last week. Something my parents have not been happy about. At first, they pretended to be understanding about my need for space, but over the last couple of days, their displeasure has been vocalized through daily phone calls. They have always had a certain image to uphold, and with their only child being in town and not staying with them, they are feeling the heat and I’m sure dodging questions from their so-called friends.
But for once in my life, I don’t care, and surprisingly, I feel no guilt. For the last twenty-six years of my life, I’ve done what was expected of me. Before I left home, I did everything in my power to keep up the image of the perfect girl, and after I left, I still did the things I was supposed to. I went to college, got a job, and married a man I knew my parents would approve of. None of that ever made me happy, so when I signed my divorce papers, I made a promise to myself to start living life on my own terms. I will no longer accept things just because I should, and I will never again put someone else’s happiness before my own.
This is my life, and I’m choosing to live it exactly how I want.
On that thought, I stand and glance between the two women in the room. “Thank you both. If you need anything, you can call my cell.” I look down at Sara. “I’d really appreciate your construction contact. Can you email it to me?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.” I heft my purse up onto my shoulder, leave the office, and head for my car. After that, I go to the hotel and check out then to Target before heading to my new home.
Chapter 2
Aria
SITTING ON THE burnt orange shag carpeted floor in what will one day be my office, I settle my laptop on my lap then click on my current work-in-progress. I’ve always written paranormal YA, but a story has been talking to me for a while and I’ve decided to finally try to write it. A romantic comedy about two people who find love when their nosey mothers start forcing them into funny situations together.
Just as I start to get swept away in the story and my fingers start flying across the keyboard, I hear an odd sound coming from the kitchen and living room area. I stop typing and turn my head to the open door. I can’t see anything from my position, but the sound seems to be growing louder. I’ve only been in the house one night and part of today, so I haven’t had a chance to memorize all the noises it makes. When I get up and go to the kitchen, I look around, not seeing anything, then move around the half wall into the living room and gasp.
There is water gushing down from the ceiling—not a little, but a lot—and the white sheet rock is melting away, landing on the blue shag carpet. It’s making it look like a glacier is capsizing into the puddle of water growing in the middle of the room. I stare in horror then burst into action.
I run up the stairs to the laundry room, sliding across the linoleum and landing on my hip and elbow. Pain shoots through both areas, but I ignore it and get up, almost falling again as I skid across the wet floor. I manage by the grace of God to get the lid on the washer open and then say a prayer when the water shuts off. Having been in town for a week, I needed clean clothes, and since I finally had a washer and dryer, I decided to do all my laundry. I should have waited.
Breathing heavy, I look around at the mess then head back downstairs. When I see the destruction in the living room, tears begin to fill my eyes. I bought one towel yesterday while I was at Target, because I didn’t see the sense in wasting money when all my stuff will be delivered in just a few days. There’s no way one towel will ever be enough for me to clean up this mess.
I squeeze my eyes closed and allow one single tear to slip through my lashes before I pull in a breath and head for my cell. As promised, Sara sent me the contact info for the construction company yesterday. I didn’t think I’d be contacting them so soon, but now I don’t have a choice. I place the call and am told by an older gentleman that someone will be out as soon as they can. Since all my clothes are now in the bottom of the washer still full of water, I have no choice but to wait for someone to show up, wearing nothing but one of my favorite cotton sleep tank nightgowns without even a bra or underwear. Seriously, this day couldn’t get worse.
Okay, so obviously the day can get worse, I think as I open my front door to the over six-foot-tall man standing outside. Blond hair a little longer than what most men consider fashionable, blue eyes so clear I can see my reflection, muscles outlined with the help of his form-fitting T-shirt, and tattoos that seem like a living, breathing extension of him.
I knew Tide growing up. We were never friends, but I had a huge crush on him. Not that he ever knew I liked him. We didn’t hang with the same crowd. Heck, we didn’t even talk. I was too busy working to please my parents, and he was too busy playing football and dating every girl who put out. He never even spared me much more than a glance or a chin lift in the hall between classes or at lunch.
To him, I was just one more of the rich kids. To me, he was the guy I wanted, not just because he was, and obviously still is, seriously hot. He was kind to everyone, and he defended those who couldn’t defend themselves. I can’t even count the amount of times I saw him stick up for someone getting picked on, getting into fights to defend one of the kids who were an easy target.
I wanted to be like him. I wanted deep within my soul to have the courage to tell those jerks to stop what they were doing. I wanted to tell my parents to grow up and see what they were doing to me and to each other. I never did any of that, which doesn’t say much about the kind of person I was. I just hope it’s not too late to change.
“—flooding.”
That one word pulls me from my memories, and I shake my head. I know more words were said, but I have no idea what they were. “What?”
He studies me for a moment like he’s trying to figure out if he knows me or how he knows me then looks behind me into the house. “My foreman says you’re having an issue with flooding.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head again as I hold the door open for him to step inside, feeling my cheeks get warm. “The washer...” I shake my head once more. “Something must be wrong with it. Water was flooding the floor, and it broke through the ceiling in the living room. I think something is wrong with the washer.” Could I sound any more like an idiot?
“I’ll take a look.”
Without another glance in my direction, I watch him move through my house and head up the stairs without me telling him where to go. I follow, watching his ass in his jeans and his back muscles flex under his form-fitting tee. I never considered the back of a man attractive before, but now I know I should have.
When he stops at the laundry room, I stop with him then watch as he pulls the washer away from the wall like it weighs no more than a feather. When he disappears behind it, I get up on my tippy toes and try to see what he’s doing. It’s no use. At five one, I can’t even reach the things on the top shelf at the grocery store without help. I definitely can’t see over the top of the washer with the lid open. I listen to him bang around then a moment later he reappears.
“The hose wasn’t attached to the drain. Looks like someone planned on taking the machine with them then had second thoughts.”
“Really?” I look at the washer. “It was included in the sale of the house, along with the dryer and the appliances in the kitchen.”
He studies me for a moment, then asks, “Was the sale attached to a foreclosure?” He drags a hand through his long dark-blonde hair, pushing it back from his face. “Sometimes when that happens, people get pissed and fuck shit up for the next buyer.”
“No,” I deny while wrapping my arms around my middle. “The house was put on the market by a couple getting a divorce.”
“That’d do it too. People can be assholes when things are going to shit for them. Sometimes they want to spread that joy around.”
“Great.” I bite my lower lip, looking to the side, and mumble, “Should I have someone come out to check the gas stove? I really don’t relish the idea of blowing up because of marital problems and a gas leak.”
He starts to laugh, and I turn just in time to experience the beauty of his head thrown back, seeing the contours of his jaw and the muscles of his neck. The laughter coming from deep in his chest does something strange to my insides, causing them to twist and turn. When his clear blue eyes meet mine, the breath inside my lungs feels odd, almost painful. I’m pretty sure he has no idea who I am, but still I feel like he just gave me something he doesn’t share with many people.
“I’ll check out the gas line.” He slams the lid on the washer closed, causing the water to start back up, then pushes it back into place while muttering, “You’re too beautiful to go up in smoke.”
Did he just call me beautiful?
He did. I know he did, but part of me still thinks I heard him wrong. After years with my parents and more years with my ex, I see what they saw when I look at myself in the mirror. A woman with great hair that’s not quite red and not really blonde. Fair skin and too many freckles. Overly large blue eyes and full lips, and a body that would have been the norm if I lived in the era of Marilyn Monroe. Unfortunately a size ten/ twelve nowadays is considered unacceptable and unattractive, and stupidly for years and years I starved myself and worked out like crazy, attempting to try to make myself fit in.
Not that it ever happened. I’ve never been smaller than a size eight, and since my divorce, I’ve been wearing a size twelve, sometimes even a fourteen. I don’t think I’m ugly; I consider myself passably pretty, but definitely not beautiful. Thinking about it, I d
on’t think anyone has ever called me beautiful before.
I dig my nails into my palms and push those thoughts and everything else about my past into the back of my mind, when Tide speaks again. “I’ll take a look at the damage downstairs and make sure everything is hooked up properly before I go.”
“Okay,” I agree quietly, focusing on him.
His eyes hold mine for a moment, the look within their crystal-blue depths making me feel like he sees more than he should be able to. Like he knows exactly what I’m feeling and thinking. The moment is broken when he motions for me to move. I take my cue and head back down the stairs ahead of him, more aware now than before of my lack of clothing. When I reach the bottom, I walk past the kitchen, into the living room, and look up. The ceiling has crumbled further, leaving a large gaping hole and watermarks traveling across where the drywall was taped together.
“Shit,” he hisses.
I turn and look at him. “What?”
“Babe, the whole ceiling in here is gonna have to be replaced.” His eyes dip toward the floor. “The carpet too. Maybe even the floor under it.”
“How much?”
“Pardon?”
“How much is it going to cost to have all that done?”
“A few grand,” he says, studying me and seeming a little surprised by my question.
“Great,” I groan. I mean, I have a little money set aside for emergencies and a little more tucked away for renovations, but this unexpected catastrophe is not what I planned on dumping money into. “Maybe I can just pretend like it’s a skylight.”
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I turn around and move toward the kitchen. I might be able to pretend like the hole in the living room is a skylight, but I can’t pretend like the stove I have yet to use might be a bomb. “Can you make sure I won’t die if I decide to turn this thing on?” I slap my hand on the top of the stove. Yesterday at Target, I bought a coffee pot, one of those cheap ones. I also bought coffee, Diet Coke, bagels, and cream cheese, since I could eat bagels cold for both breakfast and lunch.
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