Last First Kiss: A Second Chance Standalone Romance

by Jane Anthony

  I half-turn from the door, but the sound of her voice halts my escape. “Wait.” Turning back, I meet her sparkling gaze and wait for her to continue. She sighs, throwing her hands up in a huff. “Just come in.”

  My nod is a little more eager than I anticipated.

  She steps aside as I enter, the incredible smell of her skin wafting into my nostrils. It’s not a fragrance I can put my finger on. It’s sweet like fruit but decadent like dessert, the scent of sex, candy, and sin wrapped up in one perfect package. Damn. It’s only been a few weeks, but something about this girl has me all twisted up inside. I can’t think straight whenever she’s around me.

  She pushes away the white ball of fluff with her foot as she closes the door. The Pomeranian rolls over and jumps back onto his feet before bounding over to me.

  Crouching down, I pet the dog’s soft fur. “Mischief is still around?” A lost memory swims back from my subconscious. A teenage me dipping salami in vodka and feeding it to the poor, unsuspecting pooch. Yeah, I was kind of a dick as a kid. Don’t judge me.

  “Half blind and almost totally deaf but, yeah, he’s still kickin’.”

  “I can’t believe we used to get this thing drunk.”

  “Don’t involve me in that. That was all you, buddy.” She laughs. “You want some coffee or something?” she asks as I follow her through the foyer to the main part of the house.

  A purple mat lies on the dark hardwood floor between the brown leather sofa and a big screen television sitting on a huge entertainment system. She bends down and rolls it up, then tucks it under her arm as she stands.

  “Yoga, huh?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” I raise my palms in surrender. “What’s got you so touchy?”

  She narrows her gaze, trying to appear put off, but there’s a spirited twinkle cutting through the veil. “I’m not touchy. You’re just obnoxious.”

  “Hey, you invited me in. I was ready to leave my pride at the door.”

  “Maybe I’m a masochist. I enjoy the misery of your company,” she snaps with a smug grin.

  “Please. Last I checked, I’m the one groveling at your feet like a wounded dog.”

  “Aww,” she jokes, patting my head as she passes through to the dining room. She drops her mat in the corner, then claps her hands. “Come on, boy!”

  Rolling my eyes, I follow her past the large wooden dining set into the kitchen. Not much has changed in the last five years. A large, moss-green island separates the kitchen from the main floor of the open space. I slide onto a heavy barstool and touch the gray Italian marble, letting my fingertips glide over the bumps and ridges.

  It’s all so familiar. The custom stainless-steel hood and the crazy diamond pattern in the glass backsplash. Even the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter with bananas hanging on the hook above. I walked into a time warp, and just like that, I’m sixteen again, pining for a girl who’s locked me in a perpetual friend-zone.

  A set of swaying doors leads to a laundry room in the back. Wren disappears through them for just a moment, and, to my chagrin, reemerges in an oversized sweatshirt with the words Newport, Rhode Island cracking across the front.

  “Here,” I say, reaching into the back pocket of my holey jeans. “You can give this back to Asher. Tell him I’m sorry.” Wren peers at the pile of cash sitting on the island between us. Before she asks, I tell her, “It’s what’s left after I paid off some bills at the house, bought some groceries, and gave Erika a few bucks for new flip-flops.”

  Her gaze softens. “Keep it. He doesn’t need it as much as you do.”

  I sheepishly swipe the money off the counter and tuck it back in my pocket. I hate the fact that she’s right. The prideful man inside me wants to shove it down his throat. My silence can’t be bought. But the sad truth is, a thousand bucks is a lot to my family.

  “You know, I really think if you got to know Asher, you guys would like each other,” she announces, opening a skinny cabinet door and pulling down two mugs.

  “I’m sure we would,” I lie. There’s no way in hell I could ever like a guy like that. But for Wren’s sake, I can pretend.

  “He isn’t always like that, you know. I think he was threatened by you.” She pops the top on a can of of Folgers, then carefully counts out the scoops before filling the reservoir with water. The coffee machine churns and hisses, a cloud of steam rising from the falling trickle. “You being so rakishly handsome and all.” Her lips quirk into a lopsided grin as she throws my own words back at me.

  I can’t help but laugh. “I dunno. Asher’s pretty good looking . . . for a guy. Very neat and tidy.”

  She shoots me a pointed glare, then fills two mugs, sliding one in front of me before twirling back toward the fridge. “Cream and sugar?”

  She watches over her shoulder as I slide off the stool and round the island. Leaning in, I breathe another quick hit of her intoxicating fragrance as I reach for the cream. My chest brushes her back, my fingers skimming the line of her hip. “You don’t have to wait on me. You’re not at work.”

  “Old habits,” she murmurs, her voice breathy and light.

  I want to pin her up against the cabinet and kiss her raw. I want to feel those long legs wrapped around my hips as I hold her close and make her mine right here in her parents’ kitchen under the word “pantry” stenciled onto the glass panel door.

  “I know the feeling,” I mumble, forcing myself back a step.

  She pauses for a beat, searching the fridge for I don’t know what, while I resume my seat at the edge of the counter and dump a generous amount of cream into my coffee. I watch the colors collide, dark and light swirling together in a watercolor blend until it finally settles into its new mocha hue. There’s art in everything. You just need to take the time to see it.

  “So, have you been working on anything lately?” she asks as if reading my mind.

  “Some, yeah. Nothing to brag about.”

  She leans her elbows on the counter, rolling the steaming mug between her petite hands. “You wanna see something weird?”

  “Always.” I take a tentative sip of my coffee, checking its temperature before going for another.

  Wren stands and walks past me with this strange look on her face as she jogs up the steps. A few moments later, she comes down and slaps a notebook on the counter. “Two days before you showed up at the diner, I found that under my bed.”

  The marble-textured cover taunts me as I stare down at the composition book next to my elbow. Familiarity stews in my belly. I run my finger down the crisp edge of the cardboard and slide under it until I’m met with a small piece of my ink-slathered past.

  “I can’t believe you still have this.” I touch the drawings as if I can feel them. They slide up my fingers and rush through my forearms, dragging me back to the days of pen and paper when I’d doodle my scratch in this stupid notebook night and day.

  “Why would I get rid of it? You gave it to me.”

  Each turn of the page is another memory, another feeling. I remember them as if they were yesterday. Cartoon images of my soul clinging to this ancient book, a relic hidden under a girl’s bed.

  “WHAT ARE you gonna do with it when you’re done?” A light ginger curtain falls off her shoulder as she leans forward, craning her neck to see what I’m doing.

  “I dunno. Throw it out and start over?”

  Her jade eyes widen, her pale lips parting into an O. “Don’t you dare!”

  “It’s crap.” I shrug. “Nothing special.” I look up from the black splash on the page and meet her gaze. “You can have it if you want it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” Closing the book, I slide it across the picnic table. “It’s yours.”

  A smile lights up her face as if I’ve given her an actual gift. “You need to sign it. It will be worth something when you’re a rich, famous artist.”

  J.D. MY INITIALS etched into the back page so deep I can feel the ind
ent of my own pen. Stupid dreams by a stupid boy. That’s what this book is. A bunch of nonsense and wasted time. I close the cover and push it away, lifting my mug a second time. “You don’t have to keep it.”

  “I want to.” She snatches it from the counter and flips through the pages, the tips of her hair floating around her face. “This one,” she says, stopping at a page. “It’s my favorite.”

  She sets it down between us. A figure looks back at me, his face mostly concealed by a ball cap, save for one eye peeking out from beneath the brim. His arms raised in movement. One end of his skateboard tips toward the sky, the other mashed under his sneaker.

  “Why that one?”

  “It’s you.”

  “No, it’s not,” I snort. “It’s just some random skater guy. They were all over the park.”

  “It’s totally you,” she insists. “You just didn’t know it at the time.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The eye. Look . . .” She twists the book so it’s facing me. “It’s sad, yet so determined.”

  My mouth runs dry. I was grounded when I drew this, sitting on my bed, watching the world go by from my tiny window. Back then, I would sketch without thought. My pen was my guide, the paper my road map. I was merely the vessel they needed to come to life.

  Yellow bruises colored my side, purple ones just beginning to emerge. I took out my pen, and instantly, I was somewhere else. That decrepit old house disappeared, and I was in the park with the wind whipping through my shirt and a foot of air between my board and the ground. I was free.

  I was free.

  “Sorry to disappoint. But it’s just a chance drawing.”

  “Well, art is in the eye of the beholder, right? It’s my interpretation.”

  “You can be wrong if you want.”

  She playfully swats my arm as she moves the book to another part of the counter. I watch from the corner of my eye as she hooks her finger into the handle of her coffee mug and pulls it off the counter. Her lips pucker ever so slightly as they curl around the porcelain rim, and my chest tightens.

  “I should probably start getting ready for work. I have the lunch shift today.”

  “What are you doing after?”

  “Plans with Asher. . .” She trails off, and I physically have to restrain my scowl. I can only hold back the rising bile for so long, and the idea of that guy touching her makes it hard to swallow down. Actually, the idea of anyone touching her makes me want to go on a murder spree.

  But my brain jumps to her defense. You have no right. She isn’t yours. Yet.

  “Well, guess I’ll let you get to it then.” I slide off the barstool and set my empty mug in the sink before turning back to face her. “Thanks for the joe.”

  “Yeah. Sure beats the shit at The Grind.” Her innocent giggle smacks me in the chest and trickles down to my cock, leaving a trail of tingles in its wake. “But here . . .” She twists just enough to wrench open the drawer next to her and pull out a pen and a sticky note. “This is my cell number. Next time you need to apologize, just call.”

  A line of numbers and a crudely drawn heart scrawl across the hot pink square as she holds it out for me. I take it from her petite fingers and fold it in half before stuffing it in my pocket, trying not to look so stupidly excited.

  Jesus, I feel like a childish idiot who’s scared of girls. What is it about Wren that breaks me down and makes me feel all warm and tender inside? She’s always had this power over me. Ever since that first moment I saw her. Rocks churned in my stomach, and my mouth felt dry. I was just a kid then. Green behind the ears and a stranger to these feelings, but I’m a man now. I’ve been with women. I shouldn’t feel this fervent pulsing in my body whenever I come close to her, but I do.

  “I’ll see ya later. Have fun at work.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Jesse

  THE SCENT of spackle fills my nostrils; the thin veil of drywall dust coating all my nasal passages and drying out my throat. I press my palm flat against the sheetrock and force the screw into the stud behind it. The drill cries, then stutters as I sink the screwhead into the top layer of the wall. It’s a dirty job, but it’s an honest living.

  The other guys on the jobsite mill about, each fulfilling their daily tasks. Dudes in flannel. Their leather tool belts making their jeans sag under their round bellies. This is my future, and I may as well accept it. With my sculpted arms and wide chest, I’m built for hard labor, not for delicate works of art. Yet another pipe dream it’s time to get rid of.

  My new cell phone rings in my pocket, and for a moment, I ignore it, not realizing it’s mine. I honestly don’t even know why I got the damn thing.

  That’s a lie. I know exactly why I got it.

  And that reason flashes across my screen as I slip my thumb under the top and flip it open. “Hey, Wren. What’s up?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Workin’.”

  “Oh, crap. I’m sorry . . . call me later.”

  “Outside, Dylan! No cell phones on the jobsite!”

  I shoot my foreman a thumbs-up, shifting the phone to my other ear as I walk outside. The summer sun hangs high in the sky, the burning rays of the mid-July heat shining on my neck. It seems like only yesterday we were celebrating the start of summer, and now it’s halfway over. Time sure does fly when you’re working menial labor and pining for a girl you can never have.

  I wipe away the beads of dirty sweat clinging to my forehead and lean against a nearby tree for shade. “No, it’s fine. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good! Um . . . I was going to look at a condo today. I wondered if maybe you wanted to come with me. But if you’re busy—”

  My pulse soars. “Yeah! I can do that. We’re just finishing up. I can come pick you up in an hour.” Jesus, Jesse. Eager much?

  “Great. I’ll see you then.”

  Her sweet voice disappears from the line, but the goose bumps it caused are still fresh on my arms. I slide my phone in my pocket, wiping the stupid smile off my face before heading back into the jobsite. Tom stands in the corner, shaking his head as I enter. “Nice of you to join us,” he jokes, crossing his burly arms over his massive chest. The foreman likes to talk a big game, but underneath the brawn and muscle, he’s a good guy.

  I make quick work of cleaning my area before trudging over. “Hey, Tom. I’m just about done with this. I’m gonna head out, all right?”

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  “None of your business,” I shoot back, trying my damnedest to conceal the half grin plastered on my face.

  “Looks like Jesse’s got himself a girlfriend,” Mark hollers.

  “She’s not my girlfriend, okay? We’ve been friends since grade school.”

  Mark snorts and drives a screw into the drywall before replying, “Men and women cannot be friends. I guarantee you’ve thought about fuckin’ this woman on more than one occasion.”

  Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s not like that,” I grumble, grabbing a nearby broom. There’s nothing to sweep, but I need the distraction from this conversation, or these guys will never let me live it down.

  “Shit, Mark, look at his face!” Tom bellows with a hearty belly laugh.

  “You guys are idiots. I’m leaving.”

  “Sure, Jess. Have a good one,” Tom taunts, still chuckling over my utter embarrassment.

  The oppressive heat waits for me in the cab of my truck. I roll down the windows as I head toward my house, but even the blustering highway wind offers little reprieve.

  “That you, Jess?” My mom’s desperate voice floats down the steps as I open the front door and kick my boots off on the porch.

  “Yeah!”

  “Oh, thank God!” A nervous edge cuts through her words. “I need your help.”

  I bolt up the unfinished steps two at a time, passing strewn clothes and shoes on my way. “Where are you?”

  “Bathroom!”

  Trying the handle, I brace myself bef
ore pushing it open to find her wedged between the toilet and the tub, a towel, thankfully, wrapped around her naked body. “What the hell happened?”

  “I tripped . . . lip of the bathtub,” she slurs as her droopy eyes avoid looking directly at me.

  I suck in a deep breath, letting my lids drift closed as I hold my frustration in check. She’s getting worse. At three o’clock in the afternoon, she can barely form a cohesive sentence. “How long have you been here? Where’s Erika?”

  “I dunno.”

  Irritation stews in my gut. My entire life has been spent cleaning up people’s messes. When the fuck is it my turn to have a life of my own?

  I shove my hands around my mother’s stout frame and tug, releasing her from her porcelain prison. “I’ll take you to the emergency room.”

  “No, no.” She plops onto the toilet lid with a dismissive wave. “I think . . . Maybe I just need a nap.”

  Graying tendrils stick to the crepe-like skin on her bare shoulders and curl around her aged forehead. A milky haze fogs her crystal-blue gaze. Emotion bubbles up inside me. She looks like the Crypt Keeper. She’s too young to look this old.

  “C’mon, let’s go.” Wrapping my arm around her back, I hoist her off the toilet and walk her into her bedroom.

  “You’re a sweet boy,” she says with a sleepy pat on my hand.

  “Yeah.” It’s all the response I can muster as I flip on the ceiling fan and close the door. She wasn’t like this when I left. Sure, she drank every day, but the woman sleeping it off on filthy sheets is not my mother. She’s a vacant shell of the woman who raised me. She died the day she chose Dave over me.

  Yet seeing her that way breaks my heart into tiny pieces. Dave didn’t just destroy me. He ruined our entire family. Now he’s dead, and we’re all left to live in the aftermath of his wrath.

  Moving about the house, I run through my after-work routine of showering off the day’s filth, then putting on clean jeans and a tee before heading back out to my truck. Mom will likely sleep way past dinner, I think to myself as I start the engine and head toward Wren’s house.