by Helen Hardt
We walk side by side, and it feels as if the setting sun is working magic, transporting us back to the time when Terrell was the Big Man on Campus and I was his hopelessly devoted, miniskirt-wearing Mad Girl. Terrell takes me back to the day he broke up with me, tells me what was going through his stupid head, that he didn’t think he would be able to offer me the life I deserved.
“What could a washed-up pro ball player with a bad leg and bullshit degree in criminal justice offer Marlow Donnelly, daughter of the fabulous Marla Donnelly?”
I stop walking and look at him. “That’s not fair! I didn’t want my mother’s life. I wanted you.”
A breeze lifts a lock of my hair, whipping it across my face. Terrell reaches down and tucks the strand behind my ear…something he used to do all the time. It’s familiar yet jarring. We stare into each other’s eyes, and the time and distance that has stretched between us seems to shrink. I’m twenty again, being kissed by the star of the football team beneath the branches of a maple tree, the autumn breezes causing leaves to fall around us like red-and-orange raindrops.
He bends down, presses his luscious lips to mine. He tastes like oranges and that Carmex lip balm he used to slather on his lips before a game. For a second, I think about sucking one of his lips into my mouth, running my tongue over the citrus-sweetened skin. A fleeting second. Then I remember Fionn—the way his lips felt against mine—and the feelings that have been haunting me for eight years just disappear. Poof! Just. Like. That.
I pull away. Wipe my lips with the back of my hand.
“Marlow?”
Oh, fuck me! This is not happening.
I turn around. Slowly.
Fuck me! This is happening.
“Fionn!”
10
Drunk in Love
He’s wearing his black button-down and holding a big, beautiful bouquet of flowers. The look on his face could eviscerate a girl. Like gut her from stem to stern.
I look back at Terrell and I know exactly what I want.
“Goodbye.” I stand on my tiptoes and press a platonic kiss on Terrell’s cheek. “Thank you for explaining what happened eight years ago. No hard feelings.”
“Goodbye, Marlow.”
I watch him walk away and then turn to look at Fionn. My heart lurches when I see the look on his face.
“So that was Terrell?”
“Yes.”
“Are ye getting back together?”
“What? No! Terrell is my ex.”
He shifts the flowers from one hand to the other. “And what am I, Marlow?”
“You’re my…”
“What? What am I?” He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “Some rando you flirted with in a bar in Ibiza? A vacation hookup?”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“How is it, love?” His voice is deceptively placid, but his eyes are turbulent with emotion. “If I am not the fella you rode to make your ex jealous, who am I? From my perspective, you left my bed to go kiss on your ex.”
“It’s not like that.”
“How is it?”
I want to tell him I’ve spent the last eight years going out with different guys because I had a need, a consuming desire, I couldn’t express. I wanted to stay in, to curl myself around the guy, my guy, to let go of the world of dating apps, sexting, ghosting, breadcrumbing, random hookups, waking up in a stranger’s bed, and dipping out before he wakes up and wants to cuddle.
I inhale and hold my breath, because I’m in over my head now.
“Terrell is my Ex, Fionn, but you’re my Oh. You’re my ‘Oh my God, he is it! He is the one I’ve been looking for my whole life. The one who makes me want to stay in when everyone else I know is going out.’”
My stomach is queasy, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m revolted by the cheesy dialogue coming out of my mouth or because I’m afraid Fionn won’t believe the cheese is legit, one hundred percent true. My Exes and Ohs monologue is almost as bad as the one Julia Roberts delivered to that floppy-haired British actor when she told him she was just a girl, standing across from a boy, telling him she loved him. Almost.
“Are ye saying ye want me to be your fella?”
“Y…Yes. I want you to be my fella, ye ’tick cunt. I want to eat shite curry with you. I want you to take me in your arms, to kiss on me, to call me love. I want you to give me loads and loads of ohs.”
“Go on, with ye.”
A slow smile spreads across his handsome face and I realize he is having a go at me.
“You’re my Oh, Marlow Donnelly. My, ‘Oh fuck, fuck yeah! I’m going to be this smashing bit of fluff’s fella.”
“Oh fuck, fuck yeah, you are, Irish,” I say, kissing him.
Author’s Note
Last year, I fulfilled my dream to move to Ireland. On New Year’s Day I moved into a cottage in Doolin, a crayon box village located a short walk to the majestic Cliffs of Moher. If you’ve read my books, you’ve probably developed an impression of me: verbose, outgoing, politically incorrect. These traits have often made me stand-out, and not always in a good way. That was not the case in Ireland, a land of grand stories and deadly craic. I am blessed to have made friends with several locals. One of my friends, Sean T. O’Connor, works in his family’s pub in Doolin. O’Connor’s is the best place to have a pint and listen to trad. Sean is a fit AF Irishman with a Hollywood-worthy smile. He has the sweetest soul, a great singing voice, and he knows how to give a sexy cocktail. When I asked him for the recipe for a popular cocktail served in Ireland, he sent a video of him making this, the Porn Star Martini. Sláinte!
Porn Star Martini
1.5 Fresh Passion Fruit
2 fluid ounces Absolut Vanilla Vodka
½ fluid ounce Passoã liqueur
½ fluid ounce Vanilla Sugar Syrup
2 fluid ounces Brut Champagne
* * *
Wash and cut 2 passionfruit, scooping out the seeds and flesh of three halves into your shaker (keep the last half for garnish). Add all of the ingredients except the champagne, shake with ice, fine strain into a chilled glass. Separately pour champagne into chilled shot glass to serve on the side. Sip alternately from each glass.
About the Author
Leah Marie Brown is a USA Today Bestselling Author and professional photographer. Before writing novels, she worked as a print journalist, radio announcer, and television broadcaster. An avid world traveler, her (mis)adventures often inspire her contemporary romantic novels. When not writing or traveling, she’s mentally eating fish and chips with Colin Farrell in a pub in Doolin, Ireland. Connect with her on social media or her website. She loves to hear from readers!
Next Rock on the Right
An Island Girls Novella
EmKay Connor
1
Britt
Unlike most people, I love Mondays. There’s nothing more thrilling than coming into the office early on the first day of a new week, energy replenished, creativity pulsing, the week a pristine canvas just waiting to be filled with new ideas, new campaigns, new collaborations, and new achievements.
It was barely ten a.m. on this Monday, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl under my desk. Or better yet, crawl back under my covers and turn the clock back a year.
“You have to come, Britt. We want you to be the baby’s godmother, and the godmother has to be there for the gender reveal.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear but still heard the conciliatory undertone that colored every single conversation with my sister like a filter on a camera.
Twelve months later, she still felt bad.
A vicious jolt of satisfaction shifted to a guilty pinch. I rubbed my forearm, as if to ease the unpleasant sensation. Mona and Nick—my ex-boyfriend, who was now my brother-in-law—hadn’t meant to fall in love. It “just happened.” Yeah, that statement includes air quotes.
What “just happened” was the three of us were supposed to meet up for a ski weekend in Steamboat Sp
rings so I could introduce Mona to my new guy. I got stuck at work and left later than planned, and then a record-breaking March blizzard dumped four feet of snow, making the roads impassable. Mona and Nick were snowed in together for three days—long enough to figure out they were “soulmates.”
It was fate. Destiny. Cupid. Kismet. Call it whatever you want. They never meant for it to happen and were so genuinely remorseful that I couldn’t remain angry, even though a tiny black corner of my heart was still vindictive. Nick and I had only been dating for a few months, so I was more disappointed than devastated. Still, it seemed we—I?—couldn’t shake an underlying sense of betrayal.
Or was it jealousy?
“I’ll do my best.” I pressed the phone against my ear. “I’m in the middle of a huge campaign right now, and I’m not sure I can get away.”
“It’s a week from Saturday. Surely, you can give us an hour.” Now her tone was a combination of remorse and reproach, heavy on the latter.
Her expectation that I should be as excited about her pregnancy as she and Nick were was like a gust of wind across a bed of coals. Red-hot resentment flared in my chest. I clenched my jaw to avoid saying something I’d later regret.
Mona had my life—my beautiful, going-according-to-plan life—and I was supposed to be happy about it.
Late at night, I scrolled through my Instagram feed, torturing myself with reminders of how perfect things had been. Photos of my girlfriends and me on vacation in Maui. The nameplate on my new office when I was promoted to junior account executive at Drummond Advertising. Sunday brunch with Mona and my parents at one of Denver’s many downtown bistros. Killing a CrossFit workout at the gym. Saturday nights on the town with Nick, my sleek red hair, green eyes, and slender frame a perfect match for his dark Italian good looks. Then there were the images of the life I dreamed of, planned for, was making happen.
Nick took a knee after two months, offering Mona a two-carat, oval-cut diamond platinum engagement ring—exactly like the one I had posted on Insta. Five months later, they got married at The Little Nell in Aspen, exchanging vows at 11,212 feet, a gorgeous autumn view of the Maroon Bells and the Rocky Mountains behind them—just like the photos on my Insta—while I stood off to one side, hoping my smile didn’t look like a grimace.
After a two-week honeymoon in Italy—okay, I didn’t have any of those photos on Insta because I wanted a honeymoon cruise—they moved into a gorgeous condo in Highlands Ranch, an upscale neighborhood outside of Denver. The gleaming tigerwood floors and metallic granite counters? Yep, straight from my Instagram pics.
Right on schedule—my schedule—Mona and Nick announced they were expecting. Aw, it was a honeymoon baby. Of course. Because Mona had my perfect life, while I had—
A fabulous career.
Yeah, that was about it. Dad was retiring after thirty-five years as a high-school math teacher, and Mom was swiping left and right on Zillow, looking for something smaller than the tri-level where they’d raised Mona and me. Even my girlfriends were a fail. Like Mona, two were recently engaged or married, and the fourth of our BFF Quad as we called ourselves in college was putting herself through med school.
I realized Mona was still on the phone, waiting for a response. “I’ll be there—”
She sucked in a relieved breath, which I felt not an ounce of apology for turning into a disappointed sigh.
“—unless something work-related comes up.”
“You know Nick and I—”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. We weren’t going down that road again.
“Don’t you have prenatal yoga on Mondays?” I didn’t give her a chance to answer. “Gotta go. Talk to you later.” I dropped my phone and threw myself back in my chair.
Let it go, Grasshopper.
For some reason, my inner voice—the one that dispensed wisdom at odd moments—sounded like an old Chinese man and called me Grasshopper. Who knew watching reruns of the seventies western Kung Fu with my dad would make such an impression?
I gave my mental Master Po a flick and huffed in determination, sitting upright in the chair and scanning my desk.
Mona and Nick had taken enough of my time and emotional energy. They weren’t snatching away my Monday morning joy.
Two hours later, I’d mostly forgotten about the gender reveal party, immersing myself in creatives and ad copy for the grand opening of Bite Me, a new vegan restaurant in town. Satisfied with the presentation I’d put together for the client meeting later in the week, I stood and stretched. I grabbed my Yeti Rambler and headed for the office water dispenser for a refill.
“Hey, Britt. I need a few minutes of your time.” Seymour Drummond, the ad agency founder and big boss, called out to me as I passed his office.
Seymour was somewhere between sixty and a hundred and believed in reincarnation. If I shared his belief, which I did not, I’d say he’s done stints as a hippie, a mule, and Julius Caesar. Most of the time he was chill, managing the agency with the most expansive open-door policy I’d ever experienced. When he dug in his heels on something, though, it would be easier to move a mountain than shift his stance. Like Caesar, he was strategic, political, and there were probably a few people planning his assassination. Somehow, the combination of laidback and determined worked because Drummond was one of the top ad agencies in the country.
I counted myself lucky to be learning the business under his tutelage.
“What’s up?” I leaned against the doorframe, the water bottle dangling from one hand.
“Sit down.” He poked a finger toward a chair across his desk.
It wasn’t unusual to be called into Seymour’s office, but something in his voice made the skin on my nape prickle.
In a good way.
I dropped into the seat and set the water bottle on the floor, meeting his gaze and waiting for him to continue.
“We’ve been approached by a new client.”
He smoothed a hand mottled with age spots over the luxurious white mane he wore in a short ponytail. He reminded me of Karl Lagerfeld…without the fashion sense. Seymour favored jeans, old rock band T-shirts under flannel shirts, and Doc Martens.
“Is it something you want to bring me in on?” I asked, a flutter of anticipation tickling the inner side of my navel. One of the reasons young advertising professionals scratched and clawed for a chance to work at Drummond was Seymour’s rep for promoting talent sooner rather than later.
He cocked his head and regarded me with brilliant blue eyes.
Be still, Grasshopper.
I heeded Master Po’s advice and endured Seymour’s contemplation without giving in to the urge to fidget.
“Are you familiar with Care For All?”
“Never heard of it.” I hated to admit I was unfamiliar with it, but Seymour had zero patience for suck-ups.
“Care for All is a private nonprofit.” Seymour leaned on one elbow in the massive executive chair that dwarfed his short, stringy build, reaching to tap his keyboard. “It’s an international humanitarian organization that funds healthcare initiatives in impoverished communities. Their goal is to ‘establish permanent community resources.’” His brows rose as he quoted the corporate-ese.
“Sounds like a noble mission,” I murmured.
“Hell, yeah, it’s noble.” His casual tone belied the ferocity of his words. “The problem is that funding has dropped off, and their budget is shrinking. They’ve relied on grants and federal subsidies for the past two decades, but that isn’t working anymore.”
The buzz of anticipation kicked up a notch, sending goosebumps over every inch of my skin.
“They want to reach out to the public for contributions. Last night, I chatted with Alistair Deacons, who’s on the board of directors.”
I sat up, my brain already riffling through ideas. I’d been at Drummond long enough to have learned the secret to its success.
“What’s the story?” I couldn’t hide my excitement. Drummond didn’t create ad campaigns; it cr
eated story campaigns. Storytelling marketing relied on a narrative that created a visceral response, prompting consumers to take action. Seymour was a master—probably the master—of the art form.
“You tell me.” A smug look of satisfaction creased Seymour’s face.
“Me?” The word squeaked out as surprise, and delight hit me with a one-two punch.
“If you’re up for it.” He leaned forward, all business now. “I need someone who can give me a hundred percent for at least a month. Maybe longer.”
“Not a problem.” The only commitment on my horizon was the dreaded gender reveal party.
“No. I mean one hundred percent, twenty-four-seven.” His fuzzy caterpillar brows kissed over the bridge of his nose. “If you take this assignment, you’ll be spending two weeks on a tropical island in the middle of nowhere.”
2
Luka
I gradually came awake from the light doze I’d settled into and took inventory of my surroundings to determine if I needed to get up or if I could allow myself to return to sleep. The clinic was quiet except for the tick of the ceiling fan and hum of the refrigerator where I stored medication. Outside, the deep navy-blue of night was just starting to lighten with the approach of dawn.
Nothing but silence from the treatment room across from my office where I’d stretched out for a nap in the worn recliner inherited from Doc Rodriguez, the previous physician-in-residence on Isla Tortuga Verde. The leather stuck to my skin when I tried to shift position, holding me fast like a bug caught on fly paper. The ripping noise as I peeled my thigh off the seat seemed extra loud against the stillness, and I cocked my head, listening to see if the sound had disturbed Florencia or Juan. After a moment of continued silence, I was reassured that mother and child were still sleeping.