Purely Unconditional: A Romantic Tale of Snow Days and Second Chances

by Bethany Hensel

  “Congratulations,” he says, “you did your twelve challenges of Christmas. Even the revised ones.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.” I add with a grin, “Except of course, staying out at a club until midnight, and the one with the five guys in the museum. I still have to talk—”

  Jack pulls me on top of him. When he’s done kissing me senseless, he says with his own grin, “Don’t even think about it. And you can stay up until midnight with me, Club Jack.”

  Laughing, I say, “Well, besides that, there is still one I have to do.”

  His eyebrow quirks up. That’s when I stand. As I do a complete walk around my living room, naked and proud and so happy I can’t believe it, Jack hoots and hollers, whistles and claps. I look over my shoulder.

  “Now I’ve done my list.”

  I beckon him into the bedroom. I don’t have to ask twice.

  Acknowledgments

  Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Thank you so much for reading Purely Unconditional. I hope you loved it! You guys keep it real and make it possible. Thank you for your incredible support!

  Thank you once again to my critique partner and personal Jiminy Cricket, who always steers me away from the bad juju. Heather Stewart, your editorial notes make life worth living.

  Karoleen Aboud, somehow, someway, this story became about us. Without you even realizing, you’ve helped me break free, grow up and reach higher.

  And finally, my family. I fall, you pick me up. I lose my way, you help me find it. I cry, you make me laugh. Unconditionally and without question, you’re the lights of my life.

  Merry Christmas!

  A Note from the Author

  Thank you for reading Purely Unconditional. I hope you enjoyed it! I’d love to hear from you, so please always feel free to contact me. You can email me directly or follow me on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. I just started a newsletter, so if you’d like to know more about Silver Lake and the Taking Chances series, you definitely want to sign up for it. As a subscriber to my list, you’ll have access to free books, reader extras, and a monthly contest.

  Also, if you can, please leave a review of this book on any retailer websites. Good or bad, I appreciate them all.

  Once again, thank you so much for taking the time out to read this book! I can’t say thank you enough. I hope to hear from you.

  Much love and happy reading!

  Sneak Peek

  Layla Ellison may be the best friend in this story, but she’s the heroine in her own sexy romantic comedy, Sweetly Irresistible. Keep reading for a sneak peak.

  Chapter One

  “I just have a few more questions to go.”

  I smile and clench my hands tighter. It’s the second of November, in the thick of my favorite season. Normally, this is the time I’m at my most comfortable—no need for AC, no need yet for heat. I can still wear short sleeves with long pants. Evenings can be brisk but all I need is a blanket and my coffee. Like I said, cozy. But right now, I’m…what’s the phrase? Sweating like a sinner in church. And squirming like a baby in the same pew.

  “And how much do you make annually?”

  My right hand is clutching the fingers of my left so hard I’m surprised my knuckles aren’t cracking. I answer, “It’s been a slow season. I did just have four parties over the last few months, though. Each one was worth—”

  “I just need a number, Miss Ellison.”

  I lick my lips. “Sixteen-thousand.”

  The woman—it’s weird to call her Patty; Patty is a name for nice aunts and helpful old ladies, not helmet-haired bank tellers with bad acrylic—puts her hand on her mouse and moves it in a small circle. She hasn’t made any real eye contact with me since I’ve sat down.

  “What is your job?”

  “I’m self-employed.”

  “What do you do?’

  “I’m a baker.”

  Casually, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, wiping a bead of sweat off my face as I do so. I can’t believe it. I felt so good when I woke up this morning. I love the start of a new month, I love the feel of a new beginning. It’s like my motivation is fresh and I can begin again, stronger and better than before. But the minute I sat down with Patty, I felt as hopeful as a bug pinned under a microscope.

  “Um, like I was saying though, the jobs I do can pay anywhere from a few hundred to a few thousand dollars, so it—”

  “Do you have any other source of income?”

  Jesus, would I be wearing a button-down shirt a size too small and a gray skirt with a small hole on the hem above my left knee if I had any other sources of income?

  I shake my head. “Just the catering.”

  Mouse click. Typing. Mouse click.

  “And what would this loan be for? To pay off existing debt?”

  Deep breath, I’ve rehearsed this. “Actually, I’d use the money to open my own bakery. I’ve always wanted to be a small business owner, especially here. I’ve spent my life in Silver Lake and think the residents would especially enjoy a bakery in their neighborhood. Cake Shoppe is the nearest one, and it’s almost five miles—”

  “Okay, that’s all I need.”

  Ever play the game Red Light, Green Light? Someone yells “green light!” and you run as fast as you can toward them and then, without warning, they yell “red light!” and you have to stop so abruptly your upper body pitches forward? Talking with…Patty…is exactly like playing Red Light, Green Light.

  I hate that game.

  “Alright”—finally, she looks at me—“let me just put this through the computer. An answer should come back to us pretty quickly.”

  She types a few things. God, my face hurts from smiling. And the back of my legs are sticking to the metal chair because I’m so damn hot.

  Come on, St. Anthony. Please let this loan go through. Please find a way to make this loan go through. I paid off one debt, and yeah, I know it’s not anything big but still, that’s got to count toward something. And I did get one of those spammy pre-approval letters in the mail from a bank in Honolulu. That’s got to mean something, too. Right?

  Suddenly, the music to A Chorus Line starts sounding in my head.

  Oh God I need this loan. Please God I need this loan. I’ve got to get this loan!

  Patty finally looks at me. Drum roll, ladies and gentlemen.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Ellison. The bank did not approve you.”

  “Oh,” I say. I sit back and blink. And even though I didn’t come in here with sky-high confidence, it still feels like I got the wind knocked out of me. “Um, does it say why?”

  “No, but you’ll get something in the mail within the next few days explaining the decision.”

  Shit.

  I want to slump in my chair. I want to frown and furrow my brows and whine but why? But you know what? The ol’ slump, frown and furrow never got me anywhere before, and it won’t get me anywhere now. Just the other day, I went to the mall to return a shirt I thought I liked but the minute I tried it on, realized what an unflattering monster it was, but the receipt had expired. Did I give up, though? Did I slump, frown and furrow? No. I persisted and insisted and bam! Shirt returned.

  Persist. Insist.

  I sit up straighter and smile. Again.

  “You know,” I say, “just so you know, in case you want to write a note on my account or something, I probably got rejected due to my credit. But my credit is only so low because I just don’t have much of it.” Smile. “I mean, I don’t lease. I got my car from a friend. And my phone too…well, I didn’t get it from her but I use one of those monthly plans so I’m not locked into a contract because cell phone companies are always increasing their prices and, well, anyway, you see that it’s not bad credit, just not, you know, any credit so—”

  She nods as if she understands, but the whole effect is ruined by her pursed lips and slow blinking, as if I’m some lying piece of scum off the street instead of a loyal customer since I was sixteen years old.

  “You know,�
�� I say, “maybe there’s someone else I can talk to.”

  Her lips tighten so much it looks like she’s either going to kill me or kiss me. “The answer will be the same. With your credit score, lack of funds, and the fact that you overdraw every other week, you’re too much of a risk.”

  Two thoughts hit me at once. One: so she did know the reason why I got rejected and her whole you’ll-get-something-in-the-mail schpiel was bullshit. And two: a risk! Really? The most daring thing I’ve ever done was shoplift a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure when I was eleven. And then I felt so damn bad about it, I buried the thing in my backyard because I couldn’t deal with the guilt of playing with it. Every time I was in that yard, I swear I could hear him whisper, Kowabunga…

  Risky? Yeah, just ask my Tell-Tale Turtle.

  “Well, what about a smaller loan? If fifty is too high, I’m sure I could get by on forty. Or even thirty.” I inwardly cringe, but it’s better than nothing. Thirty thousand wouldn’t pay for all the equipment I’d need, but it’d be a good down payment on the building. I could do thirty thousand if I was careful.

  “Miss Ellison, you were denied a loan. For any amount.”

  An awkward silence descends. That’s probably my cue to leave but I can’t. Leaving is admitting defeat. If I can’t get this loan, I’m back to working at the Bargain Basement. I cannot ever work at the Bargain Basement again.

  “Are you sure there’s no one else I can talk to?” I add quickly, “Not that I don’t trust what you’re saying or anything. But maybe there are different avenues we could look at, see what we can come up with.”

  Patty sighs, as if I’m a child she’s fast losing patience with. “I’m the branch manager here, and I cannot authorize this loan. You can go to a different bank. You can call the eight-hundred number. But the end result will be the same because frankly, you don’t have enough money, you don’t have steady income, and you have no collateral whatsoever. Based on that, no bank will give you a loan for two thousand dollars let alone fifty.”

  I press my lips together. I nod. And because there’s nothing more to say, I grab my purse from the floor and stand. As casually and classily as I can, I adjust my skirt in back, so it’s no longer sticking to my sweaty thighs.

  ****

  My car is a ten-year-old Nissan Altima. It wasn’t ten years old when I got it. It was a young and spritely seven years old. When my best friend, Natalie, gave me the keys, I instantly fell in love. I sat behind the wheel and named him Barry Allen, and on days when he would go fast, I would call him the Flash. I have yet to call him the Flash. In fact, there are days I can barely call him anything but Damn It Stupid Car. The only nice thing about him is the color: a deep ruby red. As for the rest…

  The passenger door is so rusted that there are small holes at the very bottom of it. There are several large dents on the driver’s side and several smaller ones on the back. All cosmetic, my mechanic (read: son of my next door neighbor who comes by like, four times a year and he just so happened to look at my car seven months ago) says, so I never bothered to fix them. The car is such a weakling my friends and I joke that it doesn’t have horse power, it has pony power. Goes from zero to fifteen in thirty seconds

  The car makes that all too familiar creak and groan as I open the door and sit. I throw my purse on the passenger’s seat. You know, now that I think about it, I’m somewhat glad I didn’t get the loan. In fact, maybe me not getting the loan was divine intervention or something. After all, I’d have hated to be indebted to the bank where Patty It’s-In-The-Mail-Liar works, she who can’t maintain eye contact.

  The thought actually makes me feel a little bit better.

  I stick my key in the ignition, fully prepared to go to the bank down the road, just to prove my theory, when suddenly…

  Click click click.

  “Oh no.”

  I turn the key again.

  Click click click.

  I lean my head against the steering wheel.

  “Damn It Stupid Car.”

  Chapter Two

  “Do you like pina coladas? Getting caught in the rain?”

  I grab my phone before it can finish the next ringtone lyric and, with nary a glance at the screen (only one is worthy enough for that song), I say, “My car broke down.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  Natalie sighs. “Jeez, what a piece of shit. Whoever gave you that car sucks.”

  “I know. We should beat her up.”

  “Nah, I hear she likes that kind of stuff.”

  I snort and shake my head.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “King’s Square, next to the bank.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “You’re a life saver.”

  “I know. How’d the bank go?”

  “Didn’t. I was denied.”

  “Wow, a slap in the face and a kick in the balls. It’s your lucky day.”

  “I know. I should play the lottery. I bet I’d step in dog crap on my way into the store and break my ankle on the way out.”

  “That would be pretty awesome. I mean, in terms of unfortunate events.”

  I grin, though it doesn’t make the ache in my chest any less potent. I turn the key one more time, hoping against hope.

  Click click click.

  “I’m so depressed.”

  “You’re not depressed,” Natalie answers. “You’re just disappointed in the loan. But you’ll get there. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “You know that’s the definition of insanity, right?”

  “Hey, we’re all mad here.”

  I smile weakly as a memory flashes in my head: Me: Alice. Natalie: the Cheshire Cat. And yes, in answer to your question, she is the only person on earth with a body that can pull off a purple-striped cat suit.

  I hang up and throw my phone in my purse and hoist it on my shoulder. It’s too nice to stay in the car, so I brace myself against my rusty door and shove my way out. Several people look over at the noise it makes. I want to say something sarcastic to them in that moment, but I’m not Natalie and I can’t think of anything. Let’s face it, even if I could, I’d never have the guts to actually do it. Now, if I were Natalie, sure, I’d stick out my tongue or (let’s be real) my middle finger. But, as I step onto King’s Square in my generic brand heels, and the autumn light glints off my dollar store bracelet, I am reminded once again that I am not Natalie. Forget the physical attributes—she’s tall and half-Syrian I’m short and blonde—my fashion sense alone would count me out. I don’t even come close to having her nerve.

  But don’t think I’m too down on myself. I’ve got clear skin and small feet, which is nice when I want to go out bowling with friends. No shame in my shoe size. (Hey, I take wins where I can get them.) Plus, believe it or not, my size six feet can seriously fit in the largest kid shoe size, so if I ever wanted to rock some Disney princess kicks, I could. (Like I said, wins where I can get them.)

  I pass Mario’s Pizza and the smell is like a siren song. I’m so close to going in, but then I remember: no money. Fabulous. With a sigh, I keep walking.

  The most striking thing about King’s Square is not only the size of it—one mile to the north, one mile to the south, one mile to the east, and one mile to the west—and it’s perfect square shape, but the absolute eclecticness of the place. (Is eclecticness a word? It doesn’t sound like it should be a word, but there’s really no other word that’s appropriate.) In one building is a men’s shoe shop, in the next, a tattoo parlor, and in the next, a high-end dog supplies boutique. There’s a handful of coffee shops, one seemingly every sixth storefront, but they’re as different as eggs and oranges. There’s the Cat Café which, as you can guess, houses about fifteen cats that can crawl, jump and sit on you during your stay, as well as knock an entire scone down your bra, and when you try to remove it (the scone, not the bra) the damn thing is so dry it crumbles and gets in the most inconvenient crack
s…not that I’m speaking from experience or anything. There’s Books and Bagels, a personal favorite; Elmo’s is at the corner across from the Chinese massage parlor Lucky Hands which, during high school, Natalie had a field day with…actually, she still has field days with; and The Coffee Tree, Foxy’s, Beans and Whey and a host of similarly clever-named places finish out the coffee vendors. Don’t even get me started on the fine-china stores…or the motorcycle seat covers store…or the year-round Christmas lights store…or the pet shop that only sells spiders. Really, I’m telling you: eclecticness.

  But damn, it all looks so good in the glow of fall time. The fire-bright leaves, whether on the trees or dotting the sidewalk, adds a vibrancy and richness that the rest of the seasons just can’t compete with. There’s a lightness in the air, as if the October breeze swept out all the smog and heaviness of summer, and now there’s only fresh air and cool promises.

  Well, at least for everyone but me. I can’t believe I was denied for a loan, and on such a nice day. It’s like when I see some poor critter dead on the side of the road. It seems to make it doubly cruel when it’s gorgeous out. One minute, they’re enjoying the sunshine. The next, bam! And all they were trying to do was get to the other side of the street. That’s me. I feel like I got hit by a semi.

  I adjust my purse on my shoulder and keep walking. As I pass the Cat Café—a large black cat stares at me, his glinting eyes knowing, as if he remembers—my phone beeps. Natalie. I read her text and head into the corner market. She says she’s five minutes away, which really means she’s just leaving now.