Just One Night
Charity Ferrell
Contents
Also by Charity Ferrell
A Gift For You
Prologue
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Contact Information
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Just One Night
Copyright © 2018 Charity Ferrell
All rights reserved.
www.charityferrell.com
Cover Designer: Charity Ferrell
Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
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 the permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also by Charity Ferrell
BLUE BEECH SERIES
(each novel can be enjoyed as a Standalone)
Just Her Bodyguard
STANDALONES
Pop Rock
Bad For You
Beneath Our Faults
Pretty and Reckless
RISKY SERIES
Risky
Worth The Risk
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Prologue
Willow
“What the fuck have I done?”
I’ve never had a one-night stand, but I’m positive those aren’t the first words you want to hear the morning after.
I twist in the warm yet unfamiliar sheets and can taste last night’s whiskey in my mouth.
I lick my lips—wrong move—and regret it when the flavor of him hits my tongue.
Him.
The man pacing in front of me with his head tipped down while wearing only boxer briefs that show off his bulge.
I’ve lost count of the number of times the word fuck has fallen from his mouth.
I don’t know what to say.
Don’t know what to do.
“How the fuck could I have done this?” he continues.
My heart rams into my rib cage, just as hell-bent on escaping this situation as I am.
I’m stupid.
So damn stupid.
I drag the sheet up until it hits my chin, and he runs a hand through his thick bedhead hair, tugging at the roots the same way I did last night when he went down on me. He doesn’t know I am awake and can hear him, but that doesn’t make the wound any less severe.
His head rises when I jump out of bed and start scrambling for my clothes. The sheet drops from my body at the same time I frantically pull my dress over my head.
I have to get out of here.
Our eyes meet as I yank my panties up my legs. Apology and torture spill across his clenching jaw. The tears are coming, warning me to look away so that he won’t see my humiliation, but I can’t. I stare and silently beg him to change the outcome of this morning. The string to our stare down is cut by the sound of my name, a mere whisper falling from his loose lips.
I dart out of the bedroom, snag my purse I drunkenly threw over the arm of the couch, and rush toward the front door, not even bothering to search for my heels.
I refuse to glance back, but I hear him. No, I feel him behind me.
“Willow, please,” he pleads to my back with a strained voice while I fight with the lock.
I slam my fist against it. When did they start making these things so damn difficult?
“Don’t cry.” He blows out a stressed breath. “Just give me a fucking minute, okay?”
Relief hits me when the lock finally cooperates, and I slam the glass door in his face at the same time he repeats my name. I nearly trip on my feet when I jump down the porch steps.
I pause when I make it to the last one.
One more.
Against my will, I turn around for one last glance.
He’s staring at me in agony with the door handle gripped in his hand. For a split second, I’m stupid enough to think he’ll fix this. Stupid enough to believe he’ll say something, do something to make this right.
But he doesn’t.
He drops the handle, spreads both palms against the glass, and bows his head.
That’s my cue to get the hell out of here.
Fuck him.
Fuck whiskey.
Fuck my stupid decisions.
This is what I get for sleeping with a man mourning his dead wife.
Chapter One
Willow
Three Months later
I should’ve never answered his call.
“Have you been smoking crack?” I screech into the phone. “I’m telling Stella to break up with you. I can’t have my best friend screwing a dude who does crack.” I’m deleting him from my Contacts as soon as the call ends. I can’t associate myself with someone this batshit crazy.
Hudson sucks in what sounds like an irritated breath. “No, Willow, I’m not smoking crack. It’ll be the icing on the cake if you show. She misses you.”
“You know I can’t come back there.” My throat tightens, the memory of that night crashing through my mind like a horror movie that keeps you up late at night. Hell, he does keep me up at night.
“It’s not like you’re fucking blacklisted. You’ve chosen not to come back. I emailed you your flight information. See you in a few days.”
The line goes dead.
Asswad.
&n
bsp; I grip my phone, ready to call him back and tell him to shove that ticket up his ass, but I can’t.
I can’t because he’s proposing to my boss/best friend at her surprise birthday party. Stella deserves this—deserves love, happiness, and her best friend in attendance for one of the most important nights of her life. So, I’ll put my hate of the small town aside and risk seeing him—the jackass whose bed I fled from after our very drunken and very regrettable one-night stand.
He’ll be in attendance, given it’s his brother doing the proposing, which means I have to put my big-girl panties on, keep them on, and refrain from smashing a wine glass over his head.
All while keeping the biggest secret of my life.
While staying sober.
This will be interesting.
Some people believe in soul mates.
I believe in champagne and cupcakes.
The problem tonight is that I can only binge on one of the above, and it’s not the one I prefer.
I get a whiff of Stella’s signature rose perfume before she cages me in for a hug. I squeeze her tight, a silent sorry that I’ve been a sucky friend, and we’re both nearly gasping for breath by the time we release each other.
Damn, I’ve missed my best friend and how I could always confide in her without judgment. That’s changed now. My secret will destroy her relationship.
“I can’t believe you came,” she cries out with a red-lipped smile. “How did Hudson convince you? Buy you a mini pony? Promise to kick Dallas in the balls?”
I laugh. “Two horses actually. And I didn’t consider the second option, so thanks for the idea. I’ll add it to my list of demands next time.”
I snag her manicured hand to admire the glistening princess cut diamond sitting beautifully on her finger. It’s perfection and so Stella—nothing too exuberant or obnoxious but still flashy.
“I have to give it to the corn-fed, small-town boy,” I go on. “He did a kick-ass job in the ring department.”
She stares down at her finger, her smile now nearly taking over her entire face. “He did, didn’t he?”
Hudson threw her a great party. He invited the few family members she talks to, his family, and everyone on the cast and crew of her show. There’s food galore, confetti sprinkled all over the white-tableclothed tables, and a Happy Birthday banner hangs in front of the empty DJ booth.
Stella is not only my boss, but also childhood star turned Hollywood’s princess. I’m her assistant. That’s how I met Mr. Wrong One-Night Stand. We worked together for years until he quit to move back home, and Hudson took his job.
Hudson couldn’t give Stella mansions or fancy cars, but he did shower her with enough love and happiness to make up for it. She moved from LA to Blue Beech, Iowa, after convincing a producer to shoot her new show here. I tried to resign, but she wasn’t having it and agreed to let me do all my work from my apartment in LA.
Her hands rest on her hips over the black designer dress. “Are you staying with us tonight? I just put a new smart TV in the guest room, and we know how much you like your classic movies.”
I grimace. “That’s a giant hell no. The last thing you need around on the night of your engagement is Willow, the giant contraceptive. I’m crashing at Lauren’s.”
Lauren is Hudson’s and Mr. Wrong’s sister.
She groans. “Fine, I’ll settle for that because you showed up. That’s a big deal, and you did it for me.”
I crack a smile. “I also came for the cake.” That comment results in her pushing my shoulder.
Her face turns serious. “Have you seen him?”
The mention of him gives me a nasty taste in my mouth. “Who?” She crosses her arms at my response, and I scoff, my heart racing, “Oh, you mean the bed evacuator? Nope.”
That’s a lie. He was on my radar as soon as I walked in—for precautionary reasons, of course. I saw his back first, the one I assaulted so much, I ruined my manicure, and worry snaked through me. I cowardly fled the scene when he spun around and saw me.
“Hopefully, he’s ducking underneath tables, so we don’t have to face each other,” I say.
She smirks. “We both know Dallas is not a man who ducks underneath tables.”
“Looks like I’d better start then.”
“Don’t you think it’d be a good idea if you talked? Cleared the air?”
“I need to talk to him like I need anal bleaching. Both of them would be a pain in the ass and are never happening.”
She laughs, snagging a bubbly glass of champagne from a waiter walking by, and thrusts it toward me. “Here’s some liquid courage. Just don’t drink too much that you land in his bed again.”
I swat the drink away. “Not happening, and no, thank you.”
She stills and studies me. “Since when do you turn down champagne? Alcohol is always mandatory in these situations.”
“I’m trying out a new diet.”
“You might want to wipe the icing off the side of your mouth if you want to keep up with that lie.”
I scrub away the remnants of my sugar binge and lick my finger. Thou shall not waste buttercream frosting. “It’s this new craze diet where sugar is the main source of nutrition and alcohol is bad. Very bad. It’s called the good decision-making diet.” I start fake picking lint from my dress, so she doesn’t see the untruth in my eyes. The black dress is ugly and shapeless, and I bought it specifically for tonight to hide my body and secrets.
“So, you’re not drinking because he’s here?”
Shit. That would’ve been a more believable excuse than a damn diet. I nod, feeling bad for lying to her, but I can’t break the news here. It’d ruin her night.
“Does that mean, the chances of letting him rip off your panties for round two is likely?” She sets the glass down on the table behind her and bounces in her heels, like me banging Dallas again would cure world hunger.
“Calm down, matchmaker. Studies show that alcohol gives you shifty eyes.” I point to my hair. “Shifty eyes don’t look good on redheads.”
“Bullshit. You can’t deny you had a connection. Neither one of you is the casual banging type. Talk. Maybe there’s a spark that’ll lead to a firework.”
More like a wildfire breakout.
“The only connection we have is that he stuck his penis inside me once. That’s it. Nothing more. Now, it’s time to move on.”
She pushes my shoulder when I go back to my fake lint-picking. “Okay, what the hell is going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I blurt out, shifting my neck from side to side like I’m sore. “Jet lag is a bitch.”
“Liar.”
I wave off her accusation. “It’s your engagement party. Tonight is all about you.”
“If that’s the case, then I want answers.”
I chew on the edge of my lip while her dark eyes study me. I get the opportunity to look away when music starts to blare through the room. I glance at the DJ booth and then to the makeshift dance floor in front of it and almost gag at his first song choice.
Boyz II Men? Really, dude?
Looks like we’re getting served cheese with these cupcakes.
The sight of Hudson hurrying over to us relieves me. He wraps his arms around Stella from behind and squeezes her hips, his mouth going straight to her ear.
“Dance with me,” he attempts to whisper, although I’m sure everyone in the state heard him.
Stella melts at his touch, like it’s the first time they’ve ever had physical contact, and my heart hurts. This is what real love is. This is something I’ll never have. She groans, and I know my best friend well enough to know she’s going to turn him down to continue our conversation.
“Go dance with your fiancé,” I insist. “We’ll talk later.”
A smile accompanies her next groan. “Fine, but you’re not leaving this town until you spill the tea.”
“I wouldn’t imagine it any other way.”
Hudson kisses her cheek, snags her hand in his, and swe
eps her toward the dance floor. The crowd cheers, and people jump up from their seats to join them.
I release a deep breath, happy I dodged that conversation, and decide to reward myself with another cupcake. I grab a chocolate one with strawberry icing and huddle myself into a corner at the farthest end of the room. Shame sinks through me when I do another once-over of the party to search for the man who screwed me in more ways than one.
One more glance. That’s it.
One more view of the man who gave me the best night of my life and the worst morning.
My throat tightens when I spot him sitting at a crowded table in the middle of the room with the entire Barnes family. His daughter, Maven, has his full attention as she grins wildly and dramatically throws her hands up in the air while telling him a story. His head tilts back in laughter, causing my knees to weaken. That’s the smile I longed for that morning.
God, he looks sexy.
More delicious than these cupcakes.
Too bad he isn’t as sweet.
Dallas Barnes is tall, dark, and handsome but also scarred, rough, and broken down by burdens. He’s the man of your dreams who has been through hell and hasn’t risen above it yet.
Tingles sweep up my neck as flashes of our night together come crashing through me harder than this sugar rush. I drink him in like the glass of champagne I can’t have while he runs his strong hand over the stubble of his dominant jaw. The same hand that ignited nerves in my body I never knew existed. His hair, the same color as the whiskey we threw back, is freshly cut on the sides and grown out on top.
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