I raised my head and met his gaze. “You ruined my life that night.”
He walked towards me. “I ruined my own as well.”
My stomach plummeted. I stared at him. He held my gaze. Dizziness threatened. He stopped in front of me, so close our bodies almost touched. My heart tripped and hurried. I couldn’t breathe.
“I fucked up,” he said, his eyes searching mine, “and I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
My heart may not have understood the danger, but my head sure did. I gave him a stony stare. Found my breath and said, tough as flint, “It’s a bit late for sorry,” my heart shattering all the while into millions of tiny pieces.
“Jesus Christ, woman, can’t you see I’m trying to—” He broke off and raked a hand through his hair.
My breath hitched. “What?”
He swore. And then his arms came around me, crushing me to him, his lips on mine, his hands tangling in my hair.
Even as my lips softened under his, my body moulded against him, my head warned, Don’t let it happen. This mustn’t happen. Because if it happened like it seemed to be happening I might never recover. I pushed against him, but I could feel myself slipping, sinking, drowning in his nearness. Matt. I couldn’t fight this. It felt too right.
And, just like that, I was lost all over again.
His smell, his taste, his touch. Lost.
“I love you, Becs.”
I stilled. Pulled back slightly so I could see his eyes.
He returned my gaze and the truth blazed between us.
I frowned, trying to make sense of it all. “Then why . . .? How could you just . . . push me away? Give all that up?”
“I was a fool.” He kissed my forehead. “I thought you were playing me, like—”
“But I—”
“Sssh.” He touched a finger to my lips. “I need to explain.”
He hesitated. “Remember I told you I’d been engaged?”
I nodded.
“Well, it didn’t last long. I fell in love, thought she felt the same way, then found her in bed with someone else. I swore I’d never let myself get played like that again. Ever.” His face twisted. “So when I saw you with that drunk idiot in Dublin—”
“We weren’t—”
“I know.” He caressed my face, his fingers tangling in my hair. “I knee-jerked. Sorry.”
“Me too.”
“I lost you once. I am not”—his grip tightened—“losing you again. I love you.”
My world tilted, shifted, settled. I clung to him. We kissed. Heaven on earth. If I died now I’d die happy.
I rested my head on his chest, feeling the strong, solid beat of his heart against my cheek. “I love you, too.”
He kissed the top of my head. “I’ve missed you, Becs. Like air.”
I looked up at him. “Matt . . .”
As if I might take flight, his arm tightened around my waist. “Mm-hmm?”
I flattened my hands against his chest. Took a deep breath, drawing strength from him. “I wasn’t unfaithful.”
“I know.” He trailed one finger along my neckline.
“You know that too? Then why the hell did you—”
His finger stilled. “I know now. I was too angry back then. Some guy was with my girl; that’s all I saw. I wanted to kill the bastard.”
“So you dumped me instead.” I shook my head. “Nice work, cowboy.”
He lowered his head. “Shows how much you addled my brain.” His lips found mine and he kissed me slowly, thoroughly, as if it were our first.
I felt a wave of heat. “Mmm, nice work, cowboy.”
His hands felt their way inside my top, lifting the fabric with them. Our kiss deepened. He dispensed with my top, gave a satisfied growl. He trailed hot kisses down my neck and, bending his head, moved lower. His tongue licked and probed the edge of my bra, lifting the lace, promising more, sending hot arrows of lust shooting down to my core. I shivered. My hands roamed beneath his T-shirt. God, he was beautiful. I wanted him. Right now.
He whipped off his T-shirt and pulled me close again, his breathing as ragged as mine. Skin whispered against skin. Hands explored. My bra disappeared. Flashpoint.
“Don’t forget your lecture,” I murmured.
His lips grazed my ear. “Fuck the lecture.”
THE END
Connect with Maggie:
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Also by Maggie Le Page:
The Trouble With Dying
(Keep reading if you’d like to check out a sample.)
Dear Reader
I hope you enjoyed A Heat Of The Moment Thing as much as I loved writing it. Being my debut novel, it holds a special place in my heart. Would it be too, too weird to admit I now think of Becky and Matt as friends? Yes? LOL okay . . .
I’ve had some readers tell me they wish the story hadn’t finished where it did; they wanted more. Well, watch this space. Matt and Becky will be there for Becky’s bestie, Liz, as she reassesses her life in book 2, and in book 3 they’ll be helping sister Dani deal with a devastating blow. Now I just have to find time to write them!
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Thanks so much for reading A Heat Of The Moment Thing and for taking the time to get to know Becky.
Happy reading,
Maggie
The Trouble With Dying
By Maggie Le Page
When Faith Carson wakes up on a hospital ceiling looking down on her body in a coma, it’s a bad start to the week. A very bad start. She has no idea who she is or how she got there or why, and the biggest mystery of all is why she married the schmuck who wants her ventilator switched off.
As if that’s not enough Faith has a dead gran haunting her, a young daughter missing her, and one devilishly delicious man making her wish she could have a second chance at life. And maybe she can, if she finds a way back into her body and wakes up by Friday. But if she doesn’t, this will be her last bad week—ever.
Nate Sutherland decided long ago he’d settle for friendship if he couldn’t have Faith’s heart. But now, as she nears death, he’s going to have to listen to his feelings in a whole new way—and act. Because if he doesn’t, this week will be the worst damn week of his life. He’ll lose everything he’s ever loved.
Chapter One
It’s one of those falling-to-your-death moments; the sort where you hope it’s just a dream but have a nasty feeling you’re going to wake up dead.
I plummet down through endless blinding light, wind roaring in my ears, panic roaring in my veins, waiting for that final, bone-shattering end.
A brief flash of agony, then silence. It’s over.
I wait, shuddering, flesh crawling, every sense on high alert. Am I dead—or alive? Dreaming—or awake?
An antiseptic smell, reassuringly familiar, teases my senses.
A quiet p-shhh breaks the silence. Then another.
What’s that sound? I force my eyes open, flinching against the glare.
Fluoro pink platform boots assault my vision. I blink, frown, blink some more, then do a serious d
ouble-take at the jet-black, wild rocker wig.
“Gran?”
She blows out her cheeks. “Thank goodness. You had me worried.”
And she’s got me worried. Nobody’s grandmother wears stuff like this, least of all when they’re seven years dead.
“Darling,” she says, “we need to talk.”
Damn straight we do. Starting with the Rock Chick gear.
She looks at me with that have-an-extra-cookie twinkle in her eye and my heart squeezes tight. It’s been seven long years. And though I’ve tried every which way to make contact with her, she’s never come. Not once.
“Why?” I ask, unable to keep the hurt from my voice. “Why now? I needed you, Gran.”
She shakes her head. “You missed me, Faith. You didn’t need me.”
Faith’s my name? I roll the name around in my head, but it doesn’t feel familiar. That’s weird.
The p-shhh’s keep p-shhhing.
I frown. “Why don’t I remem—”
“Later,” she says. “We have more important things to deal with.”
She indicates the floor and I follow her gaze. Instant vertigo hits, and every last vestige of calm deserts me faster than you can say ‘hallucination’.
My thoughts scramble. I close my eyes, then drag in a shaky breath and look again. My head reels. I’m floating. In mid-air. Up near the ceiling. With my dead gran beside me and my plum-painted toes dangling below.
I glance at Gran, but her expression tells me nothing. I blink, swallow, and look back down.
Down at the no-frills bed. Down at the young woman in it.
Long, dark hair frames her delicate features. And though one side of her face is marred by a mess of brown tape and a mouth tube, a shadow of memory dances at the edge of my consciousness. I should know this woman.
The memory refuses to solidify, but whoever she is, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got bigger issues to deal with—like what I’m doing up here, and how to get back down.
She’s asleep. Her eyelashes, long and dark, stand out against the pallor of her cheeks. A pallor that’s accentuated by that striking blue-black hair of hers.
Blue-black hair.
My breath catches. Is my hair bl—? No. Don’t even think it.
Too late. I have.
And suddenly I’m back there, living it all, fear and horror exploding in my mind.
Crap, shit, no-no-no. Scrabbling. A handhold, a fingerhold, anything.
Icy dread licking down my spine. Stupid. So stupid. Biggest mistake ever.
The railing falling away. No—the railing’s fixed. It’s me falling away.
A moment of slow, silent grace. A leaf on the breeze. Hair brushing against my cheek. Then deathly, gut-swooping, mind-stalling acceleration. Oh God. Please, no. Not this.
A blue, blemish-free sky. And regret. Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve, won’t.
Terror freezing my heart, loosening my bowels.
Abruptly, I hurtle out of freefall and back to the present.
Heart pounding, lungs heaving, I look at Gran. Her black-kohled eyes, their expression beyond serious, meet mine. My stomach turns in on itself.
“Okay?” she asks.
I take a shaky breath. Am I okay? I don’t know. What the hell kind of nightmare was that?
The p-shhh’s continue in the background, and my breathing gradually slows as my panic subsides.
I glance around and see the irony: I’ve simply swapped one nightmare for another.
Where is my reality?
My hair. What colour is it? With a trembling hand I pull a few strands into my line of vision—or try to. But my hand doesn’t move. Something’s wrong. My arm’s just hanging there, limp.
I try to lift the other hand. No movement there, either. Not even a finger-twitch. Dry-mouthed, I look down and wiggle my toes. Nothing.
My heart thumps painfully. What’s going on? I can move my head, but that’s all.
Quadriplegic? I quickly banish the thought. Then un-banish it and, swallowing a ball of fear, look Gran’s way.
“Am I paralysed?”
“No.”
Then what? The fear-ball dissolves, leaving bile in its place.
“Think, Faith. Remember.”
I swallow back acid. “I just did. It wasn’t fun.”
“Not that. Everything. Remember it all.”
I frown at her, then let out an exasperated sigh. Those pesky little p-shhh’s. I embrace my irritability—easier to cope with than fear—and look down towards the noise. There. The culprit is a fancy-looking bedside monitor with an exciting array of buttons and graphs and numbers and symbols. My eye is immediately drawn to the red flashing heart.
Like rising damp, tension fills my body.
I look up, away; anywhere but down there. It doesn’t work. That flashing little heart has seared my eyes and imprinted itself in my brain.
I watch the woman with the too-slender arms and the pasty white skin, and for long, desperate moments I pretend. I pretend she could be anyone. I pretend this isn’t a hospital room. I pretend I don’t feel it.
But I feel it, all right. Our link, twanging between us, guitar-string taut. My limbs, limp and lifeless, as good as dead. My gut, churning with the conviction I wish I didn’t have.
That fall was real. This is all real. And that woman, whoever she is, is me.
Chapter Two
That’s me down there. Me. I draw a shaky breath.
Gran watches me watching—me.
My brain doesn’t want to believe the message my senses are sending. “Why don’t I recognise myself?”
“That’s just the way it works, darling. When you’re on the other side you recognise everything: your home, your family, everything you left behind. But you’re not on the other side. You’re . . . here.”
Wherever ‘here’ might be.
“Then why did I recognise you?”
“Because I’ve met you halfway.” Gran looks at her watch. “Right. Chop chop. You’ve conquered the first hurdle: acknowledgement. But we don’t have time on our side, so let’s not dilly dally.”
It doesn’t feel real. None of this does. It’s like I’m looking at it all through smoky glass.
“Darling,” she says, gentle but firm, “this isn’t the time for navel gazing.”
Navel gazing? I try to keep the hurt out of my eyes but, dammit, how can she say that? I’m not navel gazing; I’m trying to get my head around this out-of-body experience that just won’t stop. Jeeze, it’s not every day a girl is woken by her dead gran, discovers she can’t move, dangles from the ceiling like a forgotten party streamer, and doesn’t even recognise her own face.
“Faith, this is important. Life-and-death important.”
The words fall like stones in my gut. “You mean I’m dying?”
Gran hesitates. “Your situation is . . . delicate.”
“Define ‘delicate’.”
She doesn’t.
My heart races. That horrific, deathly freefall mocks me. “Am I dead? Just tell me.”
Gran was never this quiet when she was alive.
I look down at the body in the bed. I’m pretty sure I see the rise and fall of her—my—chest, but I’m not sure about anything anymore.
“Come on, Gran. What happened? What’s wrong with me?” More to the point, why don’t I know?
Gran says nothing. Her eyes skitter away from mine. What is she not saying?
I cast my mind back, but all I remember is falling through the air. Nothing about where it happened, how it started, how it finished, why . . . Nothing about anything, actually.
That’s strange.
My heart kdumps.
Chest tight, I fish for any old memory. Anything that might help me reconnect with myself.
Nada. There’s not a damn thing. Where Faith should be, it’s just a gaping abyss.
“What’s going on, Gran? Why did I fall?” I turn back to her, just in time to see her body disperse.
Pan
ic flares in my gut.
“Gran!”
I reach for her but, of course, my arm doesn’t move. And then she’s gone. Dissolved, for crying out loud. As in, beam her up, Scotty. What the fuck?
Adrenalin shoots through my limbs. My fingers and toes tingle. Where did she go? Did she mean to do that or . . . My nerve-endings thrum with dread. Is Gran okay? Or did someone just kill her in front of my eyes?
No. You can’t kill a dead person.
Can you?
I gulp down my fear and try to think logically. But there’s nothing logical about this. Besides—the hairs on my neck rise—someone’s watching me. I can feel it.
“Hello?” I suck in some air and glance boldly around, but I’m not kidding them and I’m not kidding me. I’m scared. Pee-my-pants scared. I want to run far, far away. I want to curl in a ball until the bad dream ends. Dive back in my body and zip myself in.
But I can’t do any of that. I can’t bloody move.
Below, something starts to beep. It reminds me of a bomb ticking down to zero. My scalp crawls. I’m trapped, stuck up here, unable to do anything except turn my head like a sideshow clown. I’m completely at the mercy of whatever—whoever—is coming to get me.
Beep beep beep. Louder, faster, beepa-creepa-beep.
A nurse rushes in, glances at Faith-in-the-bed, jabs at the monitor.
“Gran?” Where is she? She might be dead, but at least she’s company.
Silence. My chin trembles. I clench my teeth tight, refusing to cry. How do I get back to ground level? Forget ground level: how do I move from this spot? How do I get off the ceiling?
My breath comes shallow. Nausea claws at my gut. My head swims. My insides flip like a freshly landed fish. And that blasted machine is beeping as if it’s about to self-destruct.
The nurse shouts for reinforcements.
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