Say You'll Be There: A Second Chance Romance (Love In Seven Mile Forge Book 2)

by Billie Dale

A stack of packages hides her face as she mini steps. I close in, thankful for the winterized tread on my shoes. I reach her side the second one booted foot hits another iced puddle. Time slows to a crawl. One leg kicks forward and her ass plummets toward the concrete, sending the box once again sailing through the air. Without thinking I lunge, my hands grappling I catch her seconds before she slams on to the sidewalk.

  A snarky barb rises to my lips until I notice, in my haste to help, my hands landed on her tits. One plump round mound fills each hand. My cop brain screams to apologize and let go before she freaks out. But my inner gentleman works some quick math. Her feet point skyward, placing most of her weight on my hold. If I let go, she falls. If I squeeze to stand her up, I’m copping one hell of a grope. Pebbled nipples pressing against my palms are not helping my decision-making process.

  Fuck me, I forgot how magnificent her chest feels.

  Seven

  Preslee

  My heart pounds beating rhythmic against the large tanned fingers cupping my breast. It’s awkward, but I’m grateful for the nice stranger who stopped what would’ve surely been a tailbone bruise. Body heat wraps my back and coffee-scented exhales fan the shell of my ear, doubling my goosebumps. I peer down at his hands spanned on my chest. “Well, this is the most action I’ve had in a decade,” I joke, my body shaking with an embarrassed chuckle. Years spent in the comfortable California climate made me wimpy to the blustering Midwest cold. Hell, the frequent chill keeps peaking my nubs, and I tell ya my nipples are exhausted. This Good Samaritan probably thinks I want to get my freak on since the ladies saluted.

  I don’t envy his bad and worse choice, nor can I conjure words to ease the thorny situation. Either let me drop or squeeze my boobs to stand me up.

  He groans around a string of curses, ignoring my attempt at humor. “On three. As I pull, you drag your feet, bending to a squat. Pull those boots under you or we’ll both end up in the snow.”

  “One.” His brusque tone skyrockets my pulse.

  “Two.” His familiar scent catches on the wind kicking up from behind us.

  “Three.” His grip presses in on my boobs, flattening my chest. He lifts and yanks back as I bend my knees, scrambling to find traction on the ice. A familiar tingle wiggles up my spine in the second he hangs on to make sure I will not biff it again.

  Stubble rubs my ear. “It hasn’t been ten years since I’ve palmed these tits,” he whispers, sparking my internal hussy fuse, but dousing it the moment he releases me as though I’ve burned him.

  Of all the damn people in this town, it’s Joey Fucking Holmes who comes to my rescue. If one of these so-called acquaintances would’ve stepped up to help, I wouldn’t need his damsel in distress save. His comment reels me back in time to our last night and the reason I never wanted to return to Seven Mile Forge.

  ∞∞∞

  The sendoff celebration at Double V ranch was rough. Since I received my acceptance letter to design school, I’ve been skating on a cloud of possibility. For the past four years I’ve filled sketchbooks with ideas. My end goal wasn’t to own the runway but to provide sustainable, breathable, cooling clothing for children in third-world countries and the homeless right here in the States. I also created a line to keep those in a colder climate warm on even the chilliest days and nights. When I graduated, I hoped to join my parents after I help all those I could here in my home country.

  Sammy Lee’s tears popped a few of my anticipatory balloons. The past few years there wasn’t a day I haven’t spent time with her. She greeted me at the door anxiously waiting for a few minutes of girl talk. Nights Mazric was at away games or out screwing his latest conquest, we spent trading off watching her John Hughes films and feeding my obsession with the paranormal. I never could sway her toward my love for all things Ghostbusters, but she came around once the hotness of Sam and Dean Winchester broke on the scene.

  I worked through my issues with separating from my twin a year ago when he followed his dream and began attending Juilliard, but adding the distance of thousands of miles weighed on my heart. We still talked daily, but the only way I’d see his face was on a monitor.

  We were all scattering into the wind, chasing our futures except for Joey. No matter how many times I questioned his plans, he answered with a blank stare. He’d never been a freethinker. When I first met him in fifth grade, he was Jackson Mills’s lackey, then he became Mazric’s sidekick, and once we started dating my thoughts and wishes became his.

  I hated the sad puppy dog set of his eyes when I gushed about how great school would be. A giddy energy bounced inside me because my new adventure began tomorrow. My luggage sat in my trunk and a credit card from my parents waited for me to use it to fill my tank on the long drive across the country. Joey rode shotgun, staring out the window on our trek back home. He faked smiles and laughter through our farewell party, the joy never quite reaching his eyes.

  Aunt Viv promised she’d steer clear of my room tonight, giving us these last few hours to seal our goodbye. In my room, his hands never stopped touching my skin. Before the door clicked shut, he was removing my shirt and slipping my shorts down my legs, taking my panties with them until I stood bare before him. His breathing ragged, he kissed every inch of my exposed skin before guiding me to the bed. A year ago, we fumbled our way through giving ourselves to each other.

  After the night in Asia’s closet we did the awkward dance of boyfriend and girlfriend with rushing hands and roaming fingers working out our teenage hormones, but we waited to cross the finish line until the want boiled over and we were both ready. In those ‘formative years’ of groping and finding our groove, Josiah Carter Holmes learned how to play my body like his favorite guitar. Plucking, pulling, and gliding in perfect harmony with what I craved and needed. He ferreted out hot erogenous places with the skill of a treasure hunter searching for booty.

  Ha, get it…booty…okay, yeah, so anyway.

  The moral of the story here, kids, is the boy learned all the spots to make me purr and scream until my pipes were raw. Sitting in class with the ache between my legs from a quickie orgasm before school was the worst way to learn, but the best way to keep a goofy grin on your lips.

  I would miss Joey for more than his magic, pleasure-inducing appendages. The sweet smirk he wore when my sassy mouth dug me in a hole, the way he agreed with all the crazy I spewed and rode the wave of my moods better than a surfer on a pro circuit. The tie-breaking my-side-taker when Hendrix and I argued over what to watch on television. He was a phenomenal boyfriend in all the ways a first love should be. But his lack of ambition and clinging jealous immaturity clinched my decision to cut ties. I wanted him to live his best life, but all he cared about was staying by my side. He centered his world around me and I couldn’t return the sentiment. I loved him in all the ways my eighteen-year-old heart and mind could, but I knew there was more. We needed to grow and learn without the codependency.

  Can you hear the cliché train coming? If it’s meant to be set it free…blah…blah. Though in this moment it works.

  In the hours I drifted into dream he held me tight. My mind and body satisfied, I slumbered for a few hours before the sun crested the horizon. When amber warmth broke through my curtains, I yawned and stretched, feeling all the places he marked. I turned in his embrace and though his breaths were even, his eyes were heavy and lined with the darkness of a sleepless night.

  A hard jab dug into my ribs, too high to be his morning wood. I flicked my groggy eyes down, finding him holding an open tiny velvet box between us. Inside, a thin gold band glimmered and the tiniest diamond chip glinted in the morning light.

  Oh damn. Not how this was supposed to go. My hazy eyes grew wide, no longer fighting the tired. Nope, shock woke you better than mainlined heroine or at least I imagined ‘cause drugs are bad kiddies.

  Blink. Blink. My stomach roiled as I squeezed my lids closed. I dug my fingers in the sockets until a checkerboard pattern displayed in the darkness, open, and felt m
y knees weaken because the fucking thing was still there. Nope, not a nightmare.

  “You own me, Sunflower. Heart, soul, mind, and spirit. No rush, but I want you to know I’m ready. Say yes and let’s see what we can create together in California,” he whispered low and choked, fighting fear and emotion.

  “Joey.” His name thickened in my throat because we’d talked this through and I made my departure without him clear. Or so I believed.

  “Please, please don’t leave me behind. I don’t think I can breathe without you.” A sob muddied his words and when I met his baby blues they were hazed with wetness but no drops fell.

  My heart ripped down the center and everything inside me begged to ease his suffering by agreeing, but my selfishness and need to stand on my own prevailed. My next action would break him, sever our ties, and make returning home impossible, but I refused to allow him to hang on any longer.

  I tried logic and reasoning but this poor, thickheaded boy was too far gone. Swallowing my hurt, I jerked from his hold, rushing around my room to dress.

  Picturing the person I hated the most, which was myself at that moment, I found my anger. After collecting his clothes, I threw them at his head. “Leave,” I snapped.

  “What? No,” he balked, pulling his naked body to the edge of the bed. He slowly slipped on his jeans and tee.

  “Leave now,” I raged, pulling fire from my belly to hide my doubt.

  He stood still, holding the ring extended in his hand. “Preslee, babe, stop,” he begged.

  “Josiah Holmes, I tried to make this easy but you’re forcing my hand. I don’t want you with me.” I gulped down bile climbing my throat because the next sentence would destroy him. “You were fun and a great lay, but I met someone when I visited school three months ago. He’s waiting for me. You’ll never be more than this town, Joey, I want better.”

  He blanched, recoiling, and clutching his chest as though I’d ripped it open and dug his heart out with a spoon. Short sharp breaths shook his shoulders. He folded hands, landing on his knees, he hyperventilated and his skin paled. I fought my instinct to comfort him; if I touched him I’d only make it worse.

  I shifted from foot to foot, giving him a moment to collect himself. When his breaths evened he rose to his full height, standing straighter than I’d ever seen him. Red climbed his neck, sweeping over his cheeks and his narrow blue stare shot daggers to where I fidgeted. Despite his climbing rage, a lone tear streaked down his cheek. “Right. Well, you’ll blend well with the heartless bitches and soulless bastards. But remember this, Preslee Carmichael, you will never be more than a piece of small-town white trash to those people.” He pulled the ring free, flinging it at my feet. “Don’t come crying back to me when they wipe their ass with you.”

  He turned on his heel exiting my room, slamming the door behind him. From a hidden spot in my curtains, I watched him storm to his car and peel out of the driveway without sparing one glance backward.

  I scrambled on my hands and knees to the ring. My soul fractured as I clutched it to the invisible hole he blew in my chest. Aunt Vivianne didn’t bother knocking on my door, instead she rushed inside catching me as my knees collapsed. We both crumbled to the floor where she held me for the remaining hours before my departure. Nothing she offered calmed my sobs or the knowledge I now possessed of the exact second I broke Josiah Carter Holmes.

  When Mazric and I passed the Now Leaving Seven Mile Forge sign, I understood it’d be the last time I saw home for an awfully long time.

  Eight

  Joey

  She’s on her feet. Despite the puffy layers, feeling her pressed against me makes me linger. The crisp winter air, wet with snow and frigid, carries her scent up my nose. Sugary peppermint with a hint of chocolate. Fuck me sideways, I want to nuzzle her neck where the warmth of her body heightens her cocoa-scented shampoo and the lotion she stocks up on at Christmas. Fresh, clean, and deliciously minty like a York Peppermint Patty or a succulent cup of hot chocolate you want to cover with whip cream and lick clean.

  No. No. No. Not going there. She’s an awful human with little regard for feelings, and she crushed my heart. For fuck’s sake I couldn’t even kiss a woman chewing mint gum for five years, thanks to the memory backlash it created. But damn it, her pebbled nipples press against my palms and her panting breaths urge for me to offer assistance in bearing the heft of her sizable tits. Her joke about her lack of action prompts my cock to volunteer to break her dry streak.

  I fill my lungs with her signature scent as I set her to rights and despite my body’s mutiny; I release her, taking a giant retreating step. She shivers as the icy breeze hits her now exposed backside, and to keep myself from moving in for another snuggle, I stomp around and collect her dropped box.

  Seeing my intent, she opens her trunk and I load it inside. Dotty drags a stack of more cardboard beyond the store entrance. What the hell, I’m already here. Before Preslee can move I lift the stack, depositing it in the rear cargo hold. I can’t help but notice the items inside. Trinkets and decorations I recognize from hours spent lying on her bed, watching her do her hair and makeup. Nights she helped me with my homework and secret moments we stole exploring each other’s body. These are also the backdrop to the annihilation of our relationship. The moment she left me so damaged I could no longer watch favored movies and television. My spineless year of pussification, where I questioned if she took my balls with her to California because I was a drunken sot who bellyached over any reminder of my years dating Preslee Marie Carmichael.

  I slam her trunk shut and without so much as a glance back I cross the street, stepping back into the diner.

  Creeden delivers a fresh cup of coffee as I resume my spot in my vacated booth. “That was some stellar cowboy shit there, Chief,” he teases. I angle my head, narrowing my glare when I notice the entire place is silent and all eyes are staring.

  “Would y’all mind your own business?” I snap, and they all pretend to return to their conversations until the damn bell over the door dings and Preslee steps inside.

  Nine

  Preslee

  He stomped off before I could thank him for his help. I swear his fool ass acts like I’m a plague or something.

  “You broke that boy, Preslee-Girl, but the fire still burns,” Dot says. Clearly she’s delusional, because the only flame he’s got for me is the one he envisions lighting with me tied to a pile of timber. “I can taste reconciliation on the wind and it’s yummy,” she licks her lips, “be careful though, he’s got a whole collection of baggage he’s toting with all those muscles.”

  I cock a brow at her, but she waves me off. “Come see me next week and we’ll check out my stock. Now go on over there and warm yourself with some coffee.” She nudges me toward Jonesy’s before closing the door to her shop.

  Coffee does sound good and I do need to thank him, plus it’s been too long since I indulged in a slab of Jonesy’s signature sticky buns. What the hell, I’m going in.

  I slip and slide across the street, preoccupied with the surety of my steps until the sounds and smells of the Junction reel me backward. The gray marble counter stretches the length of the dining room, with red stools dotting one side, and waitresses miming buzzing bees on the other. Through a small window I see Mr. Jones still flipping flapjacks and working the griddle. Mrs. Jones flutters around the tables and booths, refilling coffee. The black-and-white checked floor shows wear from the years of trodden shoes but still glistens clean. Savory bacon and sugary sweets scent the air, the hum of conversation and clanging dishes bustles. My eyes scan to the back wall where the red and yellow lights of the jukebox illuminate the wall trekking along the bank of windows to the booth in the corner.

  This was our spot. My first date with Joey was here. We could only afford one milkshake with two straws. I remember purposely switching his for mine, thinking it was the same as if he’d kissed me because we shared mouth space. Innocent touches of our legs under the table or slight grazing of our
fingers kept me smiling for days after.

  When we became licensed drivers, we’d spent many nights here studying over a plate of fries and glasses of water and using the space as a cheap escape from our homes.

  Lost in nostalgia, I don’t notice the silence or how I’m staring. In the same spot we spent our teens is Joey and because of my spaztastic space out, I’ve been watching him all gooey-eyed for longer than is acceptable and the whole damn place is waiting with bated breath to see what will happen.

  Under their scrutiny, my feet shift to retreat. “Preslee Carmichael,” a deep voice lilts, “drag your ass over here and sit.”

  I follow the sound to a waving arm attached to a familiar face I can’t quite place. The door opens, hitting my backside as other customers try to enter. Unable to flee, I hustle through the full tables to the booth.

  “Sit, sit,” he urges. “I’ll grab you some coffee.” He slips out, patting my shoulder as he laughs and rushes away.

  I’m stuck between a Joey and a hard place. If I leave, I feed the gossips staying the front-page headline until another poor schmuck screws up. But if I stay, I risk a piercing chest wound from the daggers shooting out of Joey Holmes’s eyes.

  “You might as well plant your ass or they’ll never stop staring.” Eyes on his cup, Joey’s annoyance vibrates in a grunt over the rim of his mug.

  Hands wringing, I ease onto the edge of the bench seat. “I-ah-uh-wanted to thank you for the save and load,” I stammer, shifting my eyes everywhere but at him and wondering if the guy traveled to Columbia for the coffee. Is he back there grinding the beans with his toes or what?

  “It’s all part of the job,” he snarks.

  Out of my periphery, I catch him tipping an imaginary hat but he’s rockin’ a severe resting bitch face. Like lost in Siberia frostbite your ass cold. Anger flares red-hot from all this infantile bull. Last I checked, we are adults and should be past this butthurt drama.