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

by Billie Dale

  “Wait, so you can frolic around with your brother? A handsome man who radiates rock star vibes and this guy never freaks out?”

  In the moonlight I see the edge of her white teeth as she chews the corner of her bottom lip, thinking. Her brows draw down, “No. Come to think of it, Hendrix never prompted a reaction.”

  My mind spins piecing it together. “It’s safe to assume he knows Hendrix is your brother, therefore not a threat. It’s all breadcrumbs. Now we need to find the hand crumbling the pieces.”

  “Right.” She yawns. “I’ll be Gretel to your Hansel, right until he leads us to the big candy house and bakes us for dinner.” Her slight smile and words fade as she drifts to sleep.

  Her lids flutter until I weave my fingers with hers, noticing how fragile and birdlike the tiny bones are. With the pink-tipped nails and long fingers, they seem so easily broken wedged between the thick meat of my strong knuckles. But like the woman they are attached to, they are stronger than they appear.

  With a simple touch of my hand she snuggles closer, aligning all her soft curves to my hard edges. Her body melts into the blankets with her even breaths. My racing mind calms and I allow myself these seconds until dawn to enjoy the way our life should have been. My heart opens, yielding to the yearning and hopeless wishes from a man who gave up years ago. The darkness keeps my secrets.

  Nineteen

  Preslee

  “Sunflower, I’m home,” calls from the front of the house. Relief over another safe shift stampedes my heart, devouring the worry of loving a cop. Cash’s tiny stomping footsteps race through the living room, ending with a chuckling oomph, telling me he met his mark. My yellow sundress brushes my knees as I waddle a path toward my husband. A tiny acrobat swings from my rib cage, showing me love from the inside with each bumping kick and karate chop.

  Cash dangles from his father’s neck, giggling with each ape swing as he swaggers his way to me. Toe to toe he lowers our son, places one hand on my enormous belly, while the other snakes around my waist to palm my ass, as he drags me to his chest. Soft lips offset by the coarse fur surrounding them press to my forehead, touch each eyelid, which fall closed with his embrace, and peck the tip of my nose before hovering inches from my own.

  “How are my girls today?” His coffee-scented breath dances up my nose, blending with his signature scent of gun oil, cedar, and the summery breeze of our fabric softener.

  “Swollen ankles, snausage fingers and,” my lips touch his ear, “horny as a mutated toad with glandular problems.” I follow the words with a swipe of my tongue along the curve, where I know turns him on.

  He half-moans around a groan as his hardness grows against my stomach. “Cash, Son, I’m gonna help your momma out with a project in our room for a bit. How about you grab those Legos we’re always stepping on and when I come back, we’ll build something out of this world?”

  The little boy cheers, scurrying to his bedroom as the love of my life drags me to our room. A step across the threshold and he pins me to the door. Being parents makes us masters of the quickie and at seven months pregnant I’m on a hair trigger. His goatee tickles as he peppers open-mouthed kisses up the column of my neck, while his hand vanishes under my dress. The dampness of my underwear and my readiness pulls a long, tortured growl from his lips. I loop my foot behind his back, balancing on one leg. He tugs the soft cloth gusset to the side before the thick rough pad of his finger traces my seam, stopping to circle my swollen, needy clit. My hips buck, wiggling for more. We have minutes before Cash demands his dad’s attention. No time for teasing. A whimpering whine turns into a pleasured exhale when he dips inside, continuing his circular pattern with his thumb.

  My fuse is short these days and Joey knows where to curl and press to tip me quickly over the edge. The orgasmic wave crests, I’m seconds from plummeting.

  Lips gapped ready to praise his name…a thump and chuckle pulls me from my splendid dream.

  Long rough fingers swirl over the lace of my panties. Two rock-solid, scratchy hair-covered calves trap my leg. The fingers of my one hand weave into soft curls covering a round, strong pec, while the other is trapped under a cloth-covered, begging for a grope, taut butt cheek. His body stills as the hand between my thighs disappears.

  “Was there something wrong with your bed, Sis?”

  We disentangle and while reluctantly I drag my lids open, hissing at the sunlight filling the room. My dismay vanishes when I meet the cocky grin of my twin brother.

  “Hendrix!” I cheer, scrambling over Joey’s body. My knee lands in his crotch and if I weren’t so excited to see my brother, I’d enjoy the steel rod I felt under his shorts. To alleviate the pressure on his nuts he shoves my ass, sending me face-first toward the floor. Hendrix saves me from face-planting by pulling me into a hug, but not before I see his come-on-man glare at Joey.

  There’s nothing more comforting than the familiar. I’m blessed with a true other half. No matter my failures or insecurities, Hendrix is forever in my corner. All the stress and worry over the last months fades to a blip.

  Over his shoulder, I watch Joey shift to the edge of bed. His dirty blond hair sticks up in a disheveled just-fucked mess. The sheets bunch around his waist, leaving him shirtless, pantsless, and far too delicious. All his ripped cords seem to soften under the halo of sunbeams. Is this his morning after a night of rabid sexcapades look? Oh holy throbbing vaginas, Batman, I want to find out.

  My dream flashes vivid snapshots through my mind. A glimpse of how our future could or should have been. The passion, love, and desire felt so real wetness soaks through my underwear to my sleep shorts. Heat sweeps along my cheekbones as I settle against my brother’s side. Without the excitement of his arrival I notice the skew of my panties, which explains my soaked crotch. I wiggle trying to subtly shift them back to full coverage. Joey eyes the sway of my hips and realization inflames my face.

  Certain parts of my dream were not fantasy. Huh, this explains why he is sitting stock-still on the bed with the blankets covering his bulge. When our eyes meet, his tanned skin pinks and a dimple pulling grin tips his lips.

  ∞∞∞

  Claiming to need caffeine I squeeze my brother’s fingers, offering a silent warning to not question Joey too deeply before rushing to my room. Hendrix and I communicate without words often. There is nothing better than someone who can read between your blinks and know what you’re thinking or what you need. It’s the reason I’ve kept my visits to a minimum over the years. I hated lying and hiding. My brother is my champion and he’s far from the nervous, anxiety-riddled teen, but protecting him is second nature.

  The second Hendrix sat behind the keys of a piano at three years old and began playing along with a song on the radio my parents knew. He tried to explain the way he could see the colors of sound and taste the flavor of a melody. I never understood until we were older how truly phenomenal he is. But with his sensitivity comes pure empathy. If he sensed someone was breaking into my home, stealing undergarments, and keeping me self-imprisoned, he would roll me in bubble wrap and tuck me in his pocket.

  Seeking shelter under his umbrella of protection might have made my life easier but it would’ve hindered his. One day soon, Hendrix Carmichael will soar through the stratosphere as a more than a jingle and score writer. The rock god inside him will break free and I will not be the reason he backs down.

  “Knock, knock,” Rosa cheers. “Miss Preslee, Miss Samantha and Mr. Mazric are waiting downstairs,” she calls from the other side of my door. I respond telling her I’ll be down in a minute.

  Dressed in pink and purple flower-patterned leggings and a white hoodie I modified by cutting the hood off—to make it off-the-shoulder—and shortened the sleeves, I wrangle my hair into a messy bun. I can’t wait until I can take back my pale blonde locks. The auburn is a gorgeous color but every time I catch it in my periphery, I jump thinking someone is next to me. If I were still a teen, the emo pasty white of my skin under the vibrant red tint wou
ld be the talk of the town.

  As an adult I’m more vampiric with an iron deficiency. The darker color highlights the sleepless nights bruising the tender area under my eyes.

  From the top of the landing I see Mazric and Sam shuffling from foot to foot, glancing between the living room and the nearest escape. I don’t understand their hesitance until I hear why.

  “Mother! What in the name of Samhain did you do to my house!” Aunt Vivianne shouts.

  Hendrix and Joey jog up behind, rushing me down the stairs. Hendrix grabs my hand, while Joey drags our other friends to the kitchen. I catch sight of Vivianne squared with my grandmother.

  Sammy hugs my brother, complaining it’s been too long since they hung out. For years everyone believed Sam’s daughter, Mazilynn, belonged to my brother. It was a whole big thing where Mazric had a huge athletic future and a sixteen-year-old pregnant girlfriend would’ve toasted all his dreams. Sam and Hendrix always clicked. Both smarter and more mature than the rest of us, they made the logical choice, so when Sam needed a patsy baby daddy, my brother volunteered. They lived with each other for years raising Mazzy Jae. My brother was always Uncle Hendi. Mazzy turned out as intelligent, if not more so, than her mother and concocted her own DNA testing, using Mazric’s mom as a base sample.

  After college and a successful run in the NBA, Mazric returned to Seven Mile Forge and his family’s farm, Double V, to meet the daughter he had no clue existed and reclaim the only woman he ever loved.

  Though Hendrix never admitted Mazzy wasn’t his actual daughter, I knew. I witnessed how much he loved Samantha Gentry. My heart hurt when he told me they gave it a shot and couldn’t move past the ick factor awkwardness of kissing and drunken fondling. But now Sam and Mazric are readying to ring the wedding bells.

  The yelling increases and I pirouette to enter the battle, hoping to spare some bloodshed. Joey’s hand around my wrist stops me.

  “Let them figure it out,” he advises, nodding for me to sit in the breakfast nook as he finagles the buttons on the fancy cappuccino expresso machine. My aunt travels the riotous hippy dippy path but the woman loves a great cup of coffee.

  Sammy Lee fans magazines across the table and a nosy Mazric hovers near the door. A knock at the patio turns all our heads. The wide double entrance is a mix of frosted and translucent glass.

  Unlike the cloudy snow mess yesterday, today Mother Nature doesn’t need a time-out. The sun is rising bright and its heat bleeds green through the white. A large figure looms outside with a smaller one bouncing beside it. I jump to answer but a stern snarl from Joey keeps my butt on the bench seat.

  He’s dressed in the same clothes he arrived in, with dark stubble filling his cheeks around his goatee. His gun sits in a holster strapped to his shoulders, perching it on his side. Telling him most stalkers don’t knock seems redundant, so I let him answer the door.

  A short, blond-headed ball of energy barrels into his legs, “Daddy!” Sam’s daughter rushes past Cash, colliding with Hendrix. Behind the kids, Creeden Jones pokes his head inside. He’s holding a tray full of steaming paper cups and white bag.

  “I come bearing children, coffee, and fresh cinnamon maple donuts. Can I come in?” he asks.

  “Bless you, Creeden,” Sam gushes. “Come in, come in you java-wielding god.”

  He sets the food and beverages on the table while greeting everyone. “I came to the back door because I didn’t think y’all would hear me over World War III going on in the parlor.”

  “No one’s gotten stabby yet,” I laugh.

  He winks, offering me a brown paper cup and megawatt crooked smile. Joey steps between us taking the coffee. “How did you end up with our kids, man?”

  Creeden’s smile dims and his pupils widen. If you weren’t watching you’d miss the slight tension in his shoulders and spark of anger in his eyes. He grabs another drink and in a show of manly chest-pounding he cuts the space between Joey and me.

  “Your mom was in the diner drinking coffee with Mazric’s mom, Carrie Lynn. I asked where you were, and since the kids were growing restless, I offered to deliver you guys some breakfast and coffee.” He makes sure my fingers wrap around the cup before he opens the bag. The aroma of sweetness blends to perfection with the heady scent of dark roast. I grab some plates before reclaiming my seat. He serves up a syrupy glazed, cinnamon-coated, circular hunk of heaven. My mouth waters from the maple scent.

  The kids scooch in next to Sammy, devouring far too much sugar for their youthful bodies. I ask Mazzy what she’s been up to. Around a full mouth she tells me how she’s starting college classes in the fall and working on building her YouTube channel. I’m in awe of her genius. I mean the child will graduate with her bachelor’s degree before she starts her period, but she’s the most down-to-earth kid I know. My experience with children is nonexistent but she has no trouble carrying on a conversation with me, yet still giggling when Cash burps.

  Hendrix, Mazric, Joey, and Creeden talk sports on the other side of the kitchen while Sam and I discuss wedding plans. She explains how Carrie Lynn has become a beast with extravagant expectations. Mazric’s mom is so overbearing Sam’s considering eloping.

  “I’m marrying my best friend. We could do it dressed as Elvis, for all I care, because it’s one day, and this singular date might represent our union, but the actual marriage is where the meat and potatoes lives,” she says.

  “Elvis!” Mazric chuckles. “Preslee’s going to marry us? Hot damn!”

  Since our parents love music, my brother and I bear their adoration with our names. Mazric rarely addresses us by our actual monikers. I’ve always been Elvis and my brother is Jimmy. I hated it at first but it grew on me over the years.

  “No, you oaf,” I razz, turning to Sammy Lee. “Has he taken too many hits to the head with a basketball?”

  “Samantha, you can always marry me,” my brother jokes, winking at my friend.

  “Not a chance Jimmy,” Mazric retorts, wrestling Hendrix into a headlock. Joey stands against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a grin tipping his lips, watching the man-children display their immaturity.

  Creeden weaves around them to the where we sit thumbing through magazines. The sweet heavy breakfast kicks the kids into high drive. They play tag around the island, drowning out the arguing in the living room with their stomping feet and squeals.

  “You could do the ceremony here at the plantation. Easy to secure. Private and with only one way in and one way out, controlling the press would be simple. I could wire up the backyard for sound and lights, plus monitor all the internet feeds to make sure the bottom-feeders aren’t chomping,” Creeden suggests.

  Joey pulls open the door scanning the yard. “It could work. The woods stretch the perimeter, reaching miles back to the highway. With all the wildlife, only a determined voyeur would risk it.”

  “Trust me, they’d do it,” Mazric comments grimly.

  An idea sparks in my head. “What if it’s not your wedding?” Sammy angles a questioning brow my way. “We’ll inspire the blue-haired gossips in town to buzz about how generous Sam and Mazric are to push back their day for me.”

  “What the… huh?” she asks.

  Excitement shakes my insides. “It’s perfect. I can order the flowers, dress shop, organize, and since it’s here, no one will question it. Sammy Lee can be my supportive best friend. Plus, it’ll keep them from figuring out what’s going on in my life.”

  “And who is your groom?” Joey asks cocking a devious smirk.

  You know the sound a balloon makes when it flies around the room losing air? Yep, I’m the slumped piece of latex, deflated on the ground. He shit all over my brilliance. GAH! Can’t stage a fake wedding without a phony fiancé.

  I hate you and your dumb logic, Josiah Fucking Holmes.

  “Me,” Creeden volunteers, his face lighting with a cheesy smile.

  “No one will believe this shit,” Joey gruffs.

  “Why because I’m unma
rriable?”

  He snorts, rankling me with a prodigious glare of ‘you’re an idiot.’

  “Sure, it won’t be easy, but it isn’t that far of a stretch. We were acquaintances in school. Reconnected online and met up during some of my trips out west. Decided the distance sucks and we want to be husband and wife. It will totally work.” Creeden’s answer seems planned even though it’s spur of the moment. His reasoning rolls through my head checking all the boxes.

  Sammy turns to her fiancé. “What do you think?”

  Mazric sizes up Creeden before flicking his eyes to me. His fingers scratch along his chin. “Let’s do it.” He grins.

  “What the hell? Are y’all high? In what universe will a dress made to fit Preslee ever work for Sammy? And no offense, Creeden, but Mazric’s arms will rip the seams of anything tailored for you.” Joey’s angry words kill my building buzz over the idea of pulling off the perfect ceremony for my friend.

  “He has a point.” Sam gnaws on her bottom lip. “Pres, you have the whole Jessica Rabbit thing going,” she waves a hand toward my boobs and butt, “and I’m all stick figure.”

  I hate to admit it but she’s right. Sammy’s always had more of a boyish build. It curved out a little after Mazzy but not near close enough to my voluptuousness.

  “We can do it,” Aunt Vivianne calls from the door standing next to Nona. Lost in our covert planning, I hadn’t noticed they were no longer screaming in the parlor. Mazzy and Cash flank them on either side, telling me we missed the kids vanishing too. We suck.

  “Don’t let the shop do any alterations. Sammy you ‘help’ Preslee pick out the perfect dress. The one you’d wear if it were you. Buy it and bring it back here. Vivianne and I will make the appropriate adjustments. Same with the suits.”

  I loop my arm around Sam’s shoulders, squeezing her in a side hug. “This is totally gonna work.” I’m more hyper than an ADHD kid hyped-up on Mountain Dew, eating chocolate-covered coffee beans, until Joey Fucking Holmes opens his mouth.