“Yes, Colm,” you tell him with a smile, suddenly realizing that restoring Colm’s ancient family castle would be an amazing adventure. “I think it could.”
Your visit to Colm’s childhood home is charming. His mother and father are kind and gracious hosts. Colm’s mother is sturdy and maternal, embracing you in a cloud of warmth that smells of something earthy and sweet. Her dark locks are tamed back into a low bun shot through with tendrils of silvery grey, a few errant curls escaping to frame her lovely face. His father is wiry and weatherworn, but just as warm as she, his sparkling eyes ringed with wrinkles unmistakably left by years of happiness. They want to know all about you, although clearly there’s quite a bit Colm has told them already, and they ask you question after question in their lovely, lilting brogues throughout the hearty meal.
After the dinner plates are cleared, Colm guides you by the hand to the little hidden garden in back of the cottage. Your head is fuzzy with the red wine you’ve drunk and your body is humming with the warmth of good company and a rich meal. In the center of the overgrown lawn, a small fire dances in an iron cauldron, and lit candles perch on the uneven stones scattered artfully about, lending a magical quality to the chilly night.
Colm brings you to a low stone bench, wrapping a thick flannel blanket around your shoulders. He sits beside you, rubbing his hands together over and over in front of the little blaze. He seems very nervous, and your heart quickens its pace, reacting instinctively to his sudden change in mood.
All at once, he drops to one knee and the breath catches in your chest. He plunges his hand deep into his pocket and brings out a sparkling, gorgeous, perfect solitaire.
“Anna,” he begins, and tears leap instantly to your eyes, “the moment we bumped heads all those years ago, I knew. Don’t know whether it was a concussion from which I’ve never recovered, but from that day I have been head-over-heels for you. If a concussion it be, I don’t ever care to be clear-headed. You’ve brought everything good into my life, and I hope to return the favor.”
You’re laughing even as a tear tracks its way down your cheek. The laugh begins somewhere small and quiet then grows louder and more joyful as Colm speaks.
“We’ve been through some shite, you and I, but there’s no one else in the world I’d want to go through it with, the happy times and the hard times.”
Colm looks down at the ring in his hand, the diamond sparkling like some magic charm, reflecting the many colors of the firelight. Then he looks up at you, a glow of pure happiness in his eyes.
“Would you do me the great honor, Ms. Anna Chambliss, love of my life, of becoming my bride?”
You leap to your feet, pulling Colm to his, feeling like a little girl on Christmas. You fall into his arms answering over and over again, “Yes, yes, yes!”
* * *
You wed in the great hall of the majestic castle, which has just begun to show a glimmer of its former glory. A team of world-famous decorators, experts in historic restoration, and fabulous advisers have begun their work. Between their efforts and the significant elbow grease you and Colm and have put in, the hall has been thoroughly scrubbed of its dust and cobwebs and ornamented with hundreds of candles, elegant sconces, and thousands of flowers dripping from every available corner and crevice. The service is intimate and simple, and as you walk down the long, candlelit aisle toward your waiting groom, the intricate lace of your heavy train trailing behind you, you are filled with the absolute rightness of the promise you are about to fulfill and the wonderful anticipation of the life you are about to begin. You’re trembling a little as you meet Colm at the altar, but when he takes your hands in his, the warmth of his touch and the love in his eyes steadies you.
As you turn to face the small crowd assembled in the rough-hewn pews that line the altar, Colm leans down to whisper in your ear, “I’ve a small surprise for you, my lovely bride.” He guides you to the last row and pauses to watch you take in the wedding guests you weren’t expecting.
Tears begin to stream down your cheeks, blurring your vision as you take in the face you thought you might never see again. She’s a little thinner than you remember and seems a little taller somehow, but the ginger curls are the same, as are the great, blue eyes brimming over with joy and love. In her arms is her spitting image, a beautiful, round-cheeked toddler with her mother’s full head of curls and huge, sparkling eyes. There’s nothing you can see of her father in the child and that, too, is a relief.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” you tell her. Then you glimpse Rose sitting just on the other side of her daughter. “Thank you, both,” you manage, and then take the hand of your new husband and squeeze it with immense gratitude. “This makes everything just—perfect!”
Buffy laughs and reaches an arm out to grab you into her soft embrace. “Grace,” she tells the little girl, “this is your Aunt Annie.”
“Princess!” says the toddler, pointing at your gown.
“Well, yes, she can be a bit of a diva,” laughs Buffy, and from that moment on, it’s like nothing has changed. Colm graciously shares your “honeymoon” with Buffy and Grace, and you spend long days in the castle and countryside catching up on all you have missed.
Buffy reluctantly opens up about how difficult and frightening it has been living in virtual hiding, how alone she has felt, how she’s barely wanted to step out of her mother’s house for fear of being discovered. The few times she has ventured out, it’s been in full makeup and a dark wig. She can’t bear the thought of raising Grace in fear, but she doesn’t know what choice she has. At least the little girl has Rose to take her out of the house. Maybe, she says, one day it will all resolve itself. “That last night with him, he swore if I ever left him he would find me. I knew I had to go, that if I waited any longer I would be risking everything, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you. He is evil, Anna, and he’s relentless. But you knew that.”
“You did the right thing,” you tell your friend, and you mean it.
Four glorious weeks pass too quickly. You feel whole once again, more complete and happier than you ever thought possible. The four of you have become a family, little Gracie a ray of pure sunshine. You wish you could stay here, all of you together forever, but the happy news that the sitcom pilot you shot before you left for Scotland been picked up has you due back in New York next week. You know they could probably find a replacement, and after all you really did want to stick to films. Still, the sitcom seems like such a perfect fit, and TV has become almost as well received and as well done as film lately. And you have an idea.
Once Buffy and Grace have gone to bed for the evening, you find Colm sitting in his cozy study, pouring over the plans for the castle grounds. You wrap your arms around his strong shoulders, breathing in his wooly, spicy scent. “Colm, what would you think about asking Buffy to stay? She doesn’t really have a home anymore and she feels like she has to hide all the time back in the States. I know it’s a little selfish, but that way we would get to be with her when we’re here, too. Who knows if she would even go for it, but I was thinking she might.”
Colm turns and kisses you gently on the bridge of your nose. “That’s an idea, indeed. Would be good to have someone here, keeping track of the cottage,” he winks. “Making sure the crew isn’t slacking off. I wouldn’t mind it a bit. Let’s ask her. Together.”
Buffy is thrilled to be asked but hesitant at first. Her home is in LA, but the thought of real freedom, the possibility of a life free from constant fear, wins her over at last. It’s a better outcome than you could have dreamed. You’ll be back in three months once shooting wraps and until then, you’re only a phone call or computer screen away.
You and Colm take an apartment in New York City where you stay during filming. Colm spends his days fielding requests for meetings and appearances and filtering through the seemingly endless stream of scripts, but finds his passion in the woodworking his father taught him. He creates a beautiful dining table, complete with splendidly detai
led bench seating, and immediately begins work on another piece.
You and Colm travel regularly to the castle to join Buffy, Gracie, and the crew in your pet project, restoring the crumbling old manse to its former majesty. With a property this old, there’s always a new issue. You begin to realize it’s a project that will never be complete, which in a way you love.
Before your first anniversary, you decide to open the grand hall and its adjacent rooms to the public. Colm’s mother, a warm and generous host as well as an impressive history buff, happily leads tours of the cavernous rooms, while his father, a natural entertainer, makes an occasional kilted appearance. The reedy bellow of his bagpipes announces his entrance and startles his guests, giving him a chuckle as he marches through the hall. Buffy keeps the operation running smoothly, little Gracie running free, her voice ringing joyfully through the echoing halls. You laugh when you hear her speak with a little bit of a brogue, and Buffy rolls her eyes. “Can’t be helped,” she explains with a giggle. “She’s around it all day. Soon I won’t be able to understand her, either.”
For your first anniversary, Colm surprises you with a completely refurbished bedchamber, walls draped in rich tapestries, floors warmed with elegant rugs, and the defunct fireplace restored with a cheerily roaring fire blazing in the grate. Best of all is the magnificent centerpiece of the room, a monstrous four-poster bed Colm has crafted by hand, complete with a silken canopy, rich velvet bedsheets, a heavy, silk coverlet, and an abundance of feather pillows covered in the most amazing silken shams. You leap onto the bed, pulling Colm down.
“It’s gorgeous,” you tell him mischievously, “but it is a little stiff.” You kiss him like it’s your first day together. “Let’s break this in.”
You quickly strip off Colm’s sweater and run your hands over his muscled chest, then reach down between you and plunge your fingers into the soft hair below his waistband. He is ready, smooth and hard against your hand as you stroke him.
“These,” you say, unzipping his jeans and hastily pushing them down around his ankles, “have got to go.”
You free him from his boxers, and take him hungrily into your mouth, raking your fingernails gently down his stomach. Then you roughly push him onto his back, quickly pull off your jeans, and straddle him as you lean in for a kiss.
“Anna, what has gotten into you?” He laughs, then runs his hands under your sweater and skims it over your head while you press yourself to him, his cock stiff and hot against you. He sits up and reaches around to your bra, unfastening it. You’re ready, now. You take him into you and dig your fingers into his chest as you rock, and as he reaches up to take your nipple into his mouth, you come together, your ecstasy echoing off of the stone walls of your bedchamber.
You lie together in the decadent bedding until your breathing slows, but then quickly smooth your hair and pull Colm up with you. “Come on,” you say, planting a quick kiss on his lips, “I have a surprise for you, too.” You pull on your jeans and warm wool sweaters then lead him out toward the castle’s back lawn and cover his eyes before opening the massive wooden door. “Okay,” you tell him, “you can open them now.” Colm opens his eyes and with a joyous chuckle he takes in the brand-new garden you’ve helped Buffy design long-distance and had planted and pruned. The low shrubs lead to taller sculpted topiaries, forming a simple and traditional labyrinth, and at its center sits a babbling fountain with a low stone bench on each side. Carved discreetly in a ring at the base of the fountain is the scripted inscription COLM AND ANNA.
You walk the serpentine paths hand-in-hand and sit on the low stone bench side-by-side. The sun slants through the high clouds and warms you as you lean your head on Colm’s firm shoulder. Colm tilts your head up and kisses you thoroughly. He ends the kiss with a beautiful smile. “Anna, thank you for this.”
You feel that nothing could ever be as perfect as this moment and can hardly believe this incredible man is thanking you, when he’s given you everything—unconditional love, a life you could have only dreamed of, even a castle for heaven’s sake. You squeeze his hand and kiss him again then look him squarely in the eye.
“Colm,” you tell him, “I have one more surprise.” You place his hand on your still-flat belly, not yet showing even the slightest sign of the life growing inside, yet filled with the promise of everything yet to be. Colm begins to laugh again, an infectious, magical sound that fills the garden. You laugh along with him, tears of joy and promise springing to your eyes as Colm wraps you in his warm embrace, your tiny prince or princess locked safely between you.
And you all live happily ever after.
THE END
To take Anna on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.
From page 2 . . .
The ride to the set seems interminable. Bodhi, your driver, tries to engage in small talk but gives up, and after a few minutes of silence you raise the tinted partition window. Now, staring at the dark pane of glass, you can see your life with Hampton playing before you.
Remembering your first meeting with Hampton is like trying to recall a dream. Brief images come to mind as you think back to that fateful day. There you were, an up-and-coming movie star, beginning to command higher and higher paychecks and even headlining projects. You were reluctant when Hampton’s manager called your manager to request a meeting. Naturally, you thought it was about a script and you were thrilled and a little nervous at the prospect of meeting movie legend Hampton Rhodes. Not that he was really old, but he started his career at the tender (and very sexy) age of eighteen with a muscle-baring, scene-stealing bit part in the classic chick flick, Treacherous Ventures. Hampton proved the most consistently successful male box office draw for almost two decades and you, along with every other red-blooded female thirteen years or older, had a crush on the handsome leading man.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. Your publicist warned it wasn’t a good time for you to be seen having dinner with a man more than once, much less to begin dating in earnest, so you were more than hesitant when Hampton revealed he wasn’t interested in talking about a project, but that he was interested in you. He had seen some of your work and he was “taken” by your talent. He was so persistent and charming, so full of charisma, you felt like you were being drawn into some kind of magnetic field you couldn’t escape.
You’re so lost in your thoughts you don’t even notice that the car has sailed past security and come to a halt on the back lot. Bodhi raps on the partition, making you jump. Your ears ring with the sound of your pounding heart as you step onto the bustling movie set. You can feel the heels of your stilettos sink slightly into the dirt as you lean down to ask Bodhi to wait for you.
The first thing you see is the back of a canvas director’s chair filled by the unmistakably coiffed Justin Blathers, Hampton’s manager. You’d recognize the back of Justin’s starched and sprayed head anywhere. The sight makes you instantly uncomfortable. You never feel at ease around Justin. Something about him is a little too perfect, his body too hairless, his fingernails a little too clean, too trimmed, too shiny.
The set appears to be business as usual. Some of the crew mill around with an air of impatience and self-importance while others sit slumped in their chairs, scrolling through their e-mails, all waiting for the next scene to be called, the light to suddenly change to the ideal brightness, or the actors’ hair and makeup to be re-perfected for the next shot.
“You know this is how he works,” Justin whines into his phone as you approach. “He’ll be out when he’s ready, then he’ll do it in one take.”
Typical, you think. Hampton’s still in his trailer keeping the whole crew waiting. You quickly change direction and set off across the back lot toward Hampton’s trailer, which glimmers like a bloated, beached whale in the distance.
Suddenly you hear Justin’s too-cultured voice, with its edge of studied British accent, trilling ever closer behind you.
“Excuse me! Miss Chambliss—Anna? Anna!” He grabs you by t
he shoulder in an attempt to stop your progress. “Is there something I can help you with?”
You look at him coldly. “No, Justin, thank you. I’m just here to pay my fiancé a quick visit.” You brush past him, but Justin continues to trail you like an annoying puppy, barking at your heels.
“Really, Anna, I think Hampton needs his privacy right now. He’s preparing for his scene and as you can see, everyone is waiting for him.”
Everyone, you notice, except Nigella. She’s nowhere to be seen. But you can easily summon her snakelike features—the sharp, pointed nose, the vermilion lips, the sleek black hair that hangs almost to her waist, the perfect, sinewy body . . . you narrow your eyes and walk more quickly, steeling yourself.
Justin assails you again just before you reach the trailer door. He grabs at the sleeve of your jacket, knocking you off-balance. You pull back against him and step out of one of your shoes, its heel stuck in one of the step’s metal slats. You can hear sounds coming from inside the trailer and you feel a gentle rocking as you balance yourself on your single-shoed foot.
Justin’s voice rises higher in warning, though you can’t make out his words. You hear a loud sigh from inside the trailer and then, unbelievably, a laugh, followed by what sounds like a groan. You wrap your fingers around the cold handle of the trailer door but before you can twist the handle you are startled by a sharp bang from behind you. You turn to see a woman walking down the steps of her own trailer, her dark hair set in perfect waves. She looks up once to glance in your direction and you swear you see a tiny smirk on her face—Nigella! But if Nigella’s not in there with Hampton, who is?
You turn slowly back toward the trailer door, take a deep breath, and walk into a scene that will play horribly over and over in your mind thousands of times in the weeks to come.
Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim light. The first thing you see is the back of Hampton’s head, the coarse, jet black hair you know the feel, even the scent of, so intimately. The rest is a blur of glistening limbs and rhythmically moving body parts, underscored by the sharp smell of sweat and sex. You feel suddenly dizzy and force yourself to focus. Your eyes lock onto a single bead of sweat that rolls slowly down Hampton’s lower back and disappears between his thrusting buttocks. His hands dig deeply into the waist of someone he’s holding urgently against him.
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