by Amelia Wilde
Only His
A Second Chance Romance
Amelia Wilde
Contents
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
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Claim Your Free Book
Dirty Rich
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Like What You Just Read?
More from Amelia Wilde
Next in the Second Chances Series
About Amelia Wilde
Chapter One
Lacey
“I’m really sorry, miss. There’s just nothing else I can do.”
“Could you try checking with Delta one more time?” I tighten my grip on the thick straps of the tawny oversized purse I carry on every flight, trying hard to ignore the fat, fluffy snowflakes spiraling down outside the massive windows framing the entire wall behind her. The man standing behind me shifts from foot to foot and sighs heavily. It doesn’t matter. My cheeks are already pink, my heart beating so fast I can feel it in my ears. I just have to be sure.
“Of course.” The attendant—according to her name tag, she’s Penny—looks down at her computer screen studying whatever appears there and clicks around for another fifteen seconds. Then she squares her shoulders and looks me in the eye. “There’s nothing going out, ma’am. It looks like they’re even rerouting all incoming flights to other airports due to the storm.”
It had been a little bit of a rough landing now that I thought about it.
“Okay,” I say dejectedly. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome, and thank you for flying American Airlines.”
“You’re—thanks.”
I suck in a deep breath and turn away from the counter. The line behind me has stretched to ten or twelve people, and no one looks happy.
Slipping my phone from the inside pocket of my purse, I unlock the screen and scroll through my emails like they could possibly be of any help to me in this situation. The only one that sticks out to me is the one reminding me that I’m supposed to check in today—in two hours no less—to Lockton Community Hospital.
Not for the first time, my stomach clenches with nerves.
None of this scenario is standard. I opted to accept the residency in Lockton because they offered something unusual—they were allowing me to start in December instead of June. It’s also going to be nice to actually see my parents more than twice a year.
Still, something about going home sets me on edge.
And I know exactly what it is. Or, I should say, who it is.
Every time I go back to Lockton—which admittedly hasn’t been often since my first semester of college eight years ago—I can’t help but think about him.
My heart twists painfully in my chest.
I toss the phone back into my purse. There’s not another flight leaving this airport for who knows how long. It’s a pipe dream, but the bottom line is that I have to get to Lockton tonight. I am not going to start my residency by calling in with an excuse on the first day.
Even if that excuse is the biggest blizzard of the winter.
First it’s down two escalators to the baggage carousel. I wait another ten minutes before my black Samsonite, battered from being tossed around through ten years’ worth of airports and layovers, makes an appearance, and as soon as I can reach it, I haul it off the carousel by a threadbare leather loop on the side. I have to yank the telescoping handle three times to get it to open. It feels like I’m dragging a thick cement block behind me while I stride back across the baggage claim area to the escalators. Up one more floor and there it is: the brightly colored banners advertising the car rental companies.
I pick the yellow one—I don’t bother to look at the company name—because it’s the brightest and most welcoming, and march toward the desk with my wallet already out and open, displaying my driver’s license. Sometimes people think I’m not even twenty-five years old. It’s not that I’m not flattered. It’s just that in four hours it’s going to be dark out, and it’s a long drive up to Lockton.
“Hello, ma’am. My name is Trevor. How can I help you?”
Trevor’s voice is smooth, and he glides out from a tiny office in the back as he speaks. His trendy glasses and neatly pressed outfit make my shoulders relax. He’s nothing like—
“A car,” I blurt out, my heart picking up the pace again. The sooner I can get out of this airport and on the road, the better. “I need to rent a car, please. Do you have anything with four-wheel drive?”
“Let me check that out for you.” Trevor’s smile is calming, though the wrinkles in his forehead give him away. There’s no way he has anything with four-wheel drive. I’m sure they’re long gone on a day like today. When he shakes his head a little, looking down at the screen, I know it’s a lost cause. “I don’t have—wait.”
I wait.
“I have one vehicle available—it looks like it was just turned in a few hours ago, so it should be clean and ready to go.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“It’s a Jeep Cherokee.” He lifts his eyes from the screen and looks across the counter at me. “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but are you sure about driving today? If your flight was canceled, the airlines will usually provide—”
I interrupt him with a big smile. “It’s just a little snow. I can handle it. Anyway, there’s somewhere I need to be.” A Jeep Cherokee is bigger than what I had in mind—it’s not necessarily safer to drive an SUV in a blizzard, no matter what people think—but what the hell, I’ll take it.
“Okay.” This time, his smile is apologetic rather than calming. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just—it looks pretty nasty out there. I had a rough time getting in this morning, and there wasn’t nearly as much snow.” My heart literally warms.
“Thank you. Really.” I push my wallet across the counter and slide out my driver’s license and credit card. “How much is that going to be?”
“Were you planning to drop off tomorrow or the next day?”
My mind races ahead, down the freeway with all its twists and turns and probably nasty ice. How many times am I going to have to stop before I get to Lockton? “Monday.”
“Okay.” A few more pointed clicks. Trevor takes my license and types in all the relevant information. “That’s going to be $6
00.87.”
The number comes like a punch to the gut. Med school wasn’t cheap, needless to say, so I’m trying to be—
But I have no other choice.
“Great!” I say, my voice falsely bright. I hand him my credit card before there’s time for second thoughts.
He swipes it, then looks back up at me. “It won’t actually be charged until you drop off the vehicle.”
“Awesome.” I shove both my credit card and my license back into my wallet, though in the opposite sections. The light jacket I wore on the plane is too warm in this moment. I might burst into flames if I don’t get out of this stuffy building and into the snow.
“I’ll grab your keys for you.” Trevor disappears into the office and reappears a moment later, keys in hand, tagged and numbered. “Just follow this hallway all the way to the end, and you’ll go right out into the rental lot. It’s red—you’ll recognize it.”
“Thanks.”
I want to stay here and talk to Trevor for a while, if only because he seems genuine, real, not buried under mountains of coursework and stress. He’s calm. But if he’s any indication of the kind of people who live in the state now, then maybe it wasn’t such a risky idea to return back home for my residency after all.
“Drive safely,” he calls after me. I’m twenty feet away, but I turn and smile back at him over my shoulder, then turn back around and keep going.
There’s no time to lose.
Chapter Two
Crosby
“My goodness, my gracious!”
The old lady’s voice cuts through the silence so sharply that I’m surprised the windows don’t shatter.
I put down the tile saw and crank my head around to look up at Mrs. Greaves. She’s come all the way out here with her walker. Why the hell she wanted these back steps leading down into a never-used mudroom retiled is beyond me, but hey, it’s her money.
“How’re you doing, Mrs. Greaves?”
“Oh, wonderful,” she says, her wrinkled face crumpling into a smile. “I can’t believe how fast you’ve done this, young man.”
It’s fucking Crosby, I want to say, but I bite back the dickhead comment. I can save that kind of thing for my off hours, when I’m not in danger of losing any money from it.
I turn back and look at the tiles I’ve already set in place. “Just want to get it done on time.”
“And you will. You will.”
Well, no shit.
“I’m sure I will, Mrs. Greaves. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, no,” she says, waving me down with a hand like I’ve jumped up to do her bidding. “I’m perfectly all right. Keep at it.”
I flash her a crooked smile and wait while she shuffles back down the hallway toward the den, the TV still blaring some bullshit news channel where they never shut up yet they never talk about anything. I can’t stand that stuff.
What I can stand is having money, and if old people who watch the news are the only ones hiring out for carpentry projects—or in this case, damn tiling—during the winter, then I’ll listen to it all day long.
Some days I don’t even care about that. What’s the point of making money if I’m never going to be—?
My train of thought is interrupted, bowled over like a plastic driveway marker under the weight of a snow plow, when I see it. The stack of tiles. The distance from the completed section to the door.
It doesn’t add up.
I spin around, looking for another stash of tiles. Shit. I was sure I bought enough. I was sure—
I stand up, my knees complaining from being stuck on the floor for the last two hours, and step out into the hallway. No tiles. I look around the room foot by foot in case I’m just missing them, in case they’re blending in somehow.
They’re not.
Damn!
I half-turn back toward the den. Mrs. Greaves isn’t going to care if I have to come back tomorrow and finish this, and the only place I want to be right now is sitting back and relaxing in a booth at the bar. Any bar, really. Five Star if it’s not full of too many assholes.
I know, it’s a bit much coming from a guy like me, but I’m there to drink, not get into a brawl over some woman nobody will remember tomorrow. You’d think there wouldn’t be that many interchangeable women in a place as small as Lockton. You’d be surprised.
There’s only one woman in my life who ever mattered, but she’s never coming back. In the end, that’s probably a good thing, since fucking things up for people is my forte.
Shit. I can’t leave this tile undone like this. Angie, the woman who delivers meals for Mrs. Greaves, is the one who uses this door, and with a covered tray in her hands, there’s a good chance she could trip over the gap, and—
I grit my teeth. Snow has been coming down steadily outside all afternoon. It’s going to be dicey as hell to get over to the hardware store, which is three miles down the highway from Mrs. Greaves’ house, and back. Damn, I want to just call this off right now, see if things clear up tomorrow.
“Mrs. Greaves?” I call down to the den, a little too loud so she can hear me.
“Yes, young man?” I don’t know how many times we’ve been over what my first name is, but I let it slide. Again.
“I’m going to run to the hardware store, and then I’ll be right back. This’ll be done by tonight, okay?”
“All right, all right.” I don’t hear a creak from the recliner. She’s staying put. Good.
I grab my coat and my hat and tug them both on, then pull open the back door and step out to the tiny screened-in porch. One more rickety door and I’m outside.
The wind cuts right through my jacket, sending a chill down my spine. Shit, shit, shit, it’s cold, and there’s a ton of snow out here. Six inches more than when I got to Mrs. Greaves’ house this morning, at least.
I trudge through the drifts to my truck, snow stuck to the hem of my jeans. It takes ten minutes to brush the snow off the cab of the truck. It feels like forever until I can knock my boots against the truck’s runners and climb in behind the wheel. The air inside is as cold as it is outside.
I just have to get through these next few hours and get to the bar.
The engine turns over like a damn dream. At least the truck can handle the snow. It’s not until I’m about a mile down the road that it slows me down at all, and that’s because some little Honda whose driver is afraid to go in the ditch is idling along at twenty miles per hour in a fifty-five. My jaw clenches, but then we get out past the trees and next to an open field of farmland. In three seconds, the snow is blinding.
Jesus Christ.
I white-knuckle it another mile down the road, slowing at the intersection in front of the hospital. Traffic is always a bitch here, but today everyone is scared to death and crawling along the roads like they’ll suddenly turn to ice.
Which they might.
At the stoplight, I scan the other cars. If one of them is going to spin out and ruin my day, I want to see it coming.
The oncoming traffic moves through the light, and someone turns her head in one of the cars waiting to come through kitty-corner to me—a red SUV, a Jeep.
My heart stops.
All I get is a glimpse of the curve of her nose, of the dark hair pulled up in a bun on top of her head, but something in my chest twists and turns so hard I have to look away. I can hardly breathe.
I’ll be damned if she didn’t look just like Lacey.
The next wave of traffic cuts me off from her. By the time it’s my turn to drive through the intersection, I’ve lost sight of the red SUV.
But my heart is still pounding.
Chapter Three
Lacey
“Lacey O’Collins?”
The deep voice booms out from behind a stack of folders on a desk in the middle of a nondescript office, but then it turns out to belong to a seemingly ageless man. He stands up from behind the desk and I can’t tell if he’s forty or sixty-five. I don’t care, really. I’m just
glad to be alive.
I clear my throat and try to disengage my fingernails from where they’re pressed into my palms. It took six hours to get here—the roads were that horrendous—and every five minutes I thought I was going to spin off into the ditch and die a horrible death when the Jeep rolled over on top of me.
That obviously didn’t happen, but I have a killer headache and my shoulders ache like I’ve been working out.
“Lace. I go by Lace.”
“Great.” He bounds across the office, a clipboard stuffed with three folders under his arm, and goes to a freestanding cabinet in the corner. There’s a row of white coats hanging inside it, and he peels one off of a hanger and tosses it to me. I just barely catch it before it hits the floor. “Follow me.”
I look down at the coat in my hands, wondering when I’m going to feel the same kind of awe I felt during the ceremony in med school. Plus, I’m still wearing my winter jacket from—
“Dr. O’Collins?”
That jolts me right out of staring at the coat, and I turn on my heel and follow him—Dr. Howard—out into the hall. I have to speed up to match his pace.
Four doors down, he points through an open doorway. “You can put your things in there. Meet me at the nurses’ station in the ER.”
“Oh—okay.” My heart beats hard with the urgency of keeping up. I swallow the real question that’s on my mind—am I really starting right now?—and go into the locker room.
It’s silent. Most of the lockers are empty, and I choose one at random, trying to commit the number to memory. I throw in my coat, toss my purse in after it, and punch in a code on the electronic lock. Done.
I shrug the white coat on and feel my spine straighten out just from having the foreign layer of fabric over my clothes. Thank God I dressed for the job when I got up this morning, otherwise I’d be—
No. I don’t have time for this.
The hallway is empty, but there’s a painted sign on the wall that points toward the ER. Dr. Howard is there, talking to two nurses at the station, when I finally catch up.