Only His: A Second Chance Romance (Second Chances Book 2)

by Amelia Wilde

  “All right.” I stand up from behind the desk and file the chart where it’s supposed to go.

  “Good work.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then he turns and walks away without a second glance.

  I take a look around the ER, where, apparently, I’ll be spending most of my time for the foreseeable future.

  It seems empty without Crosby.

  I have to dig the Jeep out of a snowdrift to leave, and the moment I climb behind the wheel, the tension in my shoulders comes rocketing back into my muscles.

  I hate driving in the snow.

  Twelve hours ago, I was already considering the options for moving someplace warm after my residency is finished. The downside is that I might have to jump through a few more hoops, depending on licensing rules for the state.

  Now, even while my teeth chatter as the heat from the car takes its sweet time coming to life, I know I’m not going to leave.

  I put a gloved hand to my eyes and rub. This is just the stress talking. I can still leave anytime I want. Crosby has been here since he left college—at least that’s what I’m assuming—and he’s not going anywhere.

  That doesn’t mean I have to stay.

  But something pulses in the back of my mind, and the sensation sparks all the way down into my heart. I don’t want to be far away from him. Not ever again.

  The honk that comes from behind me while I’m waiting at a stoplight almost makes me jump out of my skin.

  “Shit,” I mumble under my breath, then press my foot down on the gas. I do not want to spin out in the intersection and get caught in the snow.

  The new house I bought is only three miles from the hospital. It sounded like such a short distance when I was working with the realtor, but with the blizzard still raging, my heart pounds the entire time I’m working my way through Lockton to the other side of town. It takes way longer than it should.

  By the time I get there, my head is throbbing.

  And the driveway is covered in snow.

  I put my forehead against the steering wheel. Maybe I can just sleep here for the night, in the middle of the road, and if anybody questions me, I’ll just say—

  I’ll just say nothing, because that’s not going to happen.

  I had a shovel sent along with some of my other things.

  I have no other choice.

  I pull the Jeep up to the curb outside the house. It’s a quiet neighborhood, and this late at night, nobody is out shoveling to help me. If they were, I’d be totally creeped out.

  I fumble for the keys in my purse, finally finding the one for the side door next to the garage.

  At first, I don’t recognize any of the things stacked in piles inside, but by the light of my phone I locate the light switch.

  Right. This is my stuff.

  The shovel leans against the back wall, and I approach it with as much determination as I can force in this moment. The snow must be six inches deep at the shallowest parts.

  Well, it’s a small driveway. It should be done in no time.

  I believe that with all my heart, right up until the moment I get the shovel underneath the snow, push it forward three inches, and try to lift it.

  The snow is heavy and wet, and all the trips to the gym in the world wouldn’t have made me strong enough to lift this.

  I want to cry.

  I grit my teeth instead.

  I grit my teeth, and I start to make compromises.

  I’ll get just enough out of the way so that the Jeep can get into the driveway, and tomorrow I’ll call…I don’t know. Tomorrow I’ll call someone to take care of the rest while I’m at the hospital. There’s no shame in hiring out. Maybe a little shame. I’m supposed to be saving to pay off my loans. But in the meantime, I don’t see another option.

  I scrape the snow off the driveway layer by layer, slowly clearing half of the driveway. The muscles of my arms are tired right away and aching by the third shovelful, but I clench my jaw harder. The snow whips into my eyes and coats my eyelashes with a layer of ice. I brush it away. I pull my hood tightly around my head and squint against the snow.

  After forty-five minutes, I stop.

  It’s not giving up. I’ve just decided to finish this another time.

  I throw the shovel back into the garage—I don’t care where it lands—and pull the Jeep into the driveway. I’d park it inside, but there are too many boxes to move right now.

  Then I haul my suitcase out of the back of the car, throw my purse over my shoulder, and trudge up the snow-filled sidewalk to the front porch, which is drifted over with snow.

  My heart turns over in my chest.

  There’s nobody inside, no lights on, and a lump comes to my throat. I’m cold. My clothes are soaked. It’s late.

  And nobody is inside.

  Nobody might ever be inside.

  I want to wallow in this knowledge, but I need to go inside and make my bed. Then fall into it and go to sleep. God, it’s going to feel so good to go to sleep.

  I shut and lock the door behind me, then run my hand along the wall to find the switch for the lights. The fixture above the entryway turns on, illuminating the hallway down to the kitchen.

  Everything seems normal, in its place, if not quite…unpacked.

  I move toward the kitchen. I just want to check it out, see how I’m going to deal with breakfast…maybe not tomorrow morning, but soon.

  I step across the threshold.

  I take two steps toward the sink.

  The flooring creaks underneath me.

  That’s when my foot goes straight through the floor.

  Chapter Ten

  Crosby

  “My goodness, young man. This is wonderful.”

  Mrs. Greaves’ voice is tremulous, and I steel myself for the moment when I have to turn my head and look up and see her old hands clutched in front of her chest like I’ve just built the Taj Mahal in her back mudroom. Final tile in my hands, I pause and look up.

  Suspicions confirmed.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Greaves.”

  “Are you finished?”

  I keep my eyes locked on her face so I don’t roll them out of my damn head. It’s early in the morning, and I came here as soon as I knew she’d be awake. The money from this job is good—too good to pass up—but I want to be done with it, away from this old woman and her house. Too much could go wrong here. I don’t want to be responsible when it does. The longer I stay, the better the chances of that happening.

  “Not yet. Just this last tile, and then I’ll be making sure everything is up to my standards.”

  She presses her lips together and smiles like she’s in ecstasy. I’m a fucking asshole for wanting to rush out of here, and I know it. Mrs. Greaves is one of those lonely widows who doesn’t seem to get many visitors. Aside from the Meals on Wheels person, I might be the only other human she sees this week.

  Well, I never said I was a good guy.

  Haven’t been for a long, long time.

  She shuffles off, back to her recliner, and I pick up the tile again.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I set down the tile again and reach for the phone. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and my first instinct is to ignore whatever idiot is calling me at this exact moment and dragging out this job.

  “King Carpentry.”

  “Hi, I’m calling about a…problem that I’m having with my kitchen floor.”

  My heart jitters to a stop, and tingling goose bumps fly down my back. I’ll be damned.

  “I’m just finishing up a job today, so I could come out and take a look. Name and address?”

  There’s a pause, and then I hear her breathe in. “Crosby?”

  “This is Crosby.”

  There’s a muffled sort of laugh. “This is Lacey.”

  At the sound of her name, I smile so big my dry lips almost split. But I lock that shit down. She’s probably not thrilled to discover it’s me
. She’ll be hanging up in three, two, one…

  “I didn’t know you were in building.”

  “I am.”

  “Okay. Okay, great.” Lacey’s voice is tense, high-pitched, and I wonder what the hell has gone on in her kitchen. “Well, I’ve called three other places, and they’re either not taking jobs over the winter or out of town. You said you had time today.”

  “Yep. What’s the problem?”

  “My foot fell through the floor.”

  My hands are shaking, and that ache in my chest is back. I can’t fucking believe we’re having this conversation like two normal people who have never kissed for so long we ran out of breath. Like I never left her to fend for herself the first semester in college, let her think I didn’t love her.

  My cock is hard against my jeans just hearing her voice.

  “Did you get the foot back?” The joke is rusty. The instinct to make a joke is rustier. But I can’t stop it.

  She laughs again, and this time she sounds more like herself. “My foot went through the floor. It’s still attached.”

  “I take it the floor is a mess.”

  “A mess doesn’t even begin to describe it. Listen—” There’s a shuffling, like she’s going through sheets of paper. “I have to be at the hospital until nine. Is there any way you could come by after that? I know it’s late—”

  “I’ll be there.” I sound too damn eager, too fucking excited. “I mean, that’s fine. I’ll be all finished with my other jobs by then.”

  “Great.” Another pause. I hear her take in another breath. Is it just me, or does it actually sound a little choppy? “Thanks, Crosby.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Bye.”

  “Wait. What’s your address?”

  “Oh—it’s…” There’s a pause. “It’s 701 Kalamazoo.”

  “Great. See you there.”

  I hang up the phone, then stare at the screen.

  Did that shit actually happen?

  What am I going to do until nine?

  Down the hall, Mrs. Greaves is moving again. I snatch up the tile and press it into place. I’m sure as hell not staying here until nine.

  By eight fifty, I’m idling by the curb in front of Lacey’s house in my truck, my best pair of jeans and a practically new flannel shirt on underneath my coat.

  I spent most of the hours between finishing Mrs. Greaves’ job and now driving through the snow—half-plowed and turning to slush—to the mall and floundering through the men’s department at whatever the giant-ass store on the end is. It wasn’t until some saleswoman approached me by the displays of high-end flannel that I realized it was bullshit to be shopping for a new outfit just to do a construction job.

  Got out of there as fast as I could, you’d better fucking believe it.

  Five to nine. The heat from the truck must be getting to me, because it hits me like a slap across the face: I can’t fucking sit here until Lacey gets home from the hospital. She has to be there until nine, and then…what? She’s got to have time to take off her doctor coat and shoot the shit with the other doctors. I could be waiting another twenty minutes, and I look like a complete stalker. Christ.

  I throw the truck into drive and pull out onto the road, checking the rearview mirror for any sign of approaching cars. This street is pretty quiet, which means the neighbors have probably already noticed I was out here.

  One conversation, and she’s turned my brain into a sloppy mess.

  I leave the neighborhood and circle the next three blocks. This part of Lockton is pretty much all neighborhood, one cute little block turning into another cute little block. The houses are too close together. Doesn’t anybody ever want any space?

  I guess Lacey doesn’t, since she bought one of these little postage stamps of a place, right on one of those cozy-as-fuck blocks.

  I kill five minutes, then ten, then fifteen, and only then do I turn around and drive back in the direction of her house. This time, I park across the street. As I do, a Jeep comes down the road and turns carefully into her driveway.

  Showtime.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lacey

  “Lacey.”

  Crosby’s smooth, low voice crackles through the icy air, and I turn with my hand still holding the key in the lock. He’s coming up the front walk, striding easily, like this is his house, like I’m his, too, and he has no reason to be nervous about approaching me. He’s up on the porch in two steps, his built shoulders rising with his breath. He used to play football in high school. I would watch him in the weight room sometimes, those same muscles pressing up ridiculous amounts of weight with so little effort. When he’s standing this close to me, it’s hard for me to breathe.

  I breathe anyway.

  “Lace.” The word sounds stupid, hanging in between us, but it’s all I can come up with.

  Crosby cocks his head to the side, asking without words.

  “I go by Lace, now.” There’s a slow burn happening between my legs, the heat increasing with every moment he stands there, his breath frozen in the evening air.

  “You never liked Lacey.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact, and it’s damn bold of him to throw it out there like we still know each other.

  Even though I ache to still know each other.

  “No.”

  I tear my eyes away from him and turn the key in the lock, the mechanism sliding open without a hitch. It’s the only thing that hasn’t let me down yet.

  I go into the house first, Crosby following close behind, and as he steps carefully past me, the cold pours off of him, mixing with a scent that’s all him—like fresh water, like ice, like the friction of cutting through wood.

  I want to tear his clothes off right there in my entryway, press my lips to his, and devour him. My entire body lights up with desire from nipples to toes. I’m covered in goose bumps underneath my downy jacket.

  Instead, I close the door and flip on the light switch to turn on the overhead light.

  Nothing happens.

  “Damn.”

  Crosby breaks into a smile, his teeth flashing in the lamplight coming in from outside. “Got a spare bulb?”

  “No.” I sigh. “No time to go to the store.”

  “Is there light in the kitchen?”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  I move past him in the hallway, both of us doing a careful dance so our coats don’t brush against each other. They come awfully close. At the threshold to the kitchen, I stop and reach inside for the switch.

  That, at least, manages to turn on a light. Over my shoulder, Crosby whistles. “That’s one hell of a hole.”

  “It buckled right under me.”

  “You don’t weigh that much.” He says it casually, but my heart jerks hard against my chest. So he has been looking, testing the view.

  I can’t blame him.

  Then Crosby puts one broad hand on my shoulder. At first, every inch of me goes tense—is he going to turn me around and kiss me? Shit, I hope he turns me around and kisses me, please turn me around and kiss me—but the gentle pressure only moves me to one side so he can walk into the kitchen, his back to me.

  He moves in measured steps toward the hole, feeling out the floor with every step. Then he kneels down, reaches for something in his back pocket.

  A little flashlight, hard, metal casing.

  He shines it down into the hole, looks some more.

  Every breath I take is an effort. I want him closer. I want him out of the house. I want to take him back. I want to punish him for leaving me. I don’t know what the hell I want.

  He turns back to me on one knee, an unreadable expression in his green eyes. “Well, Lacey—Lace—you’ve got a problem here.”

  “No shit.”

  He laughs at that, the sound choked off in seconds. “It looks like there was a leak here at some point that was left unattended for long enough that it’s rotted through the floor and the subfloor.”

  Th
en he stands up from the floor, muscles working beneath his clothes.

  I shrug my coat off. I’m going to overheat if I don’t, and it’s not very warm in here. What’s the point of paying for seventy degrees all day if I’m going to be at the hospital?

  It feels like ninety-five with Crosby standing in the kitchen.

  “Can you fix it?”

  Every word that comes out of my mouth seems loaded somehow, even if we’re just having a casual conversation about fixing the hole in my kitchen floor, clearing away the splintered wood, patching it up so I can stand at the sink.

  Crosby nods, sticking his jaw out like he does—did—when he’s thinking. “Thing is, I’m going to have to take up most of the floor.”

  I swallow hard. “How long—how long is that going to take?”

  The truth that I’m not going to say out loud to Crosby, not now, not ever, is that I don’t know if I can stand being here with him. I don’t know if the ache in my chest is heartache or desire or both or something else entirely. I don’t know which is right—my body, which wants to shove him down onto his back right now and ride him like there’s no tomorrow, or my mind, which wants to demand an apology for screwing me over like he did and throw him out of the house.

  “I could have it done in a week.” He gives me a look. “That depends on when I can be here.”

  “I don’t have an extra key.”

  He absorbs the words and one corner of his mouth turns up in the half grin that has always—always—turned me into a puddle.

  It’d have the same effect now, except I’m already there.

  “You want this to be a night job?”

  A job in the dark, when I’m off work, when I’m sitting here, relaxing, showered and dressed in clothes that could easily be torn off and—

  I blink at him, trying to take control of myself. “Tomorrow’s my day off. I can have a key made then.”

  Crosby shakes his head. “Corner Hardware is the only place in town that does that, and they’re closed on Sundays.”

  I let out a breath. “Well, I’m not spending the day driving all over looking for—”