Something Old

by Abigail Grey

  Matt took a pace closer, a small smile hovering at the corner of his mouth. “Anything else?”

  “I found a new favorite dry cleaner.” Claire edged closer again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. And there’s a house being built there that I think I could really like living in with the right architect.”

  “What else?” Matt stopped directly in front of her, his hands curled in impatient fists at his sides.

  “Ran into my first love.”

  Matt grinned. “Really?”

  “Mmhmm,” she murmured. “Then…then I found a new love.”

  “Is that so? What’s he like?”

  Claire feigned an expression of deep thought. “Sort of like the old one but with more rope.”

  Matt threw his head back and laughed. “God, I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Matty.” Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, savoring the feeling of his hands linking behind her back. “Don’t let me forget it again. Okay?”

  He stooped to press a lingering kiss on her lips. “Come on, Claire. Let me take you home.”

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  More Than Something: Something Real

  Abigail Grey

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Marcy Townsend smiled tightly, holding her cell phone to her ear. “I swear, Jen, if you’ve set me up with another of those guys you talked to at some event you were at…”

  On the other end, she heard the exasperated sigh. “Marcy, you never come out with us. How else are you supposed to meet people?”

  Taking a deep, reviving breath, Marcy reminded her friend, “Jen, I work with people. I work for people. I have our book club. I have volunteer work. I am not lacking for people.”

  “Then why did you say ‘yes’, Marce?”

  Marcy’s perpetually pursed lips made their appearance as she bit the inside of her lower lip. She really hated Jen Brannon sometimes. The woman was far too insightful for her own good. The leader of their women’s literature book club was a self-admitted caretaker, and it seemed to come naturally. Marcy could have hated her if the tone had been anything but soft and caring. Jen had the talent of hitting hard with the tough questions but the compassion to not push the issue.

  Marcy turned, pacing the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. “At least tell me he doesn’t have a computer screen tan.”

  “I can’t promise that, Marce. You know how it is. Summer break doesn’t exist for grown-ups.” Jen chuckled. “He has better hair than the last one, though. I promise.”

  Marcy groaned. “Oh, God, Jen. Could it have been worse?” At the silence on the end of the line, Marcy stopped dead. “You mean it could have been worse? You seriously considered worse?” Marcy shuddered at the thought of what would have trumped the permed mullet from Jen’s last matchmaking attempt.

  “I didn’t say I considered it,” Jen hedged. “And Troy was a perfectly nice guy. Great hands.”

  “He took me to get chili dogs, Jen. I wore a dress. And heels. He was so obviously not my type.” Marcy sighed, followed by silence on both ends. Marcy cringed, feeling Jen’s disappointment through the phone line.

  “Jen, I need to go. He’s probably inside and I’m standing out here like an idiot. What was his name again?”

  “Nathan. And you wore the cute blue dress, right? I told him you’d be wearing blue.” Jen sounded truly hopeful, so Marcy confirmed she was, only feeling a little guilty as she looked down at the modest blue blouse she wore with her pencil skirt and pumps. She said goodbye, taking a few more deep breaths as she hung up her cell phone, carefully placing it into the dedicated pocket of her attaché-sized purse.

  Jen couldn’t help her optimism. Having found the man she would marry when she was in college, she wanted the same kind of love and enjoyment they still got from each other, almost twenty years later, for everyone…everywhere…that she had ever met. Whether she met them at events for her gallery or at the bi-weekly book club meetings or, like Marcy, in the checkout lane at their local grocery. Marcy knew, from her own experience, that the relationship Jen and her husband had was a one-in-a-million chance. After watching marriages from every side of her fall apart—from her best friends’ to her co-workers’ to her parents’—she had resigned herself to the theory that things like open communication, true love and complete monogamy were things of legend and myth.

  She opened the door of the café, making her way to the counter to order. She schooled herself to look solely at the menu or the décor and not look curiously around for the man she was scheduled to meet.

  The café seemed clean—something she was pleasantly surprised by. This area near the college in town was notorious for dark storefronts, kept that way to disguise the owners’ disdain for cleanliness. The clientele in those delis and bars seemed to echo their surroundings. The unwashed hair and torn jeans set was such a contrast to the crowd of professionals that were currently populating the tables around her.

  Marcy reached the counter and placed an order for a decadent-sounding espresso drink. She looked longingly at the pastries displayed under glass domes on the counter. Cupcakes, scones and cookies of delicious varieties beckoned her. She asked the girl entering orders, “Excuse me, but could you tell me what type of cupcakes these are?”

  The girl smiled, increasing her similarity to a sorority cheerleader type. “Well, we have our lemon champagne cake topped with strawberry lemonade buttercream. The dark cake is an espresso chocolate topped with a cherry cordial frosting, and the caramel-colored with caramel icing is made with three types of caramel and topped with sea salt.” After the recitation, she tipped her head with a practiced gesture that seemed to bring a few of the other customers to attention. Marcy suddenly understood that it wasn’t only the coffee and treats that brought the mostly male clientele in. She leaned closer to the salted caramel cupcake, debating if she should—

  “Can I package one for you, ma’am?”

  Marcy felt her eyes widen and she had to consciously keep her lip from curling into a sneer at the labeling by the younger girl. “No, thank you,” she replied, turning away from the delicacies on display, only to hear both men in line behind her order several pastries from the coed.

  She absently watched the barista make the beverages as the line crept toward the register. As she reached for her wallet, aware that she would be called next, the forward movement from the corner of her vision caught her attention.

  A man walked toward her. Marcy evaluated him critically, a tactic she now employed with every new person she encountered. He was dressed well, if a little casually for a professional in the way Jen had described. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, but at least he’d tucked the shirt into the well-fitting jeans. His shoes were quality, as was the leather belt. His path wove between chairs and tables and something about his gait made Marcy note that he wasn’t able to take full strides in the crowded shop. Marcy idly realized Jen was right. He did have better hair than her last disastrous date. She could tell the dark blond, nearly brown hair, was just a little longer than he was used to when he ran his fingers over it. Marcy looked away from his nervous gesture, preparing to pay the staff for her drink.

  A light touch rested on her elbow briefly before she jerked away, looking at the offending hand. She looked up…and up…to the eyes of the man who had approached. She made the mental note that he was easily a foot taller than her, had she not been wearing heels.

  Holding his hand up, apologetically pulling it away, he smiled gently. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but may I buy your coffee for you?” The corners of his blue eyes crinkled attractively behind the lenses of glasses.

  Marcy furrowed her brow. The choice should have been easy. A simple yes and a thank you came to her mind. Instead, though, she found herself pursing her lips, biting the inside of her cheek and replying, “No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

  He returned his wallet to his back pocket with a nod. “Well,
would you care to join me when you do?” he asked, gesturing to the table he had come from.

  Marcy nodded. “Sure. I’ll be right there.” She saw him turn to maneuver through the maze of tables again. After paying for her latte and taking a first bracing sip, she turned to make her way to the table he had indicated.

  Another movement caught her attention, accompanied by the sound of a rustling newspaper. Marcy’s eyes went wide when she realized the man reading the newspaper fit the description Jen had given her. He did have the lack of sun indicative of working indoors during the day, an intelligent look about him and the slightly scruffy look that Jen found appealing. Marcy vowed to kill her friend when she realized that better hair meant none, à la Bruce Willis or Vin Diesel.

  After a pause, she continued on her way to the table of the stranger who had approached her. She stood at the chair he would have offered, noting that he had a book open on the table, and Marcy smiled at him. She idly began to deliberately misquote a poem mentally that had been read to her book club weeks ago—Date a man who reads. He looked up from the page and moved to unfold his tall frame from the chair. Marcy held up her hand to stop him.

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t join you,” she began. As his expression began to change, she felt the need to explain. “I’m meeting someone and when you approached me, I made an incorrect assumption that you were, in fact, that person. I’ve realized my error.”

  He chuckled. “I understand. And of course it would be rude to stand up your date.”

  “Yes, it would. My friend would never let me live it down.” Marcy smiled. “Thank you for understanding and for the offer.”

  His smile shifted from genuine to a slightly wistful smirk. “Blind date, huh? Well, enjoy it.”

  Marcy was taken aback, a little curious at his tone. “Thank you. Enjoy your book.” Looking back at it, she recognized a name and soon the story. “It’s a good one, one of my favorites.”

  She walked away, weaving her way to the other table while she worried her lower lip between her teeth. A man who towered over her would normally make her feel vulnerable and fragile. Something about his manner, though, was calming. And he reads.

  Shaking off the encounter, she approached the man she now correctly assumed to be Nathan. Seeing her approach, he folded his paper and stood. She gave him points for the gentlemanly behavior, but felt her heart sink as she realized he stood inches shorter than she would have been flat-footed.

  She smiled, trying to be friendly as they shook hands. She put her purse down, feeling like she had to scale the bar stool at the high-top table he had chosen. As she settled herself, the perky counter girl approached her with a plate.

  “Here’s your cupcake, ma’am.”

  Marcy looked up at Nathan, the shock apparent in her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said to the girl. “I didn’t order that.”

  “Oh, I know,” she replied. “Someone bought it for you. He just left, though. I can package it to go if you like?”

  Behind Nathan, in the café’s large display windows, Marcy saw the stranger walking briskly, with full long-legged strides, down the street.

  She nodded. “I would, please. If you don’t mind.”

  The girl bounced away, returning shortly with a bag for the salted caramel confection, bought for her by a stranger.

  Order your copy here

  About the Author

  An avid reader from the beginning, Abigail Grey was first introduced to romance novels as she snuck them from her mother’s bookshelf. She was a writer even then, penning poems and stories that centered around her small town childhood. Life went on, and Abigail learned about the intricacies of BDSM and kink. She quickly married the two and began writing fantasies to keep people burning for more. After publication in a collection of short stories, Abigail was encouraged by her local book club to continue.

  Abigail lives in that small town in Western Michigan still, working and writing from home. She counts herself lucky to be named a leader in her local kink community and is often found at their own Sanctuary learning about rope, insertables, polyamory and littles. When not writing and reading, Abigail can be found at the local community theatre, fostering theatre geekhood in the younger generations.

  Email: kinky.suzy.homemaker@gmail.com

  Abigail loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

  Also by Abigail Grey

  More Than Something: Something Real