A Sweet Life-kindle

by Andre, Bella

  "Now? Will, we're going to be late." She continued moving cookies from the tray to a rack. "Go shower. We can talk after the party."

  "I think you'll want to hear this."

  Something in his tone must have alerted her he was serious, because she dropped the spatula, her face worried, and slid into a chair.

  "What is it? What's wrong?"

  He wished he knew what her reaction was going to be to what he had to say. It would make it so much easier.

  "I had a call from a social worker this afternoon. Do you remember that car accident I was called out on last week near Pinedale, where that young couple was killed?"

  She nodded, still looking confused.

  "Do you remember me telling you about their two little kids who weren't hurt. A girl, Rosa, who's three and a baby boy, Antonio, just four months?"

  "Yes. The poor dears!" Her green eyes were drenched with compassion. "And right before Christmas, too."

  "Mrs. Carlisle, the social worker, called to tell me they can’t find any other family. Now she's looking for somewhere these two little kids can spend Christmas. Problem is, the girl doesn't speak English. Just Spanish. I guess Mrs. Carlisle knew about you and the preschool, knew you speak Spanish and that you're good with kids. She called me to see if these two little ones could stay here with us."

  Andie immediately rose. "Of course! I wonder if we could get Walt to open the store for us so we could pick up a few presents for her to unwrap tomorrow. The girl can sleep in with Emily and I'm sure we can borrow that portable crib from Beth for the baby since Dusty's too big for it anymore."

  She continued making plans, until he held out a hand.

  "Andie. There's more."

  "More?" She slid back into the chair.

  "Mrs. Carlisle says they're looking to place the children with a family who might be interested in a more permanent situation."

  "A—a permanent situation?"

  "Adoption."

  She stared at him as if he'd just yanked the chair right out from under her. He crossed to her and knelt so he could look into her eyes. "Look, I know when you agreed to marry me, I promised you that you and Emily would be enough family for me. And you are. I'll understand if you say no. I swear I will, sweetheart."

  "Adoption –"

  "It's just that these kids are all alone, Andie. They have nothing now and we have so much."

  "Will—"

  "I know, it's not fair for me to spring this on you when we haven't even talked about it." The thing was, he'd already fallen head over heels in love with the two the minute the social worker brought them into his office, Rosa with her shy smile and Antonio—Tony—with his big dark eyes and gurgling laugh.

  "And Emily," he continued. "We should talk it over with Emily. How would she feel about getting an instant brother and sister?"

  "She'd think it would be pretty cool as long as she doesn't have to share her room," Emily said from the doorway. "And as long as she doesn't have to baby-sit all the time."

  As if in a daze, Andie shook her head. A tendril of hair escaped to fall to her face. "Where are they?"

  He straightened and felt himself flush. "Outside. I told Mrs. Carlisle to meet me here. She's waiting out there with them in her car. I would have called you, but I wanted to talk to you face-to-face about it. I was pretty sure you'd say yes, about Christmas, anyway. The rest of it, I told her we'd play by ear. I... I'll go get them."

  When he returned to the kitchen, with Rosa holding his hand tightly, Andie was sitting in the same chair, still looking shell-shocked. Mrs. Carlisle walked in behind him, holding the baby.

  The little girl watched out of huge solemn eyes, clinging to Will, as Andie stood and crossed to her.

  "Hola, querida," she said softly, holding out a cookie. The girl took it, then buried her face in Will's jeans.

  "She's a little shy," Mrs. Carlisle said. "But she's a real sweetheart. So's this one." She held out the blanket-wrapped infant to Andie, who took him with a look of reverence on her face.

  She peeled the blankets away and stared at the round cheeks, at the dark eyes watching with an unblinking stare, at the thick dark hair that dipped into the little boy's plump face.

  Will watched a tear drip onto the baby's face, and he suddenly felt unsure of himself. He'd hoped she would be happy about this. He knew she still yearned for a child, though she tried to hide it from him.

  Had he only succeeded in bringing her more pain?

  "Sweetheart, I'm sorry," he said, unable to bear it. "We can find somewhere else for them to spend Christmas."

  "No, you will not," she said fiercely, hugging the children to her. "They're staying right here."

  Mrs. Carlisle cleared her throat. "There are bottles and formula there for Antonio and enough diapers to get you through a couple of days at least. I'll check with you tomorrow to see how things are going. Now if you'll excuse me, my family's waiting for me."

  Will hefted Rosa into his arms and walked back to the living room to open the door for the social worker. When he returned, Emily and Andie were both gazing down at the little boy.

  As he watched them smile at the baby's gurgling and cooing, he had to fight down the ache in his throat at the incredible gifts he'd been given.

  Emily. The verdant little ranch. The two sweet dark-eyed children who'd already sneaked into his heart.

  And most of all, the beautiful, wonderful woman who'd made it all happen, who had healed him, who had coaxed him out of his ugly world of grief and vengeance, into one overflowing with life, with joy.

  Andrea Milagros Tanner.

  His miracle.

  The End

  About RaeAnne Thayne

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author RaeAnne Thayne finds inspiration in the beautiful northern Utah mountains where she lives with her family. Her books have won numerous honors, including four RITA Award nominations from Romance Writers of America and a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews magazine. RaeAnne loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.RaeAnneThayne.com.

  Every Girl Does It

  Rachel Van Dyken

  Every Girl Does It

  Copyright 2014 Rachel Van Dyken

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Prologue

  Oh no. This is not happening, not happening!

  I wipe my hands over my pleated skirt, a painfully nervous habit. Sweaty hands are not attractive, or so Brad Macintosh said when he held them during couple’s skate my seventh-grade year.

  It is my first choir solo ever. Why couldn’t it be our fall concert instead of our Spring Spectacular? I feel ridiculous standing in front of the entire school with my mouth gaping open, trying to find a middle C. Not to mention the fact that my mother, who is now standing up in the middle of the audience and waving with video camera in hand, forced me to wear a pleated skirt. Thus, the outfit is now screaming uncool on my lanky body.

  Never am I this mean, but when I get nervous, I tend to snap at people. All week, I was at odds with my mom for taking pictures of me. She was literally documenting every day of my life up until the big solo or, as she put it, my discovery! Leave it to my mom to make a high school solo into the performance that will get her daughter discovered and
a record deal all before her eighteenth birthday. Somehow, I don’t think MTV is going to be knocking on our door anytime soon for the amateur footage my mom shot in order to do a diary on my life before I was famous.

  Shaky and clammy, I begin my solo, praying I remember the words. When I finish, I feel like I’ve run the fifty-yard dash with the way my heart is hammering against my chest, but I then realize everyone is clapping. And the clapping? The cheering? All for me!

  In fact, people are beginning to stand up and clap, and I actually feel famous, like I’m a pop star giving my first concert and people love me. THEY LOVE ME! I. Am. Awesome. Move over Britney Spears. There’s a new princess in town.

  I bow and do a little curtsy, just so they know I’m still humble, and wave like Miss America all the way back to my seat with the rest of the choir. Blushing, I try to avoid eye contact with the rest of the choir as they whisper, “Good job.” I look humble, but I’m actually soaring because of how proud I am. I actually did it! Now if only my mom would turn off that ridiculous camera and sit down. My dad gives me a thumbs-up, and oh yes, my mom is wiping a stray tear from her eye. Looking at them, you’d assume I’ve never done anything exciting in my entire life. I mean, come on, pretty sure my birth was at least a Kodak moment, am I right?

  ***

  Our choir director grabs the microphone and clears his throat. The entire audience falls silent like he’s the president of the United States about to make his State of the Union address.

  Our town is small.

  And when I say small, I mean everyone knows everyone. I sneeze, and my parents ask if I have a cold when I get home. Just because our choir director used to be a somewhat-famous musician does not mean he should be elected mayor or given the key to the town; however, few agree with my practical assessment. After all, he did give me my starring solo, so I should probably act a little more thankful. So I, like everyone else, hang the stars in my eyes and listen intently for what he is about to say.

  “Now, I know we normally end after the starring solo…” He turns and winks at me while I feel my face turn red and hot and hear people chant my name.

  Naturally, the damn video camera makes another appearance. My mom waves behind it.

  “But…” he says, holding up his hand, “we have a little treat for all of you today. Preston, why don’t you come down here?”

  Preston? Weird, I didn’t know he was in choir. Poor kid. He’d be more attractive if he turned in the Star Wars T-shirts for some button-ups or at least a white shirt. Seriously. Hanes would do wonders for that boy. He’s the only member of the Star Wars fan club; he refuses to acknowledge that George Lucas did in fact make more of the films. He says it’s blasphemy to even speak of it. I think it’s painfully clear why he’s the only member of the club.

  Rather than his usual uniform sporting R2D2 or Luke Skywalker, he’s wearing an over-large sweater vest and Wrangler jeans way too short for his height. As I’m assessing his wardrobe, my eyes land on Peter Macintosh, my obsession. And I don’t say that loosely. For the past two years I’ve scribbled his name on my Trapper Keeper in hopes that one day he’ll magically look over and ask me to be his girlfriend. I’m a firm believer in hopeless optimism. Besides, what guy wouldn’t want to feel more wanted, right? There was always a slight chance it would creep him out, but again, optimism. Say it with me.

  I sigh and tilt my head to the side. It helps that he’s gorgeous and talented. He’s the best basketball player my high school has seen in years. I bet he’d get keys to the town too.

  Hopefully, he asks me to prom. I stare longingly across the way, willing him to make eye contact. I mean, it’s only natural for the starting point guard to ask out the soloist of the year, right? Deciding to be bold, I wink at him and notice a faint blush stain his cheeks as his eyes shift downward in nervousness. When he looks up, he lifts his hand in a friendly wave and winks. Wow! A starring solo and the most popular boy in school? Someone should give me a high five. No, really. I’m actually ready to nudge the girl next to me when I hear a screeching feedback from the microphone.

  “Amanda Lewis!”

  I hear my name; why do I hear my name? Turning, I see Preston staring at me then I notice the entire audience seems to be waiting in suspense.

  “What?” I ask in hushed tones. The girl next to me tells me that Preston asked me to approach the front. Strange, but maybe I won an award? Without further hesitation, I walk up and smile brightly as people clap. The temptation to wave again is overwhelming, and I succumb, beaming as I receive another round of applause. Wow, I could get use to this kind of attention. Finally I reach Preston, but there’s no trophy. Bummer.

  He grabs for my hand, and before I can pull it away, it’s already stuck to his. His thumb rubs over mine. This is awkward. I try to jerk away but he’s stronger than he looks.

  “Will you go to prom with me?”

  He’s kidding. I’m getting pranked. I try to pull away harder. His grip is so freaking firm it’s like he’s superman. This can’t be real. Is this Candid Camera? Looking around, I notice that everyone in the audience is dead-silent. Even my friends in the choir are sitting there with their mouths gaping open. This is social suicide.

  Social suicide, thy name is Amanda Lewis. Goodbye, Peter, so long, keys to the town, any future prom dates and or lunch-table buddies. Gone.

  Taking the microphone out of his super strong hands, I feel the collective hush of people holding their breath. Somehow I manage to press on as gracefully as possible. “Wow, that’s so sweet to offer,” I say cheerfully. My mom still has the video camera trained on me. Curse her. We’ll have words later.

  “But,” I say unsure, my voice wavering, “I already promised that I would go with my cousin. Maybe if you would have asked sooner…?” This is my peace offering, a pathetic one.

  “Prom’s in two months,” Preston replies, defeated.

  “I know,” I say quickly. “But I wanted to get an early start. So sorry, Preston.” I give him a quick side hug, the same hug I give my creepy uncle every Christmas.

  He grabs the microphone and tries to smile. “It’s okay. You’re right. I should have asked sooner. Hey, let’s give another round of applause to the soloist of the night!” He backs up and claps for me, but I can see tears in his eyes. Humiliation, and it’s all my fault. All I want right now is for the floor to open up and swallow me alive. Unfortunately, sudden death doesn’t seem to be an option, so I wave with little enthusiasm and find my seat.

  A girl next to me nudges my knee. “That was close, huh?” Her eyes are laughing, like she’s making a joke, but I just want to cry. How cruel can a person be? People around me are muttering words like, ouch, harsh, bummer, and I fight the tears as they start to blur my vision. My throat constricts with a sudden onslaught of emotion as I see Preston slowly move back to his seat and hang his head in his hands. I silently pray for him to lift his head and look in my direction. Instead, nausea overwhelms me as I watch a single tear slide down his cheek. It feels like I just shot Bambi, and the worst part is I can’t seem to find the strength to get up, walk over to his seat, and apologize.

  Chapter One

  Four Years Later

  How I ended up here, I have no idea. Well actually, I take that back. I do. The whole thing started when my boyfriend of two weeks asked me to be his date to his best friend’s wedding. Being the naïve idiot that I am, I said, “Well, of course,” because naturally I’m in love with him after fourteen days and will do anything he asks (cue large sigh here). Don’t hate me for falling in love so fast. You would too if your date looked like a hotter version of Zac Efron.

  So, you can imagine my surprise at the predicament I’m in — not that I shouldn’t have seen it coming. A girl should have a sixth sense about some situations. He never let me see his place, nor did he take me out in public, nor did I ever actually meet any of his friends. It was a series of coffee dates and quick, yet promising kisses on the cheek, which led me to this church on this par
ticular day. Desperate? No, I am not, but perhaps I’m a little too hopeful.

  Dear friends, who also happen to be happily married, are always reminding me I am young enough to be independent, free, and I should enjoy this time in my life. Please. I’d roll my eyes and say choice words to them, if they could take their eyes off each other long enough to notice. Oh and P.S., they can’t. I swear, groping should be an Olympic sport for some people.

  Which brings me to why I’m too hopeful — I want what they have. I don’t even need a gold in groping. Heck I’d take a participation medal. I just want to know what it's like to be wanted so desperately that you can’t help but starfish yourself to another human. However, my desire to starfish or attach my person to someone else isn’t an excuse, not by a long shot.

  Crap. I would do anything short of committing a federal crime to leave this place. But I can’t. My only ride is with my stupid (you guessed it) ex-boyfriend, who is still in the corner sobbing his eyes out. And you may ask, “Amanda, that’s odd. Why is your now ex-boyfriend sobbing his eyes out?” To which I will answer, “Because he’s lost his mind.”

  Literally tossed every brain cell in his possession into a trashcan and set it on fire, no joke.

  Looking at him just makes me all the more sick to my stomach. As I said before, I should have known. Used, like some worthless replacement for what he'd really wanted all along, that is what I feel right now, and it’s the simple truth.

  With all the snot running down his face and the tears, I find myself wondering what I ever saw in him. What is wrong with me? Normally I’m not this stupid. I go for the jocks, but because of bad experiences — which we don’t need to review — I'd decided to go for the sensitive, pensive guy with bedroom eyes. Sensitivity might be a nice change, I'd thought. Well, I got the sensitive part; not what I had in mind.