I Have Lived And I Have Loved: A Charity Romance Collection

by Willow Winters

  "I came to apologize for all the noise. Now, I'll add being a creepy neighbor to the list of my transgressions," I say sheepishly.

  She relaxes and smiles through a moan that is erotic in a way she can't possibly mean, and it immediately replaces her laugh as my favorite sound. I want to pull that sound from her again.

  "I'm sorry, Max,” and hearing her use my name loosens something in my chest. It sounds nice rolling off her tongue, and I love that she’s dropped my full name. “We've gotten off on the wrong foot, haven't we?" she says graciously.

  "We? No, just me. I haven't had neighbors for a long time. I'm used to playing my music as loud as I want and laying flooring at midnight because it's convenient. I'll keep it down. I won't knock so early. And I won't stare at you inappropriately," I say hoping that even though I'm being lighthearted, she can tell my apology is sincere. Her eyes soften.

  "I didn't find your regard inappropriate," she says softly looking up at me through her lashes.

  That look, coupled with the very faint blush that blooms on her cheeks, is so utterly sexy and charming I find myself saying words I haven't even thought to say in months. "I’d love to make it up to you. Can I cook you lunch?"

  Chapter 2

  FRANCHESCA

  My new neighbor is ridiculously hot. Hotter than he looks on television... and that's saying a lot. He's an inch or so shy of six feet, but with my five foot one and three quarter inch frame, he's more than tall enough. His baby blue eyes twinkle in a way that reflects his good humor, but the way he's looking at me now reminds me of the blue center of a flame. The way he's worrying his lip as he waits for me to answer his question is charming. He's not known for being charming. He's known for eviscerating the hopes of the young chefs who fail to produce anything less than perfect. I can't imagine any woman saying no to his invitation. I've seen him every morning since I got here. He runs on the beach, comes home and does all sorts of horror inducing things like jumping rope, lunges, push-ups, pull ups, crunches on the deck. With his headphones in, singing or rapping along to whatever's blasting in his ears.

  It woke me up my first morning here, and I watched with fascination as his sweat drenched upper body flexed and rippled.

  I wasn't being dishonest when I said I'm not a morning person. Every morning I’ve gotten up and enjoyed my coffee while I’ve watched him. However, last night, a couple hours after I'd gone to bed, I was awoken by the sound of blaring music and the very distinct thwack of a nails plunging into wood. Rapidly and repeatedly.

  I dragged myself out of bed, stuffed my feet into my flip flops, and marched down my walkway. I rounded the fence that separated our porches and stumped up his. I knocked loudly, but I could hear the music from outside and knew I was wasting my time.

  I went back to my house, wrote a note that was as scathing as I could manage on my sleep fogged brain and stuck it on his front door.

  I didn't expect him to show up here. I hadn't wanted him to. Hot guys with no regard for others were a breed of man I knew very well.

  So, his appearance here, his clearly sincere apology, and his invitation to cook me dinner were all unexpected.

  "You're going to cook? For me?" I ask, unable to hide my smile. Of course, I along with the rest of the world knew about his spectacular fall from grace. I remember the interview where he swore he'd never cook for "the undeserving public" again.

  "Yes, for you," he says in that deep rambling voice that still carries the lilt of his native Colombia. His gaze grows even more penetrating. Even if I wanted to, I’d be helpless to say no, but I most definitely did not want to say no to him.

  "I'd love that," I respond. My inner foodie pops champagne as I imagine what he's going to whip up for dinner. I've been living on frozen wonton soup, grapes, pita chips, coffee, wine and sparkling water since I got here. I haven't found the energy to venture to the grocery store and the thought of eating the same old same is so unappealing.

  "Wonderful. What are you doing for lunch?" he asks, and I double take.

  "Lunch?" I ask surprised.

  "Yeah, lunch. Today." He reiterates.

  "Uh, well... I usually skip lunch," and dinner I omit.

  "You miss the most important meal of the day?"

  "I never miss breakfast."

  "Oh, that's just a great big propaganda message by the orange juice, dairy, egg and bread lobbyists. Lunch is meal of champions. Breakfast is nothing but something to tide you over until lunch." He says with a straight face and the laughter that bubbles out of me, for the second time this morning feels so... good.

  “Well, it's been a very effective messaging campaign because it’s the only meal I don't skip."

  "I can't wait to convert you. Let's say one thirty? I can cook here if it would make you more comfortable," he offers.

  I think about my bare cabinets, the paper plates, and plastic forks and shake my head.

  "No, I'll come around to yours, if that's okay?"

  "Sure, any hard limits?" he asks, and I don't miss the innuendo in his tone or the way his eyes linger on my mouth.

  My nipples tighten as his blue eyes darken when he meets my eyes again.

  "No. I'm easy," I say and slap my hand over my mouth when I realize what I've said, and he bursts out laughing.

  "I mean, about food. I'm not a picky eater," I stammer.

  He puts one of his big hands on my shoulder, and I can feel his heat through the flimsy fabric of my robe; it sends a wave of warmth through my entire body.

  "I know what you meant," he says with a smile that has more than a hint of mischief in it. He lets go of my shoulder and leans against the frame of my door, his broad shoulders nearly filling it, his legs crossed at the ankles. Even in his running clothes, he looks like the poster boy for a high fashion campaign. He’s the walking definition of sexy.

  "Now, I'm going to work extra hard to impress you. People who say they're not picky eaters are my favorite because I want them to leave my table pickier than they were before they sat down. I want to give you something that will make everything that comes after me feel inadequate. That'll make you crave seconds." The way he speaks to me makes my toes curl.

  Good Lord.

  He talks about food the way most people talk about sex. Now, I'm wishing that's what he was talking about. It's been a long time since I've had sex worth the trouble of coming back for seconds.

  "I can't wait," I say honestly, and he winks at me.

  "Neither can I, Franchesca," he says my name with a smile and then he walks backward down the walk.

  "One thirty and come hungry," he winks and then turns and jogs away.

  I close my door and lean back against it. Who would have thought the man who struck terror in the hearts of the audience who watched him, as well as the chefs who vied to impress him every night, would be... nice?

  This is going to be interesting.

  Chapter 3

  Max

  "This looks amazing," Franchesca beams up at me and somehow, those three words make me feel a deeper sense of pride than years of cooking for heads of State, celebrities and some of the most critical palettes ever have.

  "I hope it tastes as good as it looks," I say.

  "I hope so, too. Nothing worse than a dish that looks better than it tastes," she says and takes the napkin I'm hold out to her. She drapes it over her lap and looks up at me expectantly.

  "Where's your plate?"

  "Oh," I shake my head and walk back to the stove and prepare myself a plate. "Old habits die hard," I apologize as I walk back with my plate of ginger and teriyaki glazed salmon, grilled endive and fingerling potatoes drenched in an herb butter I churned by hand.

  "I have a feeling my no lunch habit will be very easy to break. I could get used to this," she responds and picks up her fork and knife.

  I find myself unable to look away as she puts a little bit of everything onto her fork and then puts the food into her mouth. She's wearing a light pink lipstick that makes her lips glisten and
as she chews, I forget about the food and wonder what it would feel like to kiss her.

  When her lips part and that moan that I jerked off to in the shower floats out from between them, I feel my cock stir again. Her eyes drift closed as she chews and she sways a little like she's listening to music instead of eating. I can't take my eyes off her.

  God, it's such a turn on to watch someone eating just for the joy of it. Not to critique the meal, not snapping a picture they'll put up on Instagram -- just because they're enjoying it. This is what was missing from my career, real people who were eating for the joy of it. This is why after the rest of my life imploded, I walked away from my television show, my restaurant and the very lucrative contract I had with the world's largest cookware manufacturer.

  This is the first meal I've been inspired to make in over a year, and now, I'm itching to get back to it.

  I watch her chew and only when she's done does she open her eyes. Their dark green depths are hazy with a pleasure that's contagious.

  "It's amazing. How do you make the salmon so..." she searches the air as if the word is floating above her head.

  "Perfect?" I offer with a shrug.

  "Yes. It's perfect. It's cooked, but so moist," she says drawls happily, and I lean back with a smile. If it means she'll look at me like that, I'll cook for her every day. "I meant it when I said I didn't have any hard limits. I'm not picky about how my salmon is cooked, but I clearly had no clue what I was missing," she says and puts another forkful into that sexy as fuck mouth.

  "Five hundred degrees, five minutes a pound," I tell her.

  "Can I tell you a secret?" she asks between forkfuls, her eyes dancing as she watches me. I nod and then dig into my own meal. The salmon is amazing. I've made it several times in the last year, exactly like this. Just for myself. But it's never tasted better. The ginger zings, the teriyaki smoothes out its bite, and the fish melts in my mouth.

  "I can't cook," she says and then pauses with her eyes wide, waiting for my reaction. I'm not surprised at all. I hear this all the time, and I’m glad for it. Restaurants depend on people just like her. They like to eat, don't have the desire or time to cook, and have enough disposable income to eat out regularly. I'm making assumptions about her income, but these beach houses are some of the most expensive real estate in on the Gulf of Mexico, so she's gotta have some money.

  "That's okay. I can," I tell her in between my own bites.

  "I wish I could, but when I was in medical school, there was no time. When I started my residency it was even worse. I sometimes wouldn't go home for days."

  "You're a doctor?" I ask unable to hide my surprise.

  "Yes," she says and takes another bite of food.

  "What kind?" I ask when she doesn't say anything else.

  "A neonatologist," she says with a shrug as if it's no big deal. I didn't even finish college. I can't imagine all of that school. I didn't know women like her really existed. Beauty, brains and she loves to eat.

  This is the woman of my dreams.

  I stand up and walk to my fridge and pull out one of the many bottles of Veuve Cliquot I keep chilled out of habit.

  "Are we celebrating?" she asks, her eyes wide and her smile full of merriment.

  "Yes, we are," I say vaguely as I pull two champagne flutes down from my cabinet and walk back to the table.

  "I'm always down for that," she says gamely, and I like her even more.

  "So, are you going to be working at the hospital?" I ask as I place a glass in front of her. I pull the foil from the cork and then slowly work it loose.

  "No, I'm on sort of a hiatus," she says, her gaze drifts to her lap, and I know there's more to the story, but I can also tell that she doesn't want to talk about it. I totally understand. I've spent the last year avoiding my friends, family and basically everyone but my twin sister, Kingsley. Suddenly, I find I want to talk about it because I want to know what drove her to this remote part of the Gulf Shores by herself.

  "Well, I'm figuring you know that I'm on one, too," I say.

  "Uh, yeah. I mean, I wasn't going to mention it. Eat TV was my favorite channel. I watched you every night," she tells me and then she blushes. Yes. This woman. I am really feeling her.

  "Did you?" I ask and fill her glass.

  "Mmm-hmm," she affirms through a mouth full of food.

  I fill my glass and hold it up.

  She wiggles her shoulders excitedly. "This is fancy." She picks up her glass and holds it next to mine. "So, what are we toasting to?"

  "New neighbors, good food, and even better company," I say, and she nods.

  "Oh yeah, I'm all about that. What luck. I'm glad I left that note now." she says, and we clink glasses.

  I take a sip and promptly choke on the cold bubbles as I watch her throw back the entire glass in one gulp.

  "Can I have more?" she asks, picking up the bottle before I can nod. She pours another glass and throws that back, too.

  "You know, it's meant to be savored?" I say after I recover my voice.

  "Yeah, I am savoring it. Quickly. Life is short," she says and snaps her fingers for emphasis.

  "I bet you know that better than most," I say with an assessing glance.

  "Yup. I do." She pours herself another glass but only takes small sip before she puts it down on the table. She sits back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, forcing her ample breasts up and out over the already low neckline of her white tank top. I force my eyes back to her face ready to apologize for being a perv. She's looking at me, but her eyes are unfocused and distant.

  "I wanted to be a doctor so badly," she says quietly. "So badly. Since I was six years old. It's all I wanted. After a rotation in the NICU at an amazing hospital in Boston, I decided I wanted to be part of a team that made miracles happen every day," she smiles wistfully. Her eyes cloud over with sadness as she focuses them on me.

  "How naive I was," she says and takes another huge gulp of her champagne.

  I finish mine and pour myself another.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I went to work for a county hospital where the preemies weren't born to parents who sat with them in the nursery. Most of the babies were delivered to women who were drug dependent. Some of them were even in jail. There weren't enough nurses to give them the attention they so desperately needed. There wasn't a day last year that I didn't lose at least one patient. I know it's part of the job..." she stares off again and the bleakness in her eyes makes me want to put her in my lap and hug her. She sighs, deep and long, and shakes her head. "Two months ago, we had a woman back in with her second preemie. She had been clean when her pregnancy started, but at her twenty-week appointment, she tested positive for narcotics. When that happens, in Maryland, anyway, they immediately refer to CPS and in her case, when the baby was born three months early, the state took custody,"

  "Wow, that's so awful," I say feeling like more inadequate words had never been spoken. But it’s all I could offer.

  "Yeah, for everyone, " she says. "Mom got out of rehab a month later and came back to the hospital. Armed." She says grimly.

  My stomach drops.

  "What happened?"

  "She shot me, then herself," she murmurs, and my eyes nearly bug out of my head.

  "She shot you?" I gawk at her.

  "Yes," she says simply before she stands up. She pulls up her top and shows me a jagged, pink scar that mars the otherwise flawless skin across her ribs.

  "Holy shit.” All I can do is stare at the scar.

  "Yeah," she runs her fingers over the scar absently. "It wasn't a serious injury. I was lucky she didn't have better aim,” she says and then sits back down. “But after that, I couldn't go back into the hospital. I took a month off. I knew I couldn’t ever go back. I want to practice medicine, but it felt more like trying to stem a gushing artery. I felt like a failure, a quitter. But I needed to leave. I resigned. I started looking for a place where I could clear my head and hide from the world.” Sh
e glances around my kitchen. "So, here I am."

  "Where's your family?" I ask her in awe of how calm she is.

  "My parents live in Newport News, Virginia. They were thrilled when I quit. They never wanted me to practice medicine. It's not what the daughter of socialites does. I couldn't go home. No one understood. My boyfriend said I was being dramatic," she says and a wave of disappointment rushes over me.

  "Where's he?" I ask even though I don't really want to know.

  "In Maryland. We broke up. Or at least I broke up with him. He thinks I'm going to come to my senses and come home."

  "Are you?" I ask a little kernel of hope lodges itself into my chest.

  "Nope. We were together for six years and walking away from him was easier than walking away from my job. I suppose I'll always love him, but..."

  "But..." I prompt, desperate to know what she's going to add.

  "He's not the one. At least not for me." Relief replaces my worry, and I nod in very false sympathy.

  "That's too bad," I say.

  "No. He cheated on me constantly," she shrugs.

  "Well, he's a fool," I state the obvious.

  "I guess," she says as if she's not sure. "I didn't find out until a few months before the...incident. He asked me to work it out. He told me the women didn't mean anything to him. It meant something to me. I don't know why I stayed as long as I did, but after everything happened and he called me dramatic, walking away wasn't hard at all."

  "I'm sure he's kicking himself," I say.

  "Maybe. But it doesn't matter. It shouldn't take losing someone to know you want to be with them. I think he'd do it all over again. He didn't want to be my man. He just wanted me to be his girl."

  "I know a lot of men like that. Want to possess a woman, but don't want to give her as good as they get," I say thinking about all of the guys I'd met since I started being a celebrity chef.