by L.H. Cosway
Several people wolf whistle and shout encouragements at us as they pass by. He’s holding me so tight that I can feel his phone start to vibrate in his pocket, interrupting our little moment.
I giggle, breaking the kiss. “Is that a vibrating phone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
He gives me a crooked smirk as he pulls out his phone to answer it. “A bit of both.”
He doesn’t let go of me through his conversation. I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but his end consists of a lot of yes and no answers, before ending with a, “Great, I guess I’ll be seeing you soon, then.”
I watch as he tucks the phone back in his pocket and pulls me closer, pressing his lips to my temples. “Who was that?” I ask.
His answering grin makes me shiver, in a good way. “That was my agent over in the States. You’re about to cough up on that agreement, darlin’.”
“Huh?”
“I just got booked for a string of shows. We’re going to Vegas, my dear.”
I stare at him, open-mouthed, remembering the time when he told me how he did one of his tricks, and in exchange I’d have to go to America with him the next time he had shows there. It seems I really am going to keep my promise to Dad and let Jay take me on an adventure.
I swallow hard, shivers breaking out all over my skin, and reply excitedly, “I guess we are. I can’t wait!”
Epilogue
Several months later. Las Vegas, Nevada.
I curse as I accidentally prick myself with the needle. The suit I’m designing for Jay to wear during his next performance is almost complete. Up until recently, I’ve only ever designed dresses, but since I’m now a permanent member of his style and wardrobe team, I’ve been inspired to create something truly original. Something that represents him completely.
If Mum is up there somewhere looking down on me, I think she’d be proud. I’ve taken the things she taught me and turned them into a career. It took me a couple of weeks to train a new secretary for Dad, but now I’ve finally left my solicitor’s office days behind me.
I get to give style advice and create my own designs for a living. For me, it doesn’t get much better than that.
This final part of the suit needed to be hand-stitched, a tiny red heart in the corner of the left lapel, and I was concentrating so hard that I managed to prick myself, drawing blood. I stick my finger in my mouth as I go in search of a Band-Aid. Finding one, I quickly wrap it around the cut and return to my sewing. I run my hand over the beautiful, midnight blue fabric, truly proud of the work I’ve done.
I can’t wait to surprise Jay with this. I’ve been sneakily taking his measurements the past few weeks, ensuring that the suit will fit perfectly, but he has no clue what I’ve been up to. As I go to thread the needle again, I suddenly become aware of something cold on my skin. Glancing down, I gasp, my hand going to my mouth in surprise.
Right there on my finger is the most beautiful diamond engagement ring I’ve ever seen, and it definitely wasn’t there a second ago. I stare at it for what feels like forever. Standing up again, I walk over to the mirror by my bed and stare at my hand through the glass. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Jay standing in the doorway, a smile on his mouth and love beaming from him.
This is the way of things when your boyfriend is an illusionist. He has a habit of appearing out of thin air, and deep down he’s just a big kid who thrives on mischievous pranks and coming up with elaborate ways to surprise people.
His childhood may have been stolen by adults, but he claims that childhood back with each new trick he creates. For months now I have been completely under his spell.
“What is this?” I ask, turning and thrusting my hand out to him; my heart is hammering and my brain is refusing to believe the very obvious meaning of the diamond currently residing on my ring finger.
“It’s yours,” the mercurial bastard replies, all matter of fact, while my heart is zinging with a thousand mushy, fuzzy, lovey-dovey emotions.
My eyes grow instantly watery with love and my cheeks flush pink with nervous excitement. “Jason, I’m not going to make you explain how you got this ring on my finger, but I must insist that you tell me why y-you’ve put it there,” I stammer, my voice jittery.
He strides towards me and takes both my shaky hands into his. He lifts them and places them on his chest, while looking down at the ring as he rubs his thumb over it.
“I want you to belong to me. I want to tell the world that you’re mine. That’s why I’ve put it there, Watson.”
I blink away a tear and keep my eyes closed, whispering, “You have to ask the question.”
His hot breath hits my cheeks as he leans in. He kisses away my tears, then nuzzles his nose into my temples. “Will you marry me, Matilda?” he asks softly.
I open my eyes then and look up into his, replying instantly, “Yes, oh my God, yes.”
He takes my face into his hands then, and kisses me until I’m tugging on his shirt and trying to figure out the quickest and most efficient way to rid him of his clothes. I don’t have to think for very long, because he pulls away, his eyes twinkling as he begins to undress himself with abandon. I watch, eating up every inch of skin that he reveals. Once he’s naked, though, he doesn’t come to me. Instead he walks over to the where I’ve left the suit.
Turning back to meet my gaze tenderly, he asks, “For me?”
My heart squeezes. “Yeah, Jay, it’s for you.”
He grins when he sees the tiny outline of a heart I’ve stitched into the fabric, rubs his finger over it, but doesn’t breathe a word. His silence speaks volumes. Next he starts to try it on. A minute later he’s fully dressed and I come to stand in front of him and smooth out the collar.
“You look good, husband-to-be,” I smile up at him.
He smiles hotly and growls with satisfaction as he scoops me up into his arms before throwing me onto the bed. He crawls up my body, his eyes dark with lust, “I want to be your husband now. I don’t want to wait.”
I giggle. “How soon do you think we could get Dad and Jessie over here? You know they’d go crazy if we had a wedding without them.”
Jay tilts his head to the side, like he’s thinking about it. “Hmm, a couple of days maybe?”
“That’s frighteningly soon, Jay. Are you sure about this?”
He leans down and bites lightly on my neck. “Never been surer about anything in my life.”
His words make me melt. “Okay, then. I only have one rule.”
“And what’s that?” he asks, not really paying attention as his mouth works its way down my neck.
“We’re not getting married by Elvis,” I state firmly.
He pauses and chuckles loudly, looking at me now. “Okay, it’s a deal. Sooo…how do you feel about ministers who wear deerstalkers?”
I point a finger into his chest, a laugh bursting forth. “We’re not getting married by Sherlock Holmes either, Jason. No way in hell.”
His smile deepens. “How about I go as Sherlock and you go as Watson?”
“You’re trying to annoy me on purpose now,” I scold but I can’t stop smiling. “Clothes are my business. I’m going to wear a beautiful dress to my wedding, Jay. There will be no compromises.”
“I suppose I can live with that,” he murmurs in my ear, his hand inching up under my skirt. “At least I can look forward to stripping it off you.”
When he buries his face in my chest, I forget all about wedding dresses, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Elvis, and randomly appearing diamond rings. I lose myself in this glorious man who’s turned my life into an adventure and shown me wonder in the miraculous.
With Jason Fields by my side, the world is a pretty magical place.
END.
Continue the journey with the next book in the Hearts series Hearts of Fire.
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The Circus Spektakulär is proud to present Jack McCabe: Fire-breather, knife-thrower, risk-taker.
My house burned down when I was just a boy, robbing me of both my parents.
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Now I breathe fire, eat the poison that almost killed me.
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Crowds come to see me night after night. Men for the spectacle, women for the thrill. I’m an oddity to be stared at and desired. With each flame I spit, I risk my life.
* * *
I wear scars on my body that will never go away, but the scars inside my head are far more difficult to overlook.
* * *
My brother doesn’t know me, and if I have it my way he never will.
Life was going exactly the way I’d planned until Lille came along. She wanted to run away with the circus, have an adventure, but this world was never meant for her.
* * *
I try to keep her safe, because she doesn’t know the dangers that are out here on the road. She doesn’t know the monsters that lurk behind the bright lights of the ring. In truth, I could be considered one of them.
* * *
We were fashioned from different cloths, never intended to mix. So I watch her. I try not to touch, even when her eyes invite me.
* * *
Join us in the Spiegeltent and let us give you a show. Allow my Lille to draw a picture for you in paint and sweat and skin.
* * *
The truest love is always the hardest to let in.
Hearts of Fire
Copyright © 2015 L.H. Cosway
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All rights reserved.
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Smashwords Edition
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ISBN-13: 978-1508535638
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ISBN-10: 1508535639
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Cover designed by RBA Designs.
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Editing by Indie Author Services.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Playlist
Dear reader,
If you’d like to listen to the playlist for Hearts of Fire CLICK HERE.
For this world of readers and writers. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here with you. May we all have an adventure just like Lille’s, in the pages and in our minds.
I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.
Susan Sontag.
One
Jack and Lille met on a hill
I had a list.
I was trying to tick one thing off it, but I was having trouble convincing Shay to assist me. In the small Wexford town where I lived, there was only one tattoo parlour, and Shay Cosgrove owned and ran the place. He was several years older than I was, and I had a tiny crush on him, but that was another matter entirely.
Right then, I was trying to convince him to give me a tattoo, and he was having none of it.
“I’m sorry, Lille,” he said while crossing his tatted-up, muscular arms across his chest and giving me a placid look, “but if I put ink on you, your mother will have my guts for garters, and going up against Miranda Baker is not on my bucket list.”
“But getting a tattoo is on my bucket list, and I adore your work, and I don’t want to have to drive all the way into the city to get it done, and….”
He cut me off when he placed two fingers on my lips to shut me up. I swallowed and blinked, momentarily forgetting everything I was about to say because, as I mentioned earlier, I had a crush on him and his fingers were on my lips.
Gulp.
My eyes got all big and round, and my breathing accelerated. Shay smirked knowingly as he withdrew his hand from my mouth. Smug bastard. The sad thing was, he was well aware of my crush, but he found me about as attractive as a flat, lifeless piece of cardboard. All of the girls in this town fancied Shay, but he only went for the sexy, sassy hot chicks who were no doubt wild in the sack.
I was not sexy or sassy, and my clothing was as plain Jane as you could get (thank you, Mother) — ergo, not hot.
I was the arty girl with her head in the clouds, and it was not considered cool to be seen with me. In fact, it was considered the complete opposite of cool.
But I was an artist, just like he was, so I thought we could bond over our shared loved of canvas and paint. That never happened. At best, Shay tolerated me. At worst, he wished I’d bugger off and quit pestering him with questions about tattoos.
How does the gun work?
What kind of ink do you use?
How often does the skin get infected?
Can I have a go of the gun?
What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever tattooed on someone?
So yeah, I was a question-asker. Most evenings I’d find a reason to stop by the parlour and admire his drawings, which were hung up all over the walls. I’d try to show him my own stuff, but he was uninterested.
Shay was into dark art, like Giger and Kalmakov.
I was into Pop art, like Warhol and Lichtenstein. I was all about colour.
Anyway, back to my list. It only contained ten items so far, and getting a tattoo was one of them. I’d designed it myself. It was a multi-coloured, paint-splashed hot air balloon. I’d wanted to get the tattoo first, because most of the other items on my list were about having an adventure and breaking free. For me, nothing symbolised an adventure more than a hot air balloon.
Where would it take you?
What would you do when you got there?
Who would you meet?
And since hot air balloon rides also had a chance of ending in disaster, I thought it was all the more appropriate. After all, there’s no point to an adventure if safety is guaranteed. The whole purpose is the unknown, the danger.
I craved it more than anything.
Shay had gone back to his sketching table, his back turned to me, when he said, “I’m not doing the tattoo, Lille, so you might as well get going.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and headed for the door. Just before I stepped outside, I turned around and said, “If you’re afraid of someone as ridiculous as my mother, then you must work so hard on all those muscles to hide the fact that you’re a massive wimp, Shay Cosgrove.”
I sounded like a petulant child. Plus, I was being hypocritical, because if anyone was afraid of my mother, it was me. Still, I felt the need to put Shay in his place. He thought he was so hip and cool, but really he was just a pretentious small-town arsehole.
Wow, I think my crush just disappeared. Cowardice was a surprisingly big turn-off.
“Lille,” he began in an annoyed tone, but I left before he could get the last word in. I had to get to work anyway. I muttered my annoyance to myself as I struggled up the hill to the restaurant. Everywhere in this town you were either going up a hill or down a hill. It was like whoever built it was having a good old joke on behalf of all its future inhabitants.
While I was on my summer break from college, where I was studying for a degree in business (at my mother’s behest), I was working part-time at a small restaurant in town. I was scheduled for the Sunday afternoon shift, and the place would be packed with families having dinner. I liked this shift best because my boss, Nelly, let me do face painting for the kids while the parents enjoyed their meals.
On a normal day I was a waitress, but on Sundays I got to be an artist. Well, as much as turning little boys into Spiderman and little girls into fairies counted as being an artist. I especially liked it when the girls wanted to be Spiderman and the boys wanted to be fairies.
I was all for breaking the mould.
And I loved kids. In fact, I felt far more comfortable talking to five-year-olds than I did talking to adults. Kids told you exactly what they were thinking. Adults said one thing when they really meant another entirely. It was confusing.
I had a hard time connecting with most people. My curiosity and endless questions tended to turn them off. Mum said I came across too eager, and that I had to
work on being more aloof and unattainable, whatever that means. I thought on this as I went inside the restaurant and began to set up my face paints at an empty table by the door. I smiled as I heard several little girls squeal in delight when they saw me. I was known as the face-painting lady around these parts and elicited much excitement in children.
I waved hello to Nelly, who was standing by the service counter, and then let my eyes drift over the patrons. I recognised all of the regulars, but two tables down sat an old woman and a young man I’d noticed a couple of days ago. They’d been in every day since, and caught my interest mainly because the woman must have been in her sixties, and her hair was as red as a Coca-Cola can. She also wore about a hundred necklaces all tangled around her neck.
The man had long, wavy dark brown hair and brown eyes. His skin was tanned, and he wore a battered old T-shirt. His equally battered brown fedora hat sat on the table in front of him. He reminded me a little of a sexy gypsy, though less of a My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding gypsy, and more of a Johnny Depp in Chocolat gypsy. He was tall, and his muscles made Shay’s look like puppy fat in comparison. Plus, there was the man bun his hair was messily tied up in. I was a swooning mess for a man bun. Always had been.
In other words, he was hot…and I was staring. I’d found myself staring at him a lot this past week, but never caught him staring back (much to my disappointment.) The woman he was sitting with caught my eye and gave me a mischievous wink. I smiled to myself and looked away. There was a queue of kids lining up to have their faces painted, so I tried to focus on my job rather than the odd couple sitting two tables down.