Love Happens

by Claudia Burgoa

  Cole

  I quit drinking in college because of hangovers, but broken hearts can make men do stupid things. I woke up a little after five, the sun not high enough to make the sky pink yet. My head was pounding so hard that I couldn’t ignore it, and the more I treat the pain above my neck, the more I feel the vice grip on my chest from last night.

  It wasn’t fair for me to take that out on Claire. It also wasn’t fair that I kissed her. I know I apologized, but I also know that deep down, I don’t mean it. I’m not sorry—fair or unfair. I’m glad I kissed her. I’m glad I told her how I feel. And if she doesn’t leave that Beemer-driving toolbox, I’m going to kiss her again. I know what I felt when our lips touched, and I know she felt it too.

  Eggs in my belly and the taste of my brother’s magic green drink recipe still on my lips, I grab my keys and jog in place like a boxer does, pumping myself up to be just as brave sober as I can be drunk. My warm-up is cut short, though, the moment I open my front door to a pajama-wearing Claire lying flat in my grass, her hands scratched to holy hell and a circle of coffee filters, cereal inserts and coupons around her in my wet yard.

  “Is this some new form of witchcraft?” I tease, crossing the front walk and closing the distance between us until I can kneel next to her. Her hands are on her arms as she rotates them forward and back.

  “I wanted to finish cleaning up my mess,” she says, a slight giggle in her words that tells me she probably didn’t sleep much. That, or now it’s her turn to be drunk.

  “I told you I could get this stuff,” I say, taking a strip of plastic from her hand and crumpling it into my pocket. She gets lost looking at a scratch across her knuckles, turning her wrist over to see how far it curves around her hand.

  “Did you know your sprinklers go off at four-thirty?” she says, looking up from her palm. She squints when she looks at me, then pulls the front of her blue pajama shirt out and wiggles it, the dampness apparent.

  “I don’t do a lot of gardening or host badminton tournaments at this time of the day,” I answer, one eye shut more than the other, my mouth quirked into a smile.

  I hold her gaze, and the longer I look at her, the more my lip tugs up. Her hair is tangled and twisted in all directions, and there are pieces of wet grass stuck on her cheeks, arms and legs. Her feet are covered in bunny socks, the ears sagging from the drenching they got at four-thirty in the morning.

  “Did you really come over here to clean up?” I ask, my head slanted and my eyes narrowed.

  She looks around at the trash she pulled out, her lips twisting, until she shrugs and meets my gaze. Our eyes lock and we sit here in silence for long seconds before she speaks.

  “I called Garrett and told him I didn’t want to move in with him,” she says.

  My heart kicks, and my headache rebels, but I don’t care.

  “Oh?” I say, shifting my weight.

  Her eyes flit down to the grass between us, so I lean forward, moving my knee a few more inches in her direction to break up her view.

  “This morning. I knew he was getting up at four, so I set my alarm. We pretty much broke up. I … I broke up with him. I had to,” she sighs, her shoulders falling again as she puffs out a heavy breath and looks back toward her house. I reach for her chin, taking her jaw with one finger, slowly turning her gaze back to me.

  “You had to?” I repeat, my tone hopeful.

  I’m close enough to kiss her, and the short distance means I have to look at her one eye at a time. It also means I get to stare at her details—the dusting of freckles on her nose, the small mark on her cheek she once told me about, saying it was from chicken pox when she was a kid, and the flush of red she gets when I’m this near.

  “You didn’t leave me with much choice,” she says through a crooked grin as she lifts one shoulder.

  “I didn’t, huh?” I say, my eyes gliding up to her electric hair, which makes my smile grow. I run my fingers through it, trying to tame the wildness, but it just goes back to the way it was, and I laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” she says as she leans her head to the side and blows up at the thin layer of bangs behaving just as badly as the rest of her hair. I chuckle, and she works to hide her smile.

  “It’s a little funny,” I say, running my hand over her hair again, this time leaving my palm against her face.

  “Hmmmmm,” she hums, eyes closing as she leans into me.

  “Was it that little bit I said about being in love with you?” Her lashes sweep in a slow blink as the corners of her mouth rise.

  “That had something to do with it, yeah,” she says.

  “Something, huh?” I say, holding her hand in mine as I stand, pulling her up from the damp grass until we’re toe-to-toe. I tug at the bottom of her wet shirt until she steps just a little closer, her feet between mine, her head nowhere to go but my chest, my arms finding their home around her body.

  “That and me realizing I love you just as much,” she says.

  My arms squeeze tighter on instinct and my lips fall to the top of her head.

  “Oh,” I breathe. “You come to this all on your own?”

  “Mostly,” she says, as I back away a step and lift her chin, my thumbs drawing soft lines under her eyes, along her cheeks.

  “You had some help?” I ask, leaning my head to the side and smirking at the cluster of grass tucked behind her ear. I pull it away and she blushes.

  “I was trying to sleep, but I just couldn’t, so I pulled out some of my old books—the ones I made with Max and took in for my interview with the state,” she says. My eyes meet hers as I listen. “It was when he was working on making friendships, and I told him to draw me pictures of what he thought friendships were. He drew this picture,” she says, pulling a now damp drawing on a piece of lined paper from her pocket. I wait for her to unfold it before taking it in my hands.

  The drawings are fairly detailed, art being one of Max’s strengths. I can tell that one of the boxes has a picture of me with Claire, the horse in the background clued me in.

  “That’s us,” I smile. I’d never seen this before, and somehow seeing me through Max’s eyes makes me feel proud. I like that I’m someone he sees.

  “It is. Now turn it over,” she says, touching my hands and encouraging me.

  I flip the page to see a word written on the back behind each of the four blocks Max drew in. One says friend, and I flip the picture over briefly to catch that it’s of Claire and Avery. One says family, and I can tell that’s Mason and Max. The third box says angel, and my throat closes a little when I see a drawing of his grandfather, Ray, on the back of that square. The one with Claire and me, though … it’s nothing but a question mark.

  “This helped you … how?” I smirk, handing the paper back to her, my hands coming back to her elbows, my touch light. I don’t want to let her go.

  “This was the one thing Max didn’t know how to label. Love is kind of a strange thing for him. He understands it, but then he doesn’t. He knows what needs are, and he knows what family means. We were learning friends, but love …” her eyes lift to mine as her lips hang open. “I guess he and I have that in common. We don’t know it, until we’re literally drowning in it.”

  My head falls to hers and my hands cup her cheeks again.

  “I’m the opposite. I knew it all along,” I smile, my lips brushing hers light enough that the touch tickles and makes her smile.

  “I see you now,” she says, lifting on her toes to press her mouth to mine a little harder.

  My hands slide around her hips, raising her against me and walking us slowly to the dry ground.

  “I saw you first,” I tease, walking backward toward the door and eventually in the house. She steps on top of my toes and slides her hands up my chest, her fingers curling around the collar of my T-shirt as she lifts herself to be eye-to-eye with me.

  “I love the stubborn ones,” she says through sly lips and heavy lashes. I lift her wet shirt over her head and toss it to t
he floor. Her breath catches with the cool air that kisses her skin, and her hands slide down my shirt, pulling it up my body until I slip it over my head the rest of the way, tossing it on top of hers.

  “I’m pretty sure I’m the one that loves the stubborn ones,” I say, pulling her close, cold skin warming fast. My fingers trail up her sides, over curves, tickling against everything raw and sensitive.

  “You just had to break me like one of your horses,” she says, tugging at the top of my jeans, pulling the button free and sliding my zipper down.

  I look down at her hands and curl my lips, lifting my gaze enough to meet her waiting eyes, hungry and no longer tired.

  “I would never break you,” I say, hooking my thumbs in the top of her pajama pants and sliding them over her hips as she walks backward slowly toward my bedroom. They fall away completely at the door.

  “Your wild parts are the ones I love the most,” I say, pulling my jeans away and following her to my bed, sliding my body along hers as I lay over her, the friction starting a fire that warms us both well into the afternoon.

  Ginger Scott is an Amazon-bestselling and Goodreads Choice Award-nominated author from Peoria, Arizona. She is the author of several young and new adult romances, including recent bestsellers A Boy Like You, The Hard Count, This Is Falling and Wild Reckless.

  A sucker for a good romance, Ginger’s other passion is sports, and she often blends the two in her stories. She has been writing and editing for newspapers, magazines and blogs for … well … ever. She’s told the stories of Olympians, politicians, actors, scientists, cowboys, criminals and towns. For more on her and her work, visit her website at http://www.littlemisswrite.com.

  When she’s not writing, the odds are high that she’s somewhere near a baseball diamond, either watching her son field pop flies like Bryce Harper or cheering on her favorite baseball teams, the Arizona Diamondbacks and Chicago Cubs. Ginger lives in Arizona and is married to her college sweetheart whom she met at ASU (fork ’em, Devils).

  Ginger is also an autism advocate who writes the cover stories for Outreach Magazine, an annual publication from the Southwest Autism Research and Resource Center. She was introduced to autism as a young journalist working on an in-depth piece about how a diagnosis of autism affects a family. That story was life-changing, and forged a forever-bond between her and the autism community.

  Find Ginger Here:

  www.littlemisswrite.com

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  All Of Me by Jeanne McDonald

  Portraiture artist, Shadow Kingsley, is on the brink of success after years of struggling in the art industry. Her unique style channels her muses and captures their spirit on canvas. That is until she meets the man with the most alluring blue eyes. The draw to paint him consumes her. But Lucian Britton is more than a muse. His music inspires her soul and captivates her heart.

  She knows she should keep her distance, but Lucian’s allure is too strong. With the opportunity of the lifetime staring her in the face, she must make a decision─maintain professional distance or allow their arts to combine to create the perfect masterpiece.

  “Congratulations, Shadow.” A man I didn’t know from Adam passed behind me, patting me on the back.

  “Thanks,” I replied, giving him a half grin and a nod. Tonight, the room was full of people, all here to see me. Or at least my work. If someone had told me six months ago I’d be standing in the center of a gallery, drinking expensive champagne, and talking to the upper crust of the city who purchased art not for the sake of its beauty or importance, but for the value it would bring to their portfolio, I would’ve laughed that person right out of town.

  One might say I’ve spent the better part of my adult life as a starving artist. I did the art school thing, spent many years in Europe studying the greats, and while I always dreamed I would one day find success, I never believed it could truly happen for me. Portraitures are a dying art form. Sitting still for hours on end is daunting. And who needs their picture painted when digital photography captures the perfect likeness of a person. What most people fail to understand is a portrait, when done right, can encapsulate the very essence of a person’s soul. Henry James said it best when he wrote, “It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance … and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.”

  So, for me to be standing in this vast gallery, with my portraits lining the walls, and people of great importance and wealth actually buying my work, well, it would be safe to say that I’d arrived.

  “Ms. Kingsley, I presume.” A powerful male voice purred near my ear.

  I jumped, startled that the owner of the voice was so close to me. “Yes.” I twisted my body to meet my new companion. A small gasp escaped from me and my hand flew to my chest at the sight of him. For standing beside me was Steve Solomon, one of the wealthiest men in the world, and my benefactor for the evening. Until that moment, my only contact with him had been handled through my agent. He was more intimidating than I’d imagined with his perfectly tailored suit, salt and pepper hair, deep brown eyes, and overwhelming height. Though that was all superficial. For me, I could see beneath the surface of his dark orbs. Call it a gift, but I had the distinct impression that Steve Solomon harbored loneliness deep inside him. “Mr. Solomon, sir,” I fumbled. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

  “Likewise.” His timbre deep and commanding.

  “Thank you so much for making tonight possible. This is a dream come true for me.” I sipped my champagne, hoping he wouldn’t notice how his looming presence unnerved me.

  “I’m a fan of your work, Ms. Kingsley. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to showcase you.”

  I worried my bottom lip, my eyes darting around the room, unsure of what I should say. Off in the corner I caught sight of a young man, around my age, sipping a cocktail and gazing at one of my favorite paintings. His gait was laxed, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. When he turned in my direction, I was blown away by the immensity of his blue eyes. The hue was as blue as when the sky and ocean meet. In that deep horizon, where the world seems to end. The corner of his mouth perked up and he nodded in my direction, lifting his glass to me.

  My eyes dropped and I felt the heat of my blush burning beneath my skin. “He’s handsome.” Steve’s comment broke through the clouds in my head.

  I nodded, as the young man turned away and moved on to another painting. “He’d make a great portrait.”

  “His eyes,” Steve noted. “They’re soulful. As if they’ve seen many lives.”

  I glanced up to the older gentleman, taking note of his expression. He had an artist’s soul beneath that gruff exterior. “You see it, too.”

  He smiled. “It’s why I’m impressed by your work. Someone so young is usually blind to the inner workings of humanity. You, it comes naturally, and it’s reflected in your art. Your work is honest. I like that.”

  I lowered my gaze, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I’m honored, sir. Truly.” I glanced back toward the direction where the man with the amazing blue eyes had been, but much to my chagrin, he was gone.

  “I must know, Ms. Kingsley─”

  “Please, call me Shadow.”

  “Shadow,” he rolled my name around on his tongue, testing it. As if satisfied by the way it sounded, he pressed on, “do you choose your subjects at random, or is there a pattern you follow?”

  I finished off the drink in my hand in one massive gulp. Lady-like, I know, but talking about my craft always unnerved me. “Most of my subjects are at random. I get the occasional wife looking to have a nude painted for her husband, or a family wishing for a portrait. Those pay the bills, but what you see before you,” I waved out around the room, “is my passion. These are people who speak to me.”

  “That’s actually how I came in contact with your work,” he continued.

  “What do you mean?”r />
  He dropped his gaze to meet mine. “A board member of mine has one of your pieces in his office. I was amazed at how you captured the pure essence of his wife in that painting. It was more than her face on display. It was as if you painted her soul. You have a remarkable gift, Shadow.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck a little nervous. “If you ask some painters, they’d say what you call a gift is really a curse. There have been countless stories written about the curse of capturing a person’s soul on canvas.”

  “The Oval Portrait, for one,” he offered.

  I grinned. “An excellent example.”

  “Those are only stories, though.”

  A waiter stopped by with another tray of champagne. I traded my empty glass for a fresh one. “True. And not everyone believes in the stories, but art tends to breed superstition.”

  “Interesting,” he noted. “So when you find your new subject, do you simply start painting them?”

  I swallowed down the sip of champagne I had in my mouth. “Mhm. Goodness no. I don’t touch a brush for weeks after I find a muse.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

  From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the blue-eyed man once more. He was sliding on an overcoat. His tousled brown hair glimmered under the spotlight and his lips spread in a sexy grin as our eyes met again. The power beneath those deep blue pools took my breath away. Steve had nailed it when he called Blue-Eyes an old soul. My paintbrush could have one hell of a love affair with him. Okay, maybe I could, too. The idea of kissing those lips was quite compelling.

  I was about to excuse myself, to stop him at whatever the cost, when I noticed a woman approach him. He helped her with her coat, then placed his hand at the small of her back and escorted her out the door. All the air in my ego deflated. Of course he had a date. How silly of me to think otherwise.