by Emma Chase
“This is my favorite place in the whole wide world.”
She says it with a sigh, almost reverently.
I rest down on my elbow next to her. Close enough to feel the heat on her sun-warmed skin and smell the lilacs in her hair.
“This old place? Why?”
“Close your eyes.”
When I don’t immediately comply, she puts her hands over my eyes—and I nip at her thumb with my teeth.
“Go on,” she laughs throatily.
And right up there with Thomas’s laughter . . . it’s my very favorite sound.
“Close your eyes.”
When I do, she tells me, “Now listen.”
I do as I’m told for a few seconds, then I peek one eye open, meeting her soft gaze.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. Nothing but waves and birds and the swaying trees. No people or duties, no cameras or press. Nothing for miles . . . but space. I can think here, I can breathe here, I can be myself here.”
She lifts her hand and presses it tenderly to my jaw. “The me who wants to do nothing more than to be with you and Thomas every moment, of every day, for always.”
I take her hand and kiss her palm.
“I love that you. But, then again, I love all the you’s. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to pick a favorite.”
“All the me’s?”
I kiss her nose.
“Every one.”
Lenora is doubtful.
“What about the me that’s stubborn?”
“Adorable.”
“Bossy?”
“Ravishingly sexy.”
“And the me when I’m angry?”
“Even sexier. Makes me want to put that chastising mouth of yours to better use and find the nearest sofa or wall to work off all that passionate fury.”
She laughs again—and I pull her closer, so we’re both on our sides facing each other, just inches apart. My voice is rough and warm, like the sand beneath us.
“And when you’re happy . . . fucking hell . . . I can’t take my eyes off you.”
She tilts her head, gazing up at me.
“I love all your you’s too, Edward. My adventurer, my protector, my wonderful, wicked handsome prince.”
“Good to hear it.”
My hand travels over her outer thigh, across her hip, sliding up to the skin of her rib cage. My thumb strokes back and forth, slowly, just below her breast. And I’m about to kiss her—when a wet, two-year-old sand monster pounces onto the blanket between us.
“Mummy, Daddy—look!”
He holds up a small coral shell in his chubby hand—and Lenora and I react like he’s struck gold.
“Good find, lad!”
“That’s wonderful, darling!”
Thomas’s thick, long-lashed gray-green eyes bounce between us.
“Swim? Come swim!”
I nod and scoop him up with one hand and pull Lenny up from the blanket with the other. And the three of us splash and swim and find a treasure trove of seashells until the sun goes down.
Late that night, a shifting in the bed wakes me. I open my eyes to see my Lenora slipping out from beneath the covers and drifting over to the window. For a moment I just look at her—her hair flows loose down her back in dark, shiny spirals. She’s bathed in a halo of silver moonlight—it shimmers on her nightgown and kisses her pale, perfect skin with an iridescent glow. She’s ethereal—a heavenly creature and a sin-tempting spirit all in one—and she takes my breath away.
I get out of bed and press up behind her at the window, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder.
“Are you all right, love?”
She leans back against my bare chest.
“I had a dream.”
“Mmm . . . was it the kind where we’re naked?”
The vibration of her laughter passes between us.
“No, not that kind of dream.”
“Pity.” I rest my lips against her temple. “Tell me about it anyway.”
Lenora’s voice goes airy, faraway, like she’s still dreaming.
“I was in a garden having tea, and all around me there was laughter and love and happiness. I could feel it in the air, like the warmth of the sun. And there were children . . . so many of them. There was a sweet girl with beautiful dark blue eyes and they called her Anna, for Mother. And there was a handsome little boy named Langdon and another named Edward . . . and he had your hair.”
“Those are good names for good lads.”
“And there was another girl—a tiny thing, but she was plucky. She copied every move I made.” Lenora chuckles. “Even the way I held my teacup.”
She shakes her head slightly, her voice soft. “And it felt, not exactly like they were ours, but still . . . like they belonged to us. To you and me, Edward.”
Lenora turns in my arms, her eyes round and silver in the moonlight as she looks up at me.
“Do you think that’s silly?”
I brush the back of my hand across her cheek, just to feel its softness.
“No, I don’t think it’s silly, sweet girl. I think it’s a beautiful dream. A beautiful destiny. I think that laughter and happiness and all those lovely little tykes will be our dynasty. They will be the joys we leave behind.”
I bend my head and press my lips to her silken neck, speaking the words against her skin.
“Mine and yours, forever and always.”
Her hands skim up my arms, to my shoulders, then around my neck.
“Mine and yours, forever and always,” she whispers, pressing her body against mine, leaning into my touch.
My wife, my love, my Queen . . . my life. I kiss her deeply—our tongues dance and our moans mingle. And then I sweep her up into my arms.
“Let’s get started on them, straight away.”
Lenny throws her head back and laughs as I carry her toward the bed.
“What a marvelous idea . . .”
She peppers my jaw with kisses, working her way to my mouth. Then she presses her lips to mine with all the sweetness and passion and tenderness she has to give.
Life can be an unpredictable, cruel beast—but I know down to the marrow of my bones that whatever comes our way, whatever happinesses or heartbreaks are in store for us, we’ll face them together. Hand in hand, heart to heart, side by side, Lenora and Edward.
And when our bodies are dust in the ground and our souls are joined in whatever life comes after this one, the legend of our story and the echo of our love will live on forever.
The End
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Before I head home, I put Snoopy in the Jeep and walk down to my classroom, where I’ll be teaching US History in a few more days. I have a good roster—especially third period—a nice mix of smart, well-behaved kids and smart, mouthy ones to keep things from being too boring. They’re Juniors which is a good age—they know the routine, know their way around, but still care enough about their grades not to tell me and my assignments to go screw myself. That tends to happen Senior year.
I put a stack of rubber band wrapped index cards in the top drawer of the desk. It’s for the first-day assignment I always give, where I play “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” by Billy Joel, and hang the lyrics around the classroom. Then, they each pick two index cards and have to give an oral report, the next day, on the two people or events they chose. It makes history more relevant for them—interesting—which is big for a generation of kids who are basically immediate gratification junkies.
Child psychologists will tell you the human brain isn’t fully developed until age twenty-five, but—not to go all touchy-feely on you—I think the soul stops growing at the end of high school, and who you are when you graduate, is who you’ll always be. I’ve seen it in action, if you’re a dick at eighteen—you’ll probably be a dick for life.
That’s anoth
er reason I like this job . . . because there’s still hope for these kids. No matter where they come from, who their parents are, who their dipshit friends are, we get them in this building for seven hours a day. So, if we do what we’re supposed to, set the example, listen, teach the right things, and yeah—figuratively knock them upside the head once in a while—we can help shape their souls. Change them—make them better human beings than they would’ve been without us.
That’s my theory, anyway.
I sit down in the desk chair and lean back, balancing on the hind legs like my mother always told me not to. I fold my hands behind my head, put my feet on the desk, and sigh with contentment. Because life is sweet.
It’s going to be a great year.
They’re not all great—some years suck donkey balls—my best players graduate and it’s a rebuilding year, which means a lot of ‘L’s’ on the board, or sometimes you just get a crappy crop of students. But this year’s going to be awesome—I can feel it.
And then, something catches my eye outside the window in the parking lot.Someone.
And my balance goes to shit.
I swing my arms like a baby bird, hang in the air for half a second . . . and then topple back in a heap. Not my smoothest move.
But right now, it doesn’t matter.
I pull myself up to my feet, step over the chair towards the window, all the while peering at the blond in the navy blue pencil skirt walking across the parking lot.
And the ass that, even from this distance—I would know anywhere.
Callaway Carpenter. Holy shit.
She looks amazing, even more beautiful than the last time I saw her . . . than the first time I saw her. You never forget your first. Isn’t that what they say? Callie was my first and for a long time, I thought she’d be my only.
The first time I laid my eyes on her, it felt like getting sacked by a three-hundred pound defensive lineman with an axe to grind. She looked like an angel. Golden hair framing petite, delicate features—a heart-shaped face, a dainty jaw, a cute nose and these big, round, blinking green eyes I wanted to drown in.
Wait . . . back up . . . that’s not actually true. That’s a lie.
I was fifteen when I met Callie, and fifteen year old boys are notorious perverts, so the first thing I noticed about her wasn’t her face. It was her tits—they were full and round and absolutely perfect.
The second thing I noticed was her mouth—shiny and pink with a bee-stung bottom lip. In a blink, a hundred fantasies had gone through my head of what she could do with that mouth . . . what I could show her how to do.
Then I saw her angel face. That’s how it happened.
And just like that—I was gone.
We were “the” couple in high school—Brenda and Eddie from that Billy Joel song. The star quarterback and the theater queen.
She was the love of my life, before I had any fucking idea what love was . . . and then, still, even after I did.
We broke up when she went away to college and I stayed here in Jersey—couldn’t survive the distance. It was a quiet ending, when I went out to visit her in California, no drama or hysterics. Just some hard truths, tears, one last night together in her dorm room bed, and a morning of goodbye.
She never really came home again after that. At least, not long enough for us to run into each other. I haven’t seen her in years—in a lifetime.
But she’s here now.
At my school.
And you can bet Callie’s sweet ass I’m going to find out why.
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About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Emma Chase, writes contemporary romance filled with heat, heart and laugh-out-loud humor. Her stories are known for their clever banter, sexy, swoon-worthy moments, and hilariously authentic male POV’s.
Emma lives in New Jersey with her amazing husband, two awesome children, and two adorable but badly behaved dogs. She has a long-standing love/hate relationship with caffeine.
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Also by Emma Chase
Getting Schooled
THE ROYALLY SERIES
Royally Screwed
Royally Matched
Royally Endowed
Royally Raised
Royally Series Collection
THE LEGAL BRIEFS SERIES
Overruled
Sustained
Appealed
Sidebarred
THE TANGLED SERIES
Tangled
Twisted
Tamed
Tied
Holy Frigging Matrimony
It’s a Wonderful Tangled Christmas Carol