All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  I give her a self-satisfied smirk. Even now with the red color rising in her cheeks, I find her deliciously appetizing. Rebecca is one of those women you never forget, from her long red hair to the sharp glance she gives me.

  I regard her thoughtfully. Tall, slender body, with just enough curves in all the right places.

  Everything about Rebecca is inviting. I don’t mean to be a prick, but it seems that every time I’m around her, I can barely keep my thoughts straight.

  It’s like my mouth has no filter, and I’ll say the first thought that pops into my head.

  Now, I’m usually a perfect fucking gentleman. Even after a few drinks—fuck, especially after a few drinks—you could hit me with a fucking sports utility vehicle as I’m ambling innocently along the side of the road, and I wouldn’t even fault you.

  But I’m turning into a wee right snotty little radge this evening. I suppose for the sake of my made-up concept of neighborly kinship, I’ll try to give it a rest.

  We drive in silence for a moment. The moon is high in the sky.

  Moonlight and starlight alike seem magnetically attracted to Rebecca’s hair. The dim lights of nighttime here in the heart of the countryside all seem to be playing on her ravishing fucking features.

  She’s so focused on the road, it’s as if I don’t exist. Somehow, it’s as if between the open road and the windshield, Rebecca is in a world of her own, one that I can only glance at from afar but will never be a part of.

  She’s always been beautiful, but at this moment, she’s absolutely radiant. I want to touch her, to reach out and slide my fingers against her soft cheeks.

  It won’t be long before we part ways and I know that if I don’t do something now, my chance will be lost forever.

  Get it together, Killian. Don’t fuck this up.

  I’m trying to give myself the boost of confidence I’m only pretending to feel.

  I know I’ve been an asshole, and I wouldn’t be shocked if she never wanted to speak to me again. I can see from the way her lips are pressed together that I am the last person she wanted to see.

  My throat feels dry, my palms sweaty. I run my fingers through my hair, attempting to collect myself.

  “What are you doing in Ireland anyway?” I ask.

  Rebecca taps her nails against the steering wheel.

  “I’m on vacation,” she says tightly.

  I look her over. She looks tired—as if she hasn’t slept in days. Although she’d done a great job of putting her makeup and hair together—Rebecca never looks out of sorts—there’s something in her voice that tells me there’s more to this story.

  “That doesn’t sound like the Rebecca I know,” I say.

  “You’re right. You don’t know me,” she replies.

  “Don’t be so sure,” I say.

  The car begins to slow. Rebecca pulls the vehicle to a complete stop. Her arms are crossed, and I can tell she’s got something up her sleeve.

  “Okay, try me,” she says.

  I cock one eyebrow. “Try you?” I reply smugly.

  “Since you know me so well, you won’t have any trouble telling me about my life,” she says.

  She turns her body towards me. I can see the roundness of her nipples, poking through her shirt. It’s clear she doesn’t wear a bra. Her hips, which are locked in by the seat belt, jut out in perfect formation.

  I lean back in the seat, my attempt at playing it cool.

  “Rebecca Doyle wouldn’t travel for a vacation. That’s not her style. She’s a diehard workaholic,” I say.

  “That was a long time ago,” she says.

  “I don’t think so. You’re a little older, but you’re still the same Rebecca. You didn’t come to Ireland to sightsee,” I say.

  She sighs. “You’re right. I had a book deal that just came through and coming here was just my way of finding some inspiration,” she says.

  I ponder her words. There’s something contained in her voice. I can tell that she’s holding something back.

  “That’s only part of the reason. There’s something you’re not telling me,” I say.

  “Such as?” she prods.

  “You came to Ireland as an escape. You’re running away from something,” I say.

  A shadow passes across her face, and I can tell that I’ve struck a nerve.

  I smile ruefully. “So, out with it. Who is he?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she snaps.

  “Come on. You know you’ve never been able to hide anything from me,” I say.

  “Oh, cut the crap, Killian,” she gripes.

  There’s a slight tremor to her voice, as if she’s trying not to break down. I can’t explain what comes over me, but I have a desire to hold her. To pull her into my arms.

  I reach out towards her, allowing my hands to rest on her shoulder.

  She turns to look at me.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” I say.

  “Killian, let’s just leave it alone.” She glances at the clock. “It’s getting late, why don’t I let you out here, and I’ll head home,” she says.

  I was so distracted, I hadn’t really noticed where she had stopped the car. I look toward the house and realize that it had never looked so empty.

  “I’ll see you around,” she says, offering her hand.

  I take it between my fingers, playing with her palm, the way a cat plays with a mouse.

  “Sleep with me,” I whisper.

  Rebecca shrugs. “Let’s catch up when I’m not sleep deprived.”

  “Tell me you don’t feel this. You know as well as I that we’ve never been able to stay away from each other. Stay the night with me,” I say, my lips nearly touching hers.

  She lingers there for a moment. I can see the struggle on her face as if she’s toying with the idea of allowing me to kiss her.

  “I’ve had a long flight, Killian. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

  “Rebecca, please...” My voice trails away.

  I hear the clicking sound of the car door as it unlocks.

  “Goodbye, Killian,” she says.

  With nothing else to say, I move out of the car.

  “My offer still stands,” I say.

  “Let’s catch up sometime, maybe…bye, Killian.”

  I get out and close the door behind me. I watch the car pull away, towards the rental cottage, taking my heart along with it.

  Again.

  Maybe that’s just how life works. Maybe once every few years, there’s a fresh heartbreak, and I never know when it’s going to come.

  Or how.

  Or if it’ll be proceeded by an actual broken fucking bone first.

  Rebecca

  Tea with milk and two sugars.

  A fresh wool sweater—thick, cable-knit and emerald green.

  A pair of wool socks thick enough to stave off the morning chill, and a paintbrush tucked jauntily behind one ear.

  I fall into my old routine just like that.

  It’s comfortable, calming. It makes me feel at ease. The strange thing is that it makes the differences between my old life and this new one stand out even more.

  I’m drinking Irish breakfast tea instead of my usual Earl Gray. Instead of the plush carpet of the place that used to be my home, I’m treading ancient oaken floorboards.

  There’s an Irish sunrise pouring over Irish fields of green as I sit down at the cottage’s worn, wooden desk and look out the window. And when I breathe in the fresh Irish morning air, it doesn’t catch in my lungs like the smog of the city used to.

  The biggest difference, though, is that when I take my first sip of tea for the day, I’m not holding that breath. There’s no trigger-hair temper to tiptoe around, no angry asshole husband to try and appease. There’s no one in this cottage but me this morning.

  So instead, I breathe the breath out nice and slow, as the warm, sweet tea floods in over my tongue. Then I raise my eyes to the window and startle so hard I nearly spit
the tea out against the pane.

  “Oh, put a fucking shirt on!” I groan after swallowing the tea hard.

  Because there, just across the stone fence that separates my yard from his, is Killian fucking Walsh doing yardwork in nothing but his boots and blue jeans.

  He has no shirt on.

  It leaves his toned muscles completely on display. Upon closer inspection, I see a black strap slung over one sculpted shoulder. It crosses over his chest to a sling that cradles his injured arm.

  As I stand there, unable to draw my eyes away from the picture outside my window, I watch Killian work. He’s figured out a solution to having an injured arm—he’s using the side of his body and the uninjured arm to trim his hedges.

  It takes one determined man to get things done no matter his state of condition.

  And I have to admit…I definitely don’t mind watching him work.

  My jaw nearly hits the floor as I gaze at his muscles contracting and rippling in the morning sun. But after a few more seconds of being stuck in captivation, I begin to feel bad. Here I am, ogling him when I could be out there helping him.

  After all, it’s my fault that he’s in that sling in the first place.

  It looks uncomfortable, the way he has to twist his body to cut the hedges. I have two capable arms to his one, and Lord knows I’m not doing anything with them while starring at him. If I’m not going to work myself, the least I can do is give Killian a hand instead.

  Determined to lend a hand, I walk to the desk, and the paintbrush behind my ear is pulled down, clinking against the wood as it is laid on the desk.

  Slipping on black fur-lined boots that slip on easily over the wool socks I still wear, I swing the cottage’s heavy oak front door open and walk outside into the crisp Irish air.

  Killian doesn’t look up as I slowly approach him. He just keeps clipping away at stray branches on the hedge.

  I cough slightly to get his attention but get no reaction.

  What the fuck? Is he actually ignoring me?

  God, he’s irritating sometimes.

  Even though he’s obviously giving me the cold, injured shoulder, I remind myself that I came out here for a damn reason.

  The least he could do is look up to acknowledge me.

  “I, uh, saw you through the window and was wondering if you wanted some help with that. It can’t be that easy with your arm in the sling.”

  He leaves me talking to his downturned head as he concentrates on the task at hand.

  “I knew you were watching me, love. Like what you see?” Killian rumbles. His deep voice and Irish accent roll through my ears, creating a tingle inside my body.

  He may be cocky and annoying at times, but what woman in their right mind wouldn’t be affected by a sexy, shirtless man with an equally sexy accent?

  I shake my head as my annoyance at him wins out over my attraction to him. Here I am, trying to offer my help, and he just can’t help but make a joke of it, can he?

  I stare him dead in the face. He stares back with a cocky grin and a sparkle in his eyes. I can tell he thinks he’s clever.

  Egotistical prick.

  “Have fun with the yardwork, Killian,” I grumble before turning around and heading back to the cottage.

  The boots slip off my feet easily as I kick them off by the door. Once inside, I’m again enveloped in the quiet warmth the cottage offers. I glide quietly over the hardwood back to the desk that will be my designated work space while I’m here.

  Maybe Killian has time for jokes and yardwork, but I have a deadline to hit.

  I pick up the paintbrush on the desk and tuck it behind my ear as I stare at the blank papers before me. These canvases that should be already be outlined with the start of something for my latest project.

  Instead, all I see is the blank white space before me.

  I should be rolling in creativity right now, but all I’m actually doing is hitting roadblock after fucking roadblock. Desperate to look at anything other than proof of my own failure to create, I raise my eyes to the window again.

  The click of the hedge clippers is barely audible through the thick walls and glass of the cottage, but Killian is in plain view. Even with the injured arm, he’s still working impressively well.

  I need to get to work. I need to focus.

  But right now, I can’t seem to look away from Killian. Every time I try, I fucking fail.

  Shirtless Killian is a sight that any hot-blooded woman would find herself hard-pressed to turn away from. Slowly, I peel my gaze away from Killian’s rippling muscles and the beads of sweat running down his abs. I don’t want to look away—but I do it anyway.

  Instead of staring, I turn my attention back to the blank papers on the desk.

  It’s time to get some work done.

  The sunrise has a different plan for me, though. As it pokes over the horizon and glows through the window, it shines a spotlight on Killian’s hunky form outside. The morning sun highlights the sweat glistening across his shirtless chest and arms.

  Trimming hedges with only one arm is bound to be hard work, but it’s only when I see him sweating that I realize exactly how hard it must be.

  His muscles seem to have expanded. The skin over them looks even more taut than I remembered. The sweat Killian is breaking only adds to his definition.

  “Jesus,” I whisper to myself. “This should be illegal.”

  Once again, I tell myself to turn away. But my mind and body are on two different channels at the moment.

  Killian is captivating.

  Mesmerizing.

  And totally off-limits.

  Biting my bottom lip, I tilt my head slightly to the right as I stare.

  Memories I meant to forget are starting to resurface. A remembered kiss here, a touch there. The ecstasy I felt when I came undone beneath his strong, gorgeous body.

  It all leaves my heart racing and my breathing shallow.

  Killian furrows his brow as he works on a stubborn branch. It’s thick and hard and determined…

  Oh, god. I need to stop staring at this man now.

  “I’m such a cliché,” I whisper to the empty cottage. “Can’t even look away from the sexy male with no shirt on as he works.”

  I watch as Killian steps back to look at what he has accomplished so far. He stands tall and appears to be deep in thought.

  In that moment as I watch him, inspiration hits. The picture for my current project takes shape in colors and shapes that come together to form an image in my mind’s eye.

  He may be cocky and too smug to accept my help, but he may have just helped me. Even if he doesn’t know it, I think he’s inspired me for a concept for the first draft. Finally, I’m able to turn away from Killian and his devilishly good-looking, shirtless body.

  I sink into the plush leather of my desk chair and pull a canvas towards me. I gather my thoughts as I pull the paintbrush out from behind my ear.

  This is what I’m here to do: paint.

  Deep breath in. Exhale.

  “Thank you, Killian,” I state right back at him the paintbrush makes the first stroke. “Maybe you’re good for something after all.”

  Killian

  I pour myself a dream of Bushmills into the wee glass, eyeball it, and turn straight to the bottle. If I want to wash the taste of the morning out of my mouth, it’ll take more than just a little nip to set me right.

  With my lips wrapped around the bottle’s mouth and my fist around its neck, I finally feel my shoulders relax, but not for long. There’s something darkly magical about whiskey—the way that, when I drink it, it always calls her to mind.

  Pretty redheaded Rebecca Doyle. She’s ruined Jameson for me already, and I’ll be damned if she ruins Bushmills to boot.

  I come up for air, gasping. I lick the last vestiges of the ocher-colored liquor from my lips. Truth be told, it’s Rebecca’s mouth I’d rather have my lips pressed against right now.

  The fact that she’s my next-door neighbor
now should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Fate has always proven to be a fickle beastie. And when Rebecca Doyle is involved, destiny generally becomes an outright fucking monster.

  I shrug my sling off and limp to my desk. There’s an ache in my muscles and a stiffness in my bones. I wonder if it’s just my near-constant hangover, or if it’s because Rebecca hit me with her damned SUV last night.

  A little of column A, a little of column B, most like.

  On my desk sits my phone, and on my phone lurks a headache of a different sort.

  Twelve missed calls from my editor, and the bastard is already calling again.

  Instead of making it thirteen missed calls, I pick up the phone and swipe the accept call button.

  “Hello,” I say in an exhausted tone.

  “Finally, you pick up your damn phone, Killian.”

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “Don’t play coy, Killian. I’ve called you fifty times already.”

  “Technically, it’s only been twelve times, but who’s counting.”

  “Whatever. I’m calling you for a reason.”

  I’m sure it’s to beat the deadline into me again.

  “The team’s going to need your first draft sooner rather than later. Definitely, well, in advance of the final dealing.”

  Okay, deep breath.

  Usually, I don’t have a problem with getting the writing done, but the universe has decided to throw me a wee curveball this time.

  Hey, I wouldn’t judge baseball without knowing a few things about it, first.

  Writer’s block is a bitch. I’ve heard of other writers experiencing it and never took them seriously until now.

  “I know. I’m just getting started,” I tell him, hopefully to get him off my back a little.

  Another swig from the bottle of fine whiskey in my hand helps to relax me a little more.

  “Alright, Killian. That’s what I like to hear,” my editor grumbles. “It’ll be a couple weeks until we need anything because the senior editor just had a baby, and I’m about to head out for my honeymoon. Still, keep working.”

  “I’ll make sure to do that while you all are on vacation.”

  “Not everyone chooses the solitary writer’s life like you, Killian,” the editor exclaims. “But I respect your priorities, and I respect the senior editor’s as well.”