All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  My brain feels tingly and numb as a limb that has fallen asleep.

  I bask in this feeling unlike any I have felt before this very moment.

  “Killian?” Rebecca licks her lips and smiles joyously.

  “Yes, lass?”

  “I really fucking love you,” she says with a laugh.

  “Well, I am Killian Walsh.”

  She gives me a playful smack in the arm.

  We share a brief kiss as soft as the sands of Culebra.

  “I love you, Rebecca Doyle. Now and always.”

  Rebecca

  I lift the glass up off the table and toward the clear, sunny sky.

  The light seems to dance off the fine crystal, casting a prismatic rainbow on the table cloth. That makes for a nice show for a moment, before it’s time for me to use the glass for what it’s really meant for and take another sip...of sparkling apple cider.

  Come on—I’m six months pregnant. There’s plenty of champagne here but none for the bride.

  There’s also plenty of Irish whiskey, and kegs of lager, ales, stouts...

  “If you drink anymore, lass, you’ll be a walking distillery,” Killian says, giving me that knowing smile.

  “Do they distill this stuff? I’m pretty sure it grows on trees.”

  “The fruit does, love. Not the manufacturing process.”

  “I think you’re the walking distillery, Killy. How many of these kegs did you empty yourself?”

  “Ah, you jest. I’m not that bad. I’ve only finished a single keg today...maybe one and a half. But not many!”

  I smile and set the glass down, wringing my hands on the napkin that’s thrown across my lap. Killian reaches out to squeeze my hand and leans toward me.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “You know I’m limiting myself as much as you limit yourself...zero kegs, zero pints, zero anything for six months.”

  He places a kiss on my forehead. His lips are gentle, and it’s as if every fear I have slowly evaporates into thin air.

  His words give me more than a slight bit of comfort. The knowledge of his weekly AA meetings is a continual source of comfort, as well.

  Six months. I’m damn proud, and I can tell him that with a silent, adoring gaze just as well as I can tell him with my often-lacking words.

  I’ve always been more of a pictures kinda gal, anyway.

  I’ve always dreamt of getting married as well—with a big wedding like this one.

  The last one doesn’t count.

  In all my years, I could never have imagined being married to a man like Killian Walsh.

  “I think it’s time we mingled with our guests,” Killian says, taking me by the hand. He helps me out of my seat like a gentleman and removes my chair.

  We had decided on an outdoor reception. Killian has always felt that if our family and friends were to get a true taste of Irish culture, there was no better way to do it than to connect with the land.

  The truth is, there’s something liberating about not being contained by walls. I don’t think I could’ve made it through today otherwise.

  We look around at the little clusters of people forming various groups. Judging from the sounds of laughter, it seems like everyone is having a good time.

  It’s then that I notice Mr. and Mrs. Walsh in a deep conversation with my parents. Watching these couples together makes it apparent how vastly different Killian’s and my life have been.

  Killian’s mom and dad are dressed from head to toe in what looks like designer clothes and fashion pieces from continental Europe. It’s good that he’s really sending them a big chunk of his every royalty check.

  They don’t speak much though. They simply nod as my parents take over the conversation.

  I’m still not sure where Killian got his gabby tendencies from, but it sure wasn’t parental influence.

  My parents, on the other hand, are the most animated people you’d ever meet.

  Maybe that’s why I enjoy being a wee bit outspoken myself from time to time.

  It’s not easy for me to move stealthily these days, seeing how I’m even bigger than Kylemore Abbey, but I don’t have too much trouble pushing myself up from the table and sneaking through groups of other guests to get a closer scope of our parents talking.

  When I get to the catering table close to them, I pretend to look at half-empty trays of boxty and colcannon as I eavesdrop.

  “I’m sure you would just love Cali. It’s warm all year round. Lounging at the pool, the beach. Then there’s the music festivals. We try to stay young.”

  More power to ya, Mom.

  “In fact, my Rebecca over there illustrated a poster for a local band called the Fuck Boyz. Maybe you’ve heard of them,” she continues.

  Okay, I have to spin around to get a look at the Walsh’s reaction to that tidbit.

  Killian’s parents look quite scandalized. Mr. Walsh coughs slightly. I notice Mrs. Walsh adjust her glasses before speaking.

  “Yes, well I’m sure your daughter is talented, and clearly she has good taste, if she’s marrying our son,” Mrs. Walsh says.

  My mother gives Mrs. Walsh a slight smile. I’ve seen this look a million times before.

  Killian strides up next to me, and we both watch our families talking about us as if we weren’t right there.

  “Yes, well I’ve always prided myself on raising my daughter not to depend on a man. It’s your Killian that should feel lucky that she even looked his way,” my mom continues.

  I raise a brow at Killian. “Think we should step in?”

  “Before they kill each other, yes. The last thing we need is a war between our mothers.”

  War Between our Mothers.

  That sounds like it could be one of Killian’s novels. Or does it sound more like a quirky children’s book I’d be drawing?

  We step towards the two women.

  “It’s so great to see you, too,” I say, reaching out to hug my mom and then Mrs. Walsh.

  Killian kisses my mother on the cheek.

  “Mother,” he says with a smile, putting his hand on Mrs. Walsh’s shoulder.

  “Killian, darling, you look so handsome. Your father and I have never been so proud,” Mrs. Walsh says, gushing over her son.

  Killian laughs.

  “If I look good, it’s only because of my beautiful bride, Rebecca,” he says, wrapping a hand around my waist.

  It doesn’t quite make sense, but I’m happy to take it.

  “I agree it was a lovely service. Perhaps you’ll come out to visit us in SoCal at some point,” my mom suggests.

  “Of course. I’d love to see where Rebecca grew up,” Killian responds honestly.

  “Who knows? Maybe you’ll decide to stay and raise your family there. You know what the weather’s like around where we live, Killian? You could throw all your heavy coats away for starters...”

  “I don’t think so. My grandchild is going to have a proper Irish upbringing,” Mrs. Walsh interjects.

  Yes, I can see where this conversation is headed.

  “Well, wherever Killian and I decide to raise our family, it’s going to be on our own terms,” I state calmly, unequivocally.

  Mrs. Walsh is about to say something, but she’s doesn’t get the chance. My good friend Stephanie and Catherine come to our aid.

  “Becca!” Catherine says, running up to give me a hug.

  “You were fantastic. I love the dress,” she says.

  “Thanks, Cathy. It’s so good of you two to make it,” I say.

  “Congratulations to you and Killian. I wish you many more years together,” Stephanie says.

  “How are you enjoying your stay in my neck of the woods?” Killian asks.

  Steph looks at Catherine before answering.

  “If you had told me it was going to be so outdoorsy, I would’ve worn some other outfit,” Stephanie says.

  “It’s so much muddier than I’m used to,” Catherine replies.

  “This is nothing. We haven’t
even hit the rainy season yet,” Killian says.

  “Rainy season, huh?” Stephanie looks like she’s considering that concept, and apparently, even for the Zen-stoic yoga teacher, it’s a difficult one to fathom. “It’d take me a while to get used to living here.”

  “But if Rebecca’s happy here, I’m sure it’s fine—no offense,” she quickly adds.

  “None taken,” Killian says.

  “If you’ll excuse us, I believe Killian has an announcement to make,” I say.

  “Becca, please come and find us before you leave,” Cathy says.

  I touch her arm before turning away from them.

  We walk over to where the DJ has his equipment set up. He’s so busy that he doesn’t see us at first. I have to give him a healthy tap on the shoulder to get his attention.

  “You alright, mate?” the DJ asks.

  “Yes, we’d like to take the mic for a moment,” I say.

  “Be my guest.” The DJ hands us a cordless condenser mic. “Should I get their attention?”

  I nod.

  The DJ lowers the music.

  “Alright! Ladies and gents, if I could have you turn this way! It looks like the man and the lady of the hour would like to say something. Give them your love and attention!” he calls out.

  The conversation dies down, and everyone is looking at us.

  “Do you want to go first?” Killian whispers quietly.

  I nod, taking the mic from his hand.

  I clear my throat before speaking.

  “First off, I’d just like to thank our friends and family for being here. I know it’s a bit far for some of you, but hey, what’s a few thousand miles between friends?”

  That doesn’t get the laugh I wanted. Some fucking friends I have.

  “When I first came to this beautiful country, it never occurred to me that I’d be meeting the love of my life. I’m not one for speeches, but...he never ceases to amaze me.”

  I turn to look at Killian. Though he’s trying to play it cool, I can see that he’s becoming red.

  “Killian Walsh...Thank you for bringing out the best in me.”

  Killian bows his head slightly, takes my hand in his, and kisses my palm.

  “I think the groom would like to say something,” I say, pushing the mic towards him.

  Killian takes the mic. He surveys the crowd for a moment as if he’s gathering his thoughts.

  “This year, I was on a mission to complete my latest novel. I had a few months to turn over the final draft to my publisher. There was just one problem—writer’s block. I was empty and couldn’t find the words to type.”

  He looks at me.

  “But then one afternoon, this insane woman nearly killed me with her damn vehicle. I was going to call the police until I realized that the psycho driver was really Rebecca.”

  Well, that gets a goddamn laugh.

  I don’t care how far they traveled for this. My friends are officially dead to me.

  “I didn’t know it then, but from that moment on something changed. The story that I had been trying so hard to write, the book that I had struggled with so long...It all came together the moment that this woman walked into my life.

  “I’m proud to announce that my latest novel has been picked up by a major house in New York, and it will be distributed not only here in Ireland but internationally as well. I couldn’t have done it without this woman...”

  Killian stops, because the famously hard-drinking, caustically cynical and famously solitary Irish author is crying.

  And, out in the crowd, Steph and Cathy are crying, too.

  Okay, they’re alive to me again.

  My eyes travel up to that clear, blue sky over the Emerald Isle once again.

  We went through the ceremony and said our vows hours ago, and I got through that without bawling in front of my closest friends and Killian’s family.

  But...goddammit.

  It’s okay. Just a couple tears.

  My husband’s already shed more than a couple, but I’m not quite as much of a romantic as he is.

  “Kiss her!” someone yells from the crowd.

  Killian smiles. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  He pulls me into his arms. His lips meet mine, and we melt into one another.

  It’s just then that we feel the slight drizzle of rain on our skin. We look up.

  Somehow, the sun has given way to clouds and to rain over the course of a couple minutes.

  We exchange a knowing glance.

  If the car accident was a definitive moment, no one will ever understand that the rain was the accumulation of everything coming to perfection.

  “Come here,” I say, drawing my man towards me.

  Hawaii Big-O

  A Second Chance Romance Prequel

  By Gage Grayson

  Copyright 2018 by Third Base Press

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

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  Ethan

  In general, I’d say things work out pretty fucking great for me.

  I mean, I’m not immune to the occasional random gut-punch, courtesy of the universe’s tendency to dole out punches to the fucking gut every once in a while. But in general? Yeah, life is pretty fucking great.

  Most people who have lives like mine are under the impression that their shit doesn’t stink. Most people who live on the 52nd floor of the Barclay Tower, or who enjoy a high-powered career in the merciless world of NYC finance, think of themselves as brilliant and unique―as if they see the world differently than all those dim, unenlightened proles who eke out a living waiting tables, driving Ubers, walking dogs or working cash registers.

  I’m under no such delusion.

  True, my achievements in hedge fund management have won me minor industry fame and an astronomical net worth. But that’s not because I’m some sort of exceptionally rare super-genius—it’s because I work really fucking hard.

  I also don’t believe that the best fortification for a day’s work are the wheatgrass smoothies and flax breakfasts that many of my colleagues swear by. I call bullshit on that.

  No, most days, during my five-minute walk to work, I stop at a deli in the Woolworth Building for a simple coffee and an egg sandwich.

  My office is in the building as well, but the deli has its own separate, unpretentious entrance. There, I have to flavor the coffee all by my fucking self, emptying turbinado sugar packets into the cup and pouring skim milk from an open carton they keep in a small fridge. It’s one of my favorite daily activities, primarily for the thirty seconds of Zen nothingness it provides.

  Despite being detached from the building’s palatial, marble furnished lobby, the deli is usually the most relaxing part of my commute—if not my entire day.

  Today, stirring the swirls of milk into the formerly pitch-black coffee depths, I’m feeling at peace, and I fucking revel in it.

  This space at Broadway street level must cost tens of thousands a month. The awkward layout doesn’t really reflect that, with tables half-heartedly set up along the under-lit back wall leading to the restrooms.

  But it works for me. If I drank my coffee in the office, or even at the nearby Starbucks, there’s no guarantee that everyone would leave me the fuck alone.

  In this part of town, a few blocks from Wall Street, someone with developed instincts for investment, reward, and minimizing risks is unlikely to be left the fuck alone very often.

  I’m lucky to have found a spot in my office building where no one thinks to look. I’ve come to regard it as a necessity—these quiet moments before the chaos of my day begins—right up there next to a good fuck on the scale of things
that make life beautiful.

  I get childlike satisfaction from getting the stupid plastic lid securely fastened to the top of my 20-ounce cup. I also enjoy the tactile warmth of the coffee as I carry it to the register and greet Rodrigo.

  Rodrigo runs this business, I’m pretty sure. I’ve never exactly asked him about it, because business of any kind is the last thing I want to talk about this early.

  I do know that he moved here from Cuba almost sixty years ago; he’s a New Yorker in the hard-earned sense that most of the spoiled transplants who live and work around here could never understand.

  Rodrigo’s smiling as I approach him with the coffee.

  “No sandwich today, Mr. B?”

  “Some days I don’t need it or want it.”

  Rodrigo just smiles and nods. He knows he’ll get plenty of my money in the future. He deserves it, too. Rodrigo is one person who I’m sure has never judged me.

  Maybe that’s part of the reason this strange little deli that overcharges tourists is like a fucking spa or something for me. I would never even bring anyone else here; it’s like my own little secret retreat. Rodrigo may be the only person who knows me―

  The bell on the door jars me from my thoughts just as Rodrigo rings me up. I turn to look…and my whole fucking world screeches to a halt.

  Remember that gut-punch I mentioned? Yeah. I’m most definitely not fucking immune.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  This place is supposed to be mine, like a spa or some sort of fucking monastic retreat. And it was, up until a second ago, when it instead became one of the most stressful and confusing places on the entire fucking Earth.

  All I can do is stand and stare.

  She’s over by the entrance—not close to me, thank fuck. She just walked in, and it looks like she still hasn’t figured out exactly why she’s here. She doesn’t even notice me—again, thank fuck.

  But what the fuck is she doing here?

  In New York?

  Downtown?

  Before eight in the morning when I just happen to be getting coffee?

  Right outside my fucking office?

  She still doesn’t see me. She’s too busy looking at all the prepackaged salads on display by the entrance. She leaves after looking at a couple of the prices.