More Than Memories: A Second Chance Standalone Romance

by N. E. Henderson

  “I would, you know.” The whisper of my admission is as honest as it’s going to get.

  “You would what?” she asks.

  “Stop my life. Change it if need be.”

  Her eyes drop to my mouth. A second later her tongue juts out, wetting her lips. My cock hardens, and I do something I shouldn’t.

  I lower her, making her feel me. Her eyes instantly flick up to mine. Watching them darken only makes me swell even more.

  “Maybe I need help remembering.” She wets her lips again. Her free hand runs up my arm causing tingles to trail behind her touch. My eyes close and my head falls to my shoulders. I can’t do this. We can’t do this.

  But my dick disagrees. It wants her. I want her so fucking bad I can almost taste her solely from my memories.

  She leans forward; her breath tickles my throat, making me nearly lose my shit.

  “Love,” I warn.

  “Help me remember, Shane.” Her voice is intoxicating. She’s not asking. She’s demanding, causing every fiber inside of me to come alive.

  I bring my head forward, looking her in the eyes. I can’t chance looking at her mouth. I can’t. I’ll lose what little strength I have left.

  Our faces are an inch apart. It would be nothing to meet her the rest of the way, but what would that accomplish? I don’t see it gaining me what I need the most. I don’t know if I can settle for anything less than what we once had. I need it back.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Yes.” She grips my bicep, tightening her hand around me and digs her nails into my skin.

  Fuck.

  She doesn’t know it because she doesn’t remember, but her aggressive side had always amped me up just as it’s doing now. My own fingers dig into her, making her eyes widen and a cocky smile take form on her lips.

  I back her up against the wall.

  “I said no.” And before she can ask why I tell her. “I’m not going to kiss you. I’m certainly not going to fuck you—not in a bathroom. And not until you remember.”

  She breathes out, making me blink from the force of the air rushing out.

  I’m frustrating her. Good.

  I drop her legs, but I crowd her space, looking down at her. “You’re married. Remember?”

  “My marriage is a sham. You know this. I know this. I don’t need a memory to know that. I’ve always felt it. I’ve always felt it was wrong. And now I know why. So . . .” She pushes on my chest, so I step back, giving her a little room. “So why are you throwing that in my face? Huh?”

  “I’m not.” Maybe I am, hell. “I’m not going to add to your confusion, Love. I want you. There’s no ifs or buts in that statement. But I want the you that’s buried somewhere inside. I want what’s mine.”

  “And what if I don’t get my memory back?”

  “Then I’ll wait.”

  “For how long? What if it never comes back, Shane?”

  Yeah. That’s the question burning inside my skull. Because if she doesn’t remember soon, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my hands off her again.

  I don’t answer. Instead, I open the door, holding it open until she walks out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Whitney Lane

  I don’t think I’ve ever been more pissed off and turned on at the same time in my life. Well, in the last decade anyway. Hell, for all I know Shane used to do this to me often. My skin is on fire, and the pulsing between my legs hasn’t stopped.

  I thought walking out of that bathroom without relief was torture. No, six hours later and I’m about to go insane. I keep yanking on my long hair, trying to replace my need with pain. But I swear I’m only making it worse. On top of everything else, I can’t get the memory of the way he held me against his erection out of my brain.

  I’ve never felt an ounce of this madness, this desire with Blake.

  A part of me realizes exactly what was missing from my marriage. Shane fucking Braden. Bastard cock-sucking asshole worked me up and then refused me. If it wasn’t for the same torture I see reflected in his ocean-like eyes as I do mine, I’d dick-punch him so that he could feel some semblance of what’s burning inside of me right now. If anything, he looks a little worse than I do.

  Since leaving the courthouse and after our meeting with Jacob we both needed something to help ease the pain of the judge’s ruling on Emersyn’s fate. As if that weren’t enough, we added the intense desire to fuck each other senseless to the list of things we have to try and fight.

  We picked up Everly after school, and since this is Chance and Eve’s last night here, Shane’s parents stayed with the girls for all of us to go out to dinner. I didn’t want to go at first. I’m still hesitant that I left my kids with people I don’t really know. I might have known them at one time, sure, but I don’t know them now. I’m trying hard to trust Shane on this.

  He hasn’t looked at me since he asked me if I wanted him to order me a beer.

  “Hey, what do you guys think of these?” Eve leans over, bumping into my shoulder with hers.

  It takes an effort to stop looking at Shane. He’s sitting at the other end of the long, wrought iron table we’re all at, talking with the guys. Shawn and Chance are down there with him and I met Mason—Kylie’s little brother and Shawn’s best friend—an hour ago. I can already tell he’s trouble wrapped in the same beautiful, flawless skin as his sister. He’s funny too. I’ve watched him make a handful of jokes already.

  I finally look at what Eve is holding out in front of me. It’s her camera. She’s a photographer who works for a tattoo magazine. These shots she’s showing is proof that Eve is a damn good photographer. I’m not used to people invading my personal space—other than my girls.

  Taralynn and Kylie come to stand behind us, looking at the image on the back of her camera. It’s Shawn.

  “Damn,” Taralynn sighs, making Kylie and I laugh. Yeah, her boyfriend isn’t hurting in the looks department. He’s got a bad-boy, Brantley Gilbert thing going on. Only one of his arms is covered in ink, but he’s got a massive tattoo covering his back. It looks like different colors of ink splattered across his back like paint splatter. It’s a cool, unique piece of art.

  Eve flips through the shots she took today. She and Chance went to Oxford early this morning before our court appearance to photograph Shawn in his tattoo shop.

  “What are these for?” I inquire.

  “Shawn is gonna be on the January issue of the magazine I work for.”

  “Seriously?” I’m surprised. Shawn doesn’t seem like the model-type. I almost laugh at the thought.

  “Yep,” Taralynn pipes in. “I can’t believe he agreed.”

  “Girl, me either.” Eve chuckles. “That boy puts the ‘I’ in difficult.” She switches the camera to her left hand then grabs her beer, taking a long pull from the amber bottle.

  “You don’t have to tell me that.” Taralynn’s voice fans my hair, making it tickle my face.

  “Since they’re down there shooting the shit,” Kylie nods in the guys’ direction as she sits back down into the chair to my left. “What’s up with you two?” she asks. I follow her line of sight to see who she’s looking at. It’s Taralynn who takes on a shy expression like she doesn’t want to answer her.

  Eventually, she goes back to sit on Kylie’s other side and Eve leans away from me.

  “We’re . . . working on us, I guess. It’s the best answer I can give you.”

  “How about you just tell us like it is, instead.” Eve finishes off her beer, pushing the bottle away from her.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shane grab the waiter, motioning down to our end. His eyes catch mine for a split second before he goes back to talking. I can’t hear their conversation, but the guys all have easy smiles on their faces except Shane. His is forced.

  In an effort to ignore the ache in my chest, I clue myself in on the conversation at my end of the table.

  “I wish I could just forget what happened. If I could erase t
hat memory, it’d be so much easier.” Taralynn sighs, then her eyes widen, and her head snaps toward me. “Crap. I’m sorry, Whitney. I didn’t think. I didn’t mean it like it sounded.”

  “Yeah, you did,” Eve calls her out, earning a scowl from Taralynn.

  “It’s fine,” I tell her. “You don’t have to guard your words or tip-toe around me. Actually, I prefer if you didn’t. Just be yourself.”

  She nods her head, but she still looks embarrassed if her rosy cheeks are any indication.

  I move my eyes back to the table where Eve has gone back to looking at the images on her camera. The way her face changes, going from happy to not every few seconds, I’m not sure if she’s scrutinizing Shawn or herself. I’m going with herself. The pictures I saw were beautiful; so lively.

  “They’re good,” I tell her, making her eyes flick up to meet mine.

  “Thanks.”

  “Ladies.” A man’s voice rings out as four new beers are placed on our table.

  My eyes roam, finding Shane staring at me over the bottom of the glass bottle he has tipped up. Flames stroke my skin the longer our eyes stay connected. I finally have to look away.

  “How bad does it hurt?” I say after racking my brain for something that would get my mind off the man at the other end of the table.

  “How bad does what hurt?” Taralynn asks.

  “A tattoo.”

  “You want ink?” Eve sits her camera down on the table then turns her focus on me. Her eyes are big, happy I think.

  I shrug. “Just curious is all.” That was a lie. And as soon as it came out of my mouth, I regretted saying it. I’ve secretly wanted one for years.

  “Tell me you don’t have any.” Eve is giddy. Now I wish I’d told her the truth.

  “Nope. None.”

  “Chance is gonna blow his load.” Does she mean . . .? “Not literally, Whit. Damn.” She laughs. The other girls follow suit. She twists her head away from me. “Hey, Chance.”

  He stops speaking, turning toward her voice. “Yeah?” The way his eyes fall downward makes me think he’s taking in more of her than a friend normally would. When he licks his lips, I’m sure of it. I’m positive he’s staring at all the cleavage she has on display. She’s not overly endowed like Taralynn is, but she’s got enough to make me jealous.

  “Guess who has a blank canvas.”

  His eyes dart to me, taking on a hooded, half-mast look that I saw Shane give me when he was turned on in the bathroom at the courthouse earlier. A slow smile forms—a look that resembles a tiger pacing, waiting to catch his prey.

  “You want a tat? Then I’m your man, darlin’.” Shawn’s voice pulls my eyes away from the way Chance is looking at me, making me squirm.

  Chance turns toward his friend, taking on a fierceness that might make most people back away from. “Whoa, motherfucker! You got Shane. Your brother is yours, yeah?” Shawn just smirks as Shane shakes his head. “You don’t honestly believe you get her too, do you?”

  “Why not?” Shawn tells Chance, obviously not scared of him. Shawn’s bulkier than Chance, but I doubt either are intimidated by the other.

  “She was my friend long before you ever knew her.” Chance turns, training his diamond blue eyes on me. “That skin,” he gestures at me. “Is mine.”

  “I think you should tattoo her tonight before we leave.” Eve doesn’t look up from where she’s still looking at her camera. For the life of me, I don’t know why she’s still looking at them. She took them. Surely, she must know every photo taken by heart.

  “Maybe another time,” I tell them. I’ve had about all I can take for one day. Yes. I really do want a tattoo—one day. But all the attention looking my way right now is unwanted. It’s too much.

  I watch as Shane stands. “I think it’s time to call it a night. I’m going to handle the check.”

  He walks off, our eyes meeting as he turns, telling me he ended the discussion for me.

  It doesn’t take a memory or even a genius to know he’s a good man. I can see what I must have seen in him back then. He’s good, thoughtful. He’s kindhearted.

  My own heart swells.

  “So, what kind of tattoo do you want?” I look at Eve, shaking my head. I think I see why she and I were friends. She is a lot to process, but I definitely like her. I like them all—a lot.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Shane Braden

  In the two weeks I’ve known my daughter, she hasn’t stopped watching me. Sometimes it’s out of the corner of her eye. Other times it’s more obvious when her head turns, following my movements with her eyes.

  She hasn’t spoken much. A word here and there but nothing substantial. It’s like she’s curious, yet shy.

  It boggles my mind. I don’t want to scare her, but I do want to get to know her. I just don’t know how to.

  I stand my guitar on the floor, propped against the end table between Shawn’s couch and the recliner. Twisting to my other side, I face Everly. She’s sitting at the other end of the couch with her legs tucked underneath her.

  “TV boring you?” She glances at the football game playing on the TV that’s mounted to the right of the window in the living room. “You can change it if you want to watch something else.”

  The guys would probably flip if she does. Saturday afternoons are usually spent watching college football. Even Taralynn loves watching her beloved Ole Miss Rebels.

  It’s Blake’s first weekend alone with Emersyn, so I thought it would be a good idea to get out of town in an attempt to get Whitney’s mind off the situation. Obviously, shared custody isn’t ideal. I don’t want him near Emersyn any more than I’d want him around Everly. So we’re spending the weekend at my brother’s. My parents are coming over tomorrow after church for lunch. It’ll give my parents some time to get to know their granddaughter.

  “No, it’s fine,” she shrugs, then looks back at me. “I’d rather watch you play that.” She points to the Fender acoustic guitar. “If that’s okay.”

  Joy spreads through my chest at her admission to want to listen to me play. I wasn’t playing anything in particular. Just messing around with some chords.

  I left it at Gavin’s the night Whitney showed up. Thankfully, my brother—or it could have been Taralynn—had enough sense to grab it, bringing it with them. But in all the chaos, they forgot it in Shawn’s truck that night, so I didn’t take it home when we left.

  “Of course that’s okay.”

  “You’re really good,” she whispers. This is the most she’s spoken to me. I’m not fond of the way she’s so soft spoken. It’s such a contrast from the way her mother was at her age. I’m not complaining though. Sure, I’d like her to be bolder, but she’s still perfect the way she is. “When did you learn to play?”

  I think back, smiling at the memory. “I started learning in middle school.”

  I first picked up a guitar in sixth grade after hearing Whitney sing in the school choir. I needed something I could use that would give us something in common. By then I’d stop feeling embarrassed over my attraction for her. But I can’t sing, so it left an array of instruments to choose from. Guitar just made sense. What other instrument is so . . . intimate between a small group? Between two people?

  I took lessons for a whole year before I let anyone know.

  It worked too. It got her to pay closer attention to me. And eventually—by the time we got to eighth grade, and after a lot of time hounding her—it got her to go on a date with me after I helped her put music to some lyrics she had written.

  “Wow.” She gleams.

  “Do you like guitars or music?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve had lessons.” She points to the guitar, then her body sags. “Well . . . I’ve had two lessons.”

  “When?” My voice excites knowing she’s taken guitar lessons. That must mean she’s interested in the instruments and wants to learn.

  “A few weeks ago,” she tells me. “But my—” She stops as if catching herself saying some
thing she wasn’t supposed to. “He found out Mom was taking me and said I wasn’t allowed to go back.” Everly’s voice sounds crushed, making my chest ache.

  She doesn’t clarify who the ‘he’ is, but I’m guessing it’s Blake. The way she stopped from saying, ‘dad,’ though is . . . odd. Whitney would have told me if she said something to Everly about Blake not being her dad. In fact, we discussed telling her after her birthday in three weeks.

  I don’t ask her if Blake was the one that told her she wasn’t allowed to learn how to play. I don’t need to, but I can remedy it.

  “Do you want me to teach you?”

  She beams up at me. “Really?”

  “Sure. I’d love to, Ev.” She grins, showing all her teeth. The ache starts to recede.

  “Okay then. First lesson, forget whatever you’ve already learned.”

  She laughs, giving me that big, bright smile, again. It’s the first time she’s looked happy instead of guarded. It thrills me to no end.

  I mute the TV. Then I grab my guitar, pulling it onto my lap.

  “Come closer.” I motion for her to take a seat next to me. “We’re going to start with the basics: how you hold the instrument.” I start to twist, facing her, but that’s not going to work. “Everly, come sit on the coffee table in front of me.”

  She hops up, doing what I’ve told her to do.

  “You want to position it comfortably on your thigh. Right about here.” I indicate the spot on my leg where it’s sitting, and she eagerly nods. “Are you right handed?” I ask her before moving on.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. Me too. That will make it easier. Okay next, rest your forearm over the body of the guitar, like this.” My right arm touches the cool, smooth, black wood on the face of the guitar. “Then you want to place your palm, lightly, on the bridge at the base so that you can pivot your hand easily. You following?”

  “Yes.” She wraps both hands around the edge of the coffee table, watching every step I tell her. I’m impressed. She’s a good girl. From everything I’ve seen I know Whitney has great kids.