More Than Memories: A Second Chance Standalone Romance

by N. E. Henderson

  Shane. Shane damp from a shower, coming out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a white towel.

  He was rushing. He is normally showered and dressed by the time I get up but this morning I walked straight into his chest as he came out and I swear my brain lost every cell it had.

  I’d seen his stomach briefly, and half of his chest when he showed me the foreverly tattoo over his heart. But I’d had a messed-up head that night. I don’t remember him looking so . . . delicious.

  And I don’t even think he realized he had stunned me silent. He smiled. Oh, he smiled that smile that made me want to sink to the floor in a puddle. He told me, ‘good morning’ then he bypassed me, going into his room. I’m pretty sure I caught sight of a tattoo covering his back, but I couldn’t see or think straight at that moment to know if he actually does or if I saw a blur.

  He’s a distraction—a very sexy distraction. And I’m a very stupid woman if I once had that, and then lost my damn memory, which ended up causing me to lose him.

  He’s the reason I forgot to take my pill. Yeah, it’s his fault.

  I know the girl across the hall likes him. She’s come over at least once a week asking for help. Like this morning, apparently, she stopped him after his morning run because her heater isn’t working. That’s why he was running late. She asked him to look at it like he’s fucking maintenance.

  Yeah, I know what kind of help she’s looking for, and it isn’t the handyman type. Not unless she’s into role-playing anyway.

  She wants him. And I want him.

  I’ve never experienced jealousy before. Not until Shane. Every woman he comes into physical contact with makes my heart race and my skin burn. I was so happy when Kylie left to go back home to Florida that I helped her pack her all shit.

  It’s dumb feeling this way, but I don’t know how to stop from doing so. He isn’t mine. But he wants to be. Unless I’m reading him wrong. But he wants the other Whitney back. The one I can’t remember. Sorrow etches around my heart. What if I never get it back? What if he can’t love this me?

  “What’s burning in here?” Taralynn’s voice penetrates my ears, breaking me from the thoughts running wild.

  “Oh, shit!” I shout, pivoting toward the stove.

  “I told you I would’ve helped.”

  She did, but I didn’t need it. At least I didn’t think I did at the time. With what I saw this morning and the feel of his hands on me Saturday night, my brain is fried. I can’t do anything right.

  When I found out Taralynn was coming to Memphis to bring Shawn to the airport, I invited her to dinner.

  “I wasn’t paying attention,” I admit, getting to the stove. Ah, hell. The asparagus is done. Trash. They’re burnt to a crisp.

  “Toss it,” she says. “It’s no big deal. I saw a text flash on your cell right before I came in here. Shane’s stuck in traffic. He’ll be a few minutes late.”

  It goes in the trash, and then I turn off the oven, but I leave the smothered pork chops inside for now. The peas, I turn down on low to keep them warm.

  “Well, so much for that.

  “Are you kidding? The chops cooking in the oven smell divine. I can’t wait to scarf them down. And from what I’m told, you could give me a run for my money in the cooking department.”

  “Uh-uh, no way.”

  “Apparently so. Shane doesn’t exaggerate when it comes to food.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I tell her, coming to sit down at the kitchen table next to her. “So why did Shawn go to South America?” Shane told me, but for the life of me, I can’t remember.

  “A tattoo convention.” She plays with the condensation on her beer bottle, drawing on it with her finger. “The whole studio closed down and went with him. Chance and Eve are there too. They go to several each year, but this is Shawn’s first.”

  “And you didn’t want to go to Brazil with him?” She looks up, stopping what she was doing.

  “No. He’s going to be so busy. I’d never see him. Eve wanted me to come, but I know she’s working too. I’d just be in the way. Besides, I can get more writing done with him gone this week.”

  “That’s right. Shane did mention you’re a writer. That’s cool.” I beam.

  “Coming from someone who’s written a ton of songs?” she says, surprising me.

  “I have?”

  “Shane hasn’t shown you any?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “Well, I know he has all of your notebooks. Shawn told me when he helped move him from Oxford down to Jackson, years ago, he had a box full of stuff labeled ‘Whitney’s’ and I doubt he got rid of any of it.”

  I wonder if he still has them? And if so, why hasn’t he mentioned it.

  The door closes. A little harder than usual, making both of us jump. Before I can get up to make sure it was Shane coming in, he walks through the kitchen entrance looking tired. His hair is a mess, as if he has run his fingers through it multiple times. His scrubs aren’t the same ones he was wearing when he left this morning. And they’re wrinkled.

  He tosses his keys and phone on the counter. “Do I have time for a shower before we eat?” he asks me.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “It’s done, but we can wait a few more minutes. Go ahead.”

  “Thanks.” He sighs as he pulls a beer from the refrigerator. Before opening it, he walks over. “Hey, Precious.” He kisses the top of Taralynn’s head. She gives him a soft smile, but even she notices something is wrong.

  When she wraps her arms around his middle, giving him a hug, I’m struck by the realization that I’m not the least bit jealous of their interaction. I guess I don’t see her as a threat. That should make me feel good, but whatever is up with Shane tonight isn’t giving me joy.

  “Everything . . . okay?” I ask when he releases her to twist off the cap of his beer.

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “It could have been better. Just a rough day in the ER. I think I’ll be glad when this rotation is over. Today confirmed Emergency Medicine isn’t my calling.” He bypasses me, speaking over his shoulder, “I’ll be quick. I just need to wash this day off of me.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Taralynn comments after he’s out of earshot as she picks up her beer, polishing off the contents.

  “No. No, it doesn’t.” I hope nothing bad happened, but I’m guessing it must have.

  I get up, going into the living room to check on the girls.

  Everly is seated on the floor, in front of the coffee table, working on her homework. Her sister is bouncing on the couch. Cartoons are playing on the television, but I don’t think she cares about them. She is too into entertaining her that it makes me chuckle.

  Picking up my cell phone from the small home office set-up Shane has nestled off to the side of the kitchen toward the back of the living room, I check for any other notifications.

  I have eight unread messages—all from Blake. I breathe out my frustration. I just want him to go away and never come back. But I might as well read them and get it over with.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if he could somehow use my lack of communication with him as some form of leverage.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Shane Braden

  Finishing my shower, I turn the hot water off, pull the shower curtain open and then step out, grabbing a towel to dry off.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve worked in the emergency department. I’ve rotated several times through the ER over the course of my residency. But it is the first time I’ve started to question my career choice.

  Good days are great. When you’ve helped a child that’s injured or sick, there’s this feeling I don’t even know how to describe. It’s more than joy. It’s even part pride. It’s an amazing feeling.

  But bad days wipe you out. They crush your soul and bring you to the edge of breaking down.

  I lost a patient.

  It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last time, but God, I wish it were.

  It
was a senseless accident that should never have happened. A guy was running from the cops, in a truck. He t-boned a school bus. There were eighteen students on board. Fifteen, including the driver, had serious injuries. Two of those were life threatening. The second kid was still in surgery when I left the hospital.

  After dressing and hanging the wet towel on the rack behind the door, I scoop my dirty clothes up, taking them to my room.

  When I’m coming back through the living room, Whitney is staring at her cell phone with the same look on her face she had two nights ago. Must mean another text from that dickhead. When I step back, looking at Whitney’s situation objectively—at least I think it’s objectively—how is he much better than a rapist? He took from her what she would never have given willingly if she didn’t have amnesia.

  Her parents. How do I call them that? They didn’t do what was best for their daughter like they were supposed to do. They did what they wanted, and for whatever reason they did it, it wasn’t what was best for Whitney. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t her choice.

  Someone needs to pay for what’s been done to her. It’s not about me. She was touched physically by a person she would not have allowed to touch her. It’s taken everything inside me not to do something about it. I want him to pay. I want them all to pay.

  I’m not used to these violent feelings. I don’t know what to do with them.

  Jacob told her to say the word, and he’d file a motion in civil court. So far, she hasn’t mentioned doing anything. And financial means won’t make up for the damages he has helped cause. But if it’s a choice in losing a good chunk of what he has in the bank, it might put Whitney in a position to bargain for sole custody of their child.

  It’s her choice where this is taken. I get that she just wants it over, but until she does something, he’ll always be in her life. And in Emersyn’s life. He doesn’t deserve to be that little girl’s father.

  At this point, I don’t want to know if she’s reading a message from him. So, instead of walking over to Whitney, I ruffle Emersyn’s blonde hair as I round the couch. Crouching down next to my daughter, I cock my head to see what she’s doing. Homework from the looks of it.

  “I think we’re about to eat dinner.” She stops writing to look up at me. “But after you finish your homework and shower, if there’s enough time before bed, we’ll do a lesson on the guitar. You want to?”

  “Yes!” She beams. “I’m almost done now.”

  “Good deal.” I stand, scooping Emersyn into my arms. “Let’s go wash your dirty paws before we eat.”

  “I not got paws, Shaney.” Her nose scrunches up as she shakes her head. “I not no cat.”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her, walking down the hall. “Those green eyes look cat-like to me. You sure you aren’t part kitty?”

  Placing her down onto the vanity next to the sink, I grab the hand soap.

  “You think I’m part kitty?” I laugh, soaking it all up and letting some of the ache in my chest ebb away. I needed this.

  “Hold your hands out.” I squirt foam into her palm. She rubs them together without being told to do so.

  Leave it to a three-year-old to lift a weight from my shoulders.

  “Thanks, Em.”

  “For what?”

  “For being you.” I place a light kiss on her forehead.

  “For being a kitty?”

  “No, sweet girl. Just for being you.”

  Once she’s done, I pick her up, off the counter. “Let’s go eat.”

  When I walk through, Whitney catches my attention. She’s picking up Everly’s homework from the table in front of the couch, placing it into a pink binder. It’s not what she’s doing that has me pausing.

  She’s humming.

  She’s humming the song I’m teaching our daughter on the guitar. She’s humming a song she wrote.

  Another weight is lifted, and I pray this is progress toward her unlocking her memories.

  When you have something you look forward coming home to, it’s amazing how fast a person can complete tasks that usually take all day.

  That’s why I’m coming in the door to my apartment just after lunch the following day. Working the long hours I do, I haven’t gotten nearly as much time as I’d like with Whitney and the girls. I know Emersyn will never be my daughter biologically, but I’ve become attached to her in the three weeks they’ve been here the same way I’ve grown attached to Everly.

  “Whit,” I call out. When I don’t get a response, I listen. Emersyn is probably down for her afternoon nap, and maybe Whitney is too.

  I peek into the spare room but only see Em sprawled out across the bed, with her head at the foot, sleeping.

  I ease the door closed, not wanting to wake her.

  I didn’t check the kitchen; maybe Whitney is in there. Before I get back down the hall, the sound of soft music makes me pause by my bedroom door.

  Maybe she decided to rest on my bed to give herself a break. She has Emersyn twenty-four seven, except last weekend when she was at Blake’s. Before that, she’s always had her. I didn’t think about it until now, but I should offer to keep them on one of my days off so she could get some alone time. As much as I want all of my free time with her and the kids, she deserves some time to herself.

  I don’t knock. Not because I want to sneak in, but because if she’s sleeping, I don’t want to disturb her. But what I get, I don’t think I’m prepared for.

  “Holy hell,” I whisper, not able to take my eyes off the bed. My bed. My bed with Whitney in it—naked. Naked with her hands between her legs and her eyes closed.

  I need to close the door. I need to, but I can’t. I’m rooted to the ground with one hand cemented around the door knob and my other wrapped around the frame. I can’t move. And I certainly can’t stop watching the scene laid out in front of me.

  My dick hardens. I don’t have to look down to know my hard-on is trying everything possible to break through the fabric of my scrubs.

  “Goddamn.” The words fall from my lips as she pumps her middle finger in and out of her pussy.

  She must have heard my voice because her eyes fly open. A moan, which sounds more like a curse, falls out of her mouth.

  I swallow.

  “Don’t stop, Love,” I tell her when her fingers slow and the other hand she was using to rub her clit falls to the mattress. Seconds go by without any moment at all. “Please,” I beg her to start moving her fingers between her legs again. To allow me to watch. Finally, her fingers slowly start pumping, picking up speed.

  Her eyes stay locked on me as mine stay trained on her beautiful pussy. My pussy.

  “Rub your clit,” I instruct, and she complies, running her other hand over her hip bone and down until she comes in contact with that sweet, sensitive spot. Her teeth clamp down on her lip, suppressing a moan.

  Taking a step inside my bedroom, I close the door behind me without looking away. “Release your lip. I want to hear you.” I can’t stop myself. I take another step forward. And then another until I reach the foot.

  “Mm.” Her moan is low and soft, but it strikes my ears, piercing them, making me feel her all the way down to my toes.

  “That’s beautiful, Love. Pull your heels up to your thighs and open your legs wider.”

  Another moan—this time louder slips through those red, full lips. Both of her hands are between her legs, causing her beautiful tits to push together and sit high on her chest.

  “Fuck yourself harder.”

  “I-I can’t.” She stutters as she tries to pick up speed but can’t keep the speed circling her clit.

  “Move your hand from your clit, up to your breast, Love.” My knee meets the mattress as she moves her hand, running it up her torso until she palms her gorgeous tit, squeezing.

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself under control. I’m quickly losing the battle, but I have to push on.

  My hand comes down, meeting the soft material of the comforter. I fist my hand a
round the fabric, bending down as I do. When the intoxicating aroma of Whitney’s juices hits my nostrils, my tongue juts out, wetting my lips.

  She still smells the same. Just the way I remember her. I could drown in her scent every day, and it wouldn’t be enough to sate me.

  Some people’s vice is drugs or alcohol; mine was always Whitney. The sweetest, most powerful of anything in existence—and I want nothing more than to overdose on it right now.

  But I won’t. Not yet anyway.

  “I won’t touch,” I assure her, watching as goose bumps trail down her inner thigh from my breath fanning her leg. “I promise,” I swear to her, even though it’s taking all the strength inside me not to.

  Lowering my head, I blow on her clit. “Oh, my fu . . .” A smile tugs the corner of my lips.

  “Tou . . . touch me. Please, Shane.”

  I lift my eyes to hers. “No. You’re almost there. You got this, Love.” Then my gaze drops to the most beautiful sight in the whole damn world. “Pull your fingers out; run your juices up to your clit and make slow circles, baby.”

  She follows my command. Her glistening finger runs up the path of her slit connecting to the bundle of nerves that will set her free.

  I blow a soft breeze over her fingers and clit, eliciting a long, drawn out moan from her lips. Her abdominal muscles contract as her ass lifts. I have to pull back so I don’t come in contact with her hand.

  Voyeurism isn’t new to me. I used to love watching Whitney make herself come undone, and she got off on watching me watch her. Just like she’s doing now.

  Only this time, I won’t be slamming myself home.

  “Faster,” is all I say, and then I blow another stream of steady air. Seconds later she screams out her release, and it’s music to my ears.

  She pants, sucking in and releasing air in rapid succession. I push off the bed, backing up to give her room. Her cheeks pink when her eyes open, meeting mine. And I smile.

  Whitney moves off the bed and walks towards me—my smile falters. What is she doing? She just watches me, her face blank, not giving me any idea what she was thinking.