Between Hearts: A Romance Anthology

by Alexander, Erica

  Cassie broke out in laughter and Ben took advantage of it to get busy. They were still actively kissing when Ben felt the cab turn onto the road to Heathrow. The closer they got to the departures terminal, the more tiny pieces of his heart kept breaking apart. Brain had put up a valiant fight, but Heart won. Ben toyed with the idea of telling Cassie exactly how he felt, but he didn’t want to risk scaring her away. He sensed that it would take Cassie several more visits before she realized that she had fallen in love with him. “Maybe by Christmas,” he muttered.

  “What was that?” Cassie asked.

  “My Sweet Cassie,” Ben half lied.

  Too soon the cab came to a stop, and Cassie frowned, “This is my stop. I’ll miss you, Ben.”

  “I’ll miss you too. Let me help you with your luggage and then one last kiss.”

  One kiss turned into ten before Ben reluctantly let her go. “Do you want me to walk you to security?”

  “No, we’d better part here. I don’t want to tick security off when we hold the lineup. I’ll email you from the plane when I get settled. Bye Ben.”

  “Bye Cassie.”

  Don’t look back or you are going to cry, Cassie told herself several times, but she only made it halfway to the doors before she had to turn around. She saw Ben leaning against the cab. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt if you kept me company at the check-in counter.”

  Ben sprinted to her and gave her a long passionate kiss. “Albert?” Ben shouted.

  “Ring me. I’ll met you back here when you’ve seen our Cassie off.”

  She raised an eyebrow,“Our Cassie?”

  “Albert is very fond of you Cassandra Devane. If he wasn’t married, he would have whisked you away from me ages ago.” Ben grabbed her luggage with one hand and wrapped his free arm around her back guiding her towards a separation he knew he’d barely make it through.

  As luck would have it, there was no one waiting at the check-in and Cassie was quickly given her boarding pass. “Ben, I’d like to pull you into some empty corner and kiss you until the last second, but… Fuck it, I’m really going to miss you. Fancy some more snogging?”

  Ben laughed and brought her over to a corner where he could keep his eye on the clock. They kissed for about forty minutes until Ben informed her of the time. “One last kiss and then you can walk me to security.”

  As Cassie hoped one kiss turned into ten again and one more intense kiss at security until a guard told them enough was enough. Cassie went through the motions knowing Ben was still watching her. She grabbed her bag and stepped to the left to see him, blowing him a kiss she smiled and gave him her royal wave. Cassie started walking to the lounge but stopped quickly to look back.

  At the security clearance door, Ben stood with his shoulders slumped. To Cassie’s surprise, a few tears trickled down her face.

  He’s under my skin now. The next four weeks are going to drag by. Then again work is going to keep me so busy I’ll barely have time to breathe let alone miss him. Cassie’s heart skipped a few times. “OK, so I admit it, I’m going to miss him. I hope I can sell him on New York because London is not an option for me.”

  Ben made it back to the drop-off area just as Albert was pulling up.

  “Home Ben?” Albert asked.

  “Yeah, with any luck it will be our home this time next year.”

  “Son, you’ve known her for a week.”

  “I know Albert, but my heart wants Cassie.”

  “Then I suggest you take this time apart to convince Cassie that her heart wants you too. You’ve made an extremely fast start. Don’t lose steam now!”

  “Thanks, Albert,” Ben said as he was thinking of Cassie in his back garden picking some tomatoes they would grow.

  * * *

  I hope you're enjoying Cassie and Ben's story. You will be able to read more of it in Flight of Destiny, a full-length novel planned for publication in 2017.

  About the Author

  Catherine Mae Brown: An educator with an obsessive love of all things Kate Spade. I’m a strong believer that a girl can never have too many purses. When I’m not watching or listening to the TV, I’m writing or reading. I also love going to the movies with my beta MB and boyfriend MG. I love my family and cat. My inner child collects Snoopy, Minions and Tigger objects and don’t get me started on my love of all things Harry Potter.

  @CathyMBrownauth

  catherinemaebrown

  catherinemaebrown@gmail.com

  Penelope Discovers the World

  Micki Woodfield

  Chapter One

  “We’ll Meet Again” - Vera Lynn

  The guy in the doorway is looking at me. At first I thought he was smiling at the girl to my left, but she’s turned around to laugh with the guys behind us. So Doorway Man is looking at me. My mouth pulls into something that feels like a smile, but could be a grimace for all I know.

  His grin widens, showing some teeth, and he nods once before turning away to disappear into the crowd. I tuck in my chin. Capturing someone’s attention right away like that. How embarrassing.

  Just as I settle back in to pretend like I’m part of the conversation near me, Mira plops down in the empty chair in front of me.

  “Looks like the Minority Squad is all together now,” she says. Mira always finds it hilarious that the minorities tend to stick together at these things. We don’t do it on purpose, but Mira’s friends happen to be the children of the few non-WASP families in attendance. And in cases like this, her friends are my friends. With the two of us, the girl to my left, and the three guys behind us, we look like a mini United Nations. “Black,” Mira points out, gesturing to me, “Mexican, Korean, Pakistani, Maori. And I’ll round it out as the Russian.”

  “The group seems to be missing an Argentine,” murmurs a newcomer.

  My breath stutters a moment when I glance up to see Doorway Man standing over us. Already, a glass of wine is in his hand. Red wine. I hate red wine. I love the way his masculine fingers look wrapped around the glass stem. Almost caressing it. My chest heats up.

  “The one we’ve been waiting for.” With a half-grin, Mira stands up. The others next to me stop talking. “You guys, this is Ren.”

  The girl next to me—her name is Libby, I believe—perks up. “Secret boyfriend Ren?”

  “He is not my secret boyfriend,” Mira says, her smile like a shark. Poor Libby. She obviously is not aware of the dangers of my best friend’s wrath. “We're buddies and he's the new editor of Out of Print.”

  Of course he is. Renan Vidal. Mira’s been telling me about him for a year, ever since she met him on a volunteer trip to Kiev last year. They had a fling then and kept in contact. Last week, he was hired as the editorial director of the new-ish multimedia magazine. I almost feel like I should have recognized him when he came in, but to be honest, I’m terrible at remembering faces. Even though his is far more handsome than any man’s face has the right to be.

  Skin a perfectly deep peach color, straight nose, long eyelashes that are almost as beautiful as the sapphire blue eyes they protect. Unlike the upper-class gentlemen in attendance at the party who are either clean-shaven or sporting a full beard, Ren has just enough stubble to make a statement.

  That statement is To hell with you all.

  A normal girl would say she likes him already. I’m too timid to be into bad boys.

  “So you’re the guy they’re making a big deal of,” says Libby. “Youngest editor of a major publication. My dad hates Out of Print.”

  Ren’s expression promises mischief. Is that one corner of his mouth always quirked up that way?

  “Which is why the magazine owner insisted I come. Shove it in everyone’s faces, I guess,” he tells her. “Schmooze a little, flirt a little, kiss some babies.”

  “Admit it, Ren.” Mira sighs, folding her arms. “You just came to see some old familiar faces.”

  He tilts his head back to laugh. It’s a full laugh. The kind that comes from the belly. The kind that comes from
years of not worrying about drawing attention. Then he stops and looks at me. One eyebrow crooks up.

  “Indeed,” he says before taking a sip of his red wine.

  I stand up.

  “More hors d’oeuvres, anyone?” I ask the group.

  The guys shake their heads, but Libby and Mira both put in orders for spanakopita and deviled eggs. The conversation carries on behind me as I set off toward the back terrace. My excuse is more food—which is always true—but really I just want the fresh air. The quiet. Being outside around a bunch of people is better than being indoors with them. There are more places for the sound to go. It’s not as crushing and immediate when the voices are all traveling up to the sky, out across the lake, anywhere but wrapping around me. Squeezing me until I’m so tired, so tired, so tired I can’t move.

  People tire me out.

  On the opposite side of the expansive terrace, tables of delicious hors d’oeuvres await me. For a few minutes, I pretend to peruse the food selections. I’ve escaped out here no less than three times in the hour and a half we’ve been at this party, so I have it all memorized. But no one needs to know that. Besides, having grown up in an average household that only bought the good stuff if it was on sale, I’m still in awe at the choices here.

  Mira comes from money, and ever since we became friends six years ago in our first year of college, she’s invited me out to all sorts of high-class events. I always feel like an imposter, like the country bumpkin intruding on the debutante ball, but I always let myself enjoy it. Caviar at Mira’s parents’ house, Chicken of the Sea tuna back at our apartment. What more could a girl want?

  As I begin gathering up food on two little plastic plates, someone steps up next to me, nearly bumping me off to the side.

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” It’s Ren, who has apparently abandoned the Minority Squad and now has another wine glass. White wine this time. Better choice.

  “Um,” I say. “Since what?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Since we were in school together? It was only for a year, but I thought you’d at least remember me.” He’s still smiling, so he must not be offended. My cheeks heat up anyway. Which luckily isn’t as noticeable with my brown skin.

  “I’m so sorry. I only recognize you as Mira’s friend.”

  His expression is so steadily pleasant that I’m beginning to wonder if anything fazes him. A crying baby? A stubbed toe? Anything?

  “Now, see, you got my hopes up when you smiled at me earlier,” he says with a short laugh. “I thought you knew I was the guy who embarrassed himself for you back in high school.”

  I look down at the caviar, almost wishing I was back at home with my Chicken of the Sea instead of here, trying to avoid the attention of a handsome man.

  Stepping far too close to be appropriate, Ren reaches for a full plate.

  “You bringing these back to your friends?” I nod. “Let me carry them. Hold my wine?”

  I grab the bowl of the glass to avoid touching him, but he still manages to brush his fingers over mine as he pulls away. A light graze, just a flirty kiss between our hands. It’s enough. His eyes dance.

  “Take a sip,” he suggests, gathering up both plates. “Nothing better than a good Riesling.”

  A few things are. Chocolate banana shakes, for one thing. Puppies, for another. But I take a sip anyway. Liquid clings just under the place where his mouth touched, so I press my lips to the opposite side of the rim. I take a dainty, polite sip. If I were in front of Mira, I’d chug it, but I hardly know this guy.

  The Riesling has a smooth taste. A light sweetness that slides over my tongue, which wouldn’t seem as sensual if not for Ren’s presence. He watches me not as someone who is waiting to see if I’ll like it or hate it, but as someone who already knows what my reaction will be. Like he knows I love it, and doesn’t even need me to confirm it.

  “It is good.” My voice comes out as almost a whisper. I clear my throat. “Good choice.”

  He gestures toward the glass doors at the back of the house and I follow him.

  “High school,” he begins. “Black history festival. You were working ticket sales dressed as Ella Fitzgerald. I told you that you looked cute and you didn’t say anything. They called you up for karaoke.”

  As he paints the picture, the memory becomes clear in my head. My freshman year of high school, I participated in a bunch of extracurricular activities to try to make friends. I made plenty of friends, but I quit the Black Student Club after the festival because of the story I know he’s about to tell.

  “They wanted me to sing ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me,’” I add, ducking my head.

  His voice is so bright that it sounds like a smile. “So you do remember! And you said you couldn’t sing it without a partner, because it was the duet version.”

  A groan escapes my mouth at the memory. One of the most awkward moments of my life—and I’ve had a lot of those. Unfortunately, most of the club members knew I was a decent singer, but I’d volunteered for ticketing just so I wouldn’t have to sing karaoke. It hadn’t been enough to escape, though. I tried every excuse in the book: my voice was strained, I needed to do my job, and, of course, the fact that you couldn’t sing the duet version alone. It would be a disgrace to Ella Fitzgerald’s and Louis Armstrong’s memories.

  “And I volunteered,” Ren says. There’s some kind of a melody to his voice. He speaks clearly but in a casual tone. And with a low resonance that reminds me of fairytales. I barely remember him, which seems odd now. How could I not remember someone so peculiar? Who doesn’t even feel like a real person?

  “You were Louis Armstrong?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  “I was.” He gives a light chuckle. Without me realizing, we’ve slowed down in our approach to the house, and now linger by a tree decorated with white lights. Small clusters of people are nearby and conversation filters out from the open doors, but otherwise, it’s quiet here. “They let me go up on stage with you. You looked so cute and nervous, I had to do something to help you out.”

  I’m sure everyone in our high school who was there that day remembers what happened next. Saying it outright seems rude, so I clear my throat to think of something more polite.

  “Your Louis Armstrong impression was, um.” I glance at him to indicate the rest silently, but he’s already on the verge of laughter.

  “I know. It was awful.” He throws his head back and lets out another full laugh. Entirely unashamed. “I sucked. It’s okay. But everyone was so busy laughing at me that you relaxed.”

  He leans down a few inches until he’s at the same level as me. His lips are still parted after his laughing, and I have nowhere else to stare but at his white teeth. They’re so straight. Self-conscious now, I seal my lips together tighter to ensure my crooked incisor is hidden. He hasn’t already seen it, has he?

  “I felt sorry for you!” I exclaim. “I thought you didn’t know how bad you were.”

  He shrugs. “I knew. I just wanted to help out the most adorable freshman I’d ever seen.”

  With a wink, he leads the way back into the house. My entire body is on fire.

  Chapter Two

  “Too Close for Comfort” - Frank Sinatra

  An hour later, Mira and I are huddled on a bench outside watching some guys play croquet. The first time I came over to her parents’ house, Mira quickly skipped over showing me the croquet lawn, a little embarrassed about the “old-people entertainment,” as she called it. But right now, nobody can tease anyone else about it. When a bunch of twenty-somethings are stuck at a hoity-toity party with nothing else to do except play croquet, they play croquet. We have a way of making fun out of nothing.

  “Did you have a nice conversation with Ren earlier?” she asks, plucking a smoked salmon roll off the plate I hold between us.

  “Yeah, I guess. We went to high school together for a year, it turns out.” I’m sure my cheeks are turning red again, but it’s dark enough out here that
she probably won’t notice.

  “Oh, really, now?” she says around the food in her mouth.

  Two guys playing the game start arguing over something. Ren trots over from the other side of the lawn, using his hands as he attempts to placate everyone. He is a recent addition to the game, having spent most of the last hour making the rounds with the magazine owner. Schmoozing and flirting and kissing babies, as Ren said earlier. Since reminiscing on the festival incident, he hasn’t spoken to me.

  There have been plenty of glances, though.

  I’m not used to getting attention from men like this. I have had exactly one boyfriend in my twenty-four years. As far as I am aware, he’s the only male in history to ever be attracted to me. Ren hasn’t even outright said that he still thinks I’m cute. For all I know, he just keeps throwing crooked grins my way because he’s still amused at my humiliating debacle from high school. Even so, it gives me stupid butterflies. I have more reason to see why Mira so quickly tumbled into bed with him a year ago.

  Not that I want to rumble in the jungle with him or anything. Yet. But he’s captivating.

  “I’m hoping we’ll see more of him now that he lives in the city.” Mira sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. The hairs tumbling out of her side bun tickle my chin. I squirm, but she stays put. “He’s a little annoying and has quite the ego, but he’s a good guy. A good friend.”

  That I can believe. A guy who puts his atrocious singing skills on display for half the school just to help one girl feel less awkward? He’s either shameless—which I’ve already pegged him as—or a good person. Or both.