Our formatter, Julie Titus - Once again, we thank you for your amazing work and endless availability. You are our favorite polisher and we adore you, for real.
Jillian Dodd - thank you for listening to MKP blather on about the back cover blurb. You helped us sift through the town of J.P. and the sprawling ensemble cast to dig out the critical nuggets of gold. Thanks a billion!
A special thanks to the magnificent Robin Harper of Wicked by Design and Word (blog). You helped so much with promo and you didn’t have to do a damn thing. You are in the inner circle-we won’t forget that shit.
TAMMY COONS lives in Illinois with her husband Casey, and three children Skyler, Sawyer and Savana. She holds a diploma in Health Information Technology and is currently working as a domestic engineer. Writing has always been a passion for Tammy.
MICHELLE PACE lives in Northern Texas with her husband, Author L.G. Pace III. She has two daughters, Holly and Bridgette, and one son, Kai. She’s a registered nurse who spent her youth studying theater and vocal music. She has a love affair with entertaining and is thrilled to do so as an author.
For more information
http://www.Facebook.com/MichellePaceAndTammyCoons
@MichelleKPace
Books by Andrea Randall
In The Stillness
Nocturne (with Charles Sheehan-Miles)
Something's Come Up (with Michelle Pace)
November Blue
Ten Days of Perfect
Reckless Abandon
Sweet Forty-Two
Marrying Ember (February 2014)
Ten Days of Perfect Copyright © 2012 Andrea Randall
Cover Photo and Design by Evan Spinosa
Permission for use of song lyrics to “Heaven When We’re Home” given by Ruth Moody
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author. Brief written quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews are permitted.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to Western Massachusetts for fostering creativity, independent thinking, and being the place I still call home - even when I live hundreds of miles away. Thank you for giving me the best teachers I could have asked for.
The Kiss
“There is the kiss of welcome and of parting, the long, lingering, loving, present one; the stolen, or the mutual one; the kiss of love, of joy, and of sorrow; the seal of promise and receipt of fulfillment.”~ Thomas C. Haliburton
A tear splashes on the crisp page, blurring the delicate lines, as I trace Haliburton’s words with my thumb. How wise he was. Ten days ago, I had no way of appreciating the true meaning of these words. The anticipation of the first kiss simmers with more passion than the kiss itself; filled with possibility, it can be anything you want it to be. Time stands still inside its magic. Your heart races as eagerness takes the reigns. Swollen lips pulse with lustful expectation while the space between you begs for closure; the connection that follows met with equal parts relief and exploration.
Yes, the first kiss is intense, and this one was no different. Who am I kidding? It was completely different; passion sprang from places in my soul that had previously sat undrilled. I’ve been kissed before, that much my brain remembers; but his kisses linger in my bones, leaving me with a weight my soul can’t bear to lift.
The first time I laid eyes on Bo, I knew he was different; all internal dialogue stopped and my soul nudged my eyes to meet his. Each time his fingers strummed across the strings of his guitar, the sound reverberated in my soul as if it was receiving a message my ears couldn’t hear.
All things considered, that was the second time I saw him. But, it was the first time my soul wept at his beauty while being dipped backwards, holding on to her pillbox hat, and kicking up a heel. Most notably, it was the first time my soul whispered to me, in words so clear, Oh, November, this is it. I can still hear them . . .
Chapter One
Ten days ago . . .
I worked late that Tuesday to finish up some lingering projects before dropping my car off at the local garage. Two blocks from my apartment, the garage stood vacant. I parked my car and left the keys in the glove compartment, as instructed. I turned to walk home, enjoying the pinks and purples that brushed through the May sunset on Cape Cod.
The sound of a car door slamming next to the garage made me jump. I decided I’d poke my head around the corner and see if someone was there so I could hand my keys to them. My head only made it far enough around the corner to see the tailgate of a large, rusty blue pickup truck, and two sets of feet hit the ground. Something, perhaps my intuition, set off warning bells in my head, and I decided to turn around and go home instead. I’d taken two steps away from my car before I heard their sneering voices. Voices can sneer, I learned in that instant, and I immediately froze.
“Well . . . where the hell is he? This is bullshit.” A young man, I guessed, coughed as he addressed his truck mate. “I’m gonna kick the shit out of him after we get his money and still make Ray pay for it.”
I begged my feet to move. Please, please go. You’re alone, these guys are clearly bad news, and you really have no way of defending yourself other than running; they have a car, they’d catch you eventually. Still, my feet were anchored in morbid curiosity, forcing me to listen longer.
“He’ll be here, Bill, take it easy. Christ, he’s never stiffed us before, and he won’t start now- it’s for Ray, after all.”
Once I heard their names, fear convinced me that I now knew too much. The one with the simmering temper was Bill. He was as tall as the cab of his truck, if not taller, and his voice sounded like pain personified. It was a voice I never wanted to hear directed toward me; it churned my stomach and sent chills racing off my spine. Thankfully, the more levelheaded, albeit smaller, guy was there to calm him down.
Realizing how irresponsible I was being with my safety, I forced myself to move. It would be dark soon and talk of ass-kicking and getting money from someone was more than I needed to hear. As my feet hit the sidewalk at the edge of the small parking lot, another car pulled up from the street behind the garage. I slowed when I reached a large oak tree at the corner of the lot. Curiosity stopped me with her hand; made me listen as I tried to catch my anxious breath. Why do you care? Didn’t curiosity kill the cat? Thankfully I’m no cat. I could see just the backs of the men as I used a giant tree as my camouflage.
“Gentlemen, you’re early.” A young-sounding male with a confident voice emerged from vehicle number two.
“Cut the shit, Spike. You’re late and you know it. We didn’t come all the way down here to fuck around. This is a favor, remember?” Bill’s anger tore through the quiet lot.
Spike? Seriously?
“No need to swear, Buddy, I have it right here. And I appreciate the favor.” I noted the sarcasm in Spike’s voice.
“Hand it over so we can go home, Asshole. You’ve got all the money; I don’t know why we’re still doing these little exchanges.” Bill’s unnamed friend sounded curt and bored at the same time.
“You’re a real prick, you know . . . ”
Suddenly, I heard a thump followed by a low grunt when Bill punched Spike square in the stomach. I had to cover my mouth to suffocate the scream that was trying to use my throat as an emergency exit. Terror flooded all five of my senses. One side of my brain told me to run away while the other told me to wait to see if Spike was OK. That side held its blue ribbon as I rooted my feet next to the oak tree.
“Bill! Son of a bitch, what’d you- ugh- what the hell?!” Spike, folded in half at the waist, stumbled back for a second before righting himself, one arm still clenched around his stomach.
“Seriously Bill . . . ” his friend cut in, trying to step between him and Spike.
> “Shut the hell up Max! We’re doing this bastard and Ray a favor and he strings us along like he’s the one in charge. Sometimes, those of us in charge need to remind those of us who aren’t.”
OK, so the calm one was Max. This was little consolation given the tension hanging like fog around them; I begged the tree to swallow me.
“Don’t ever talk to me about Ray, you prick!” Spike threw a hook that drove Bill to the ground. I counted this as astoundingly impressive given that Spike was probably two inches shorter, and 50 pounds lighter, than Bill.
Suddenly, arms and legs were everywhere as night poured in around the brawl that erupted between the three men. My eyelids rose, taking in what little light was available as my eardrums pounded with the sounds of battle.
“I’ll talk about who and what I want, douchebag; especially about lying, trashy- ahh! Asshole!” Bill recoiled to the fetal position on the pavement when Spike kicked him.
“Bill, I’m fucking warning you,” Spike’s voice was calculating and calm, purring like a panther ready to pounce, “never say Ray’s name in front of me again. Got it?” I knew if I was Bill that I’d make damn sure never to say it again.
“Come on, Bill, let’s get the hell out of here before someone calls the cops,” Max interjected, adrenaline ringing in his voice. He’d spent more time trying to break up the fight than participating, so he was still thinking clearly.
The cops, why didn’t I think of that?
“Max, just get in the truck if you’re going to be a useless pussy.” Bill’s body was sure to match his clearly bruised ego. Max didn’t listen; he stood cross-armed, probably waiting for Bill to back the hell down.
Bill threw his colossal body forward for one final punch, followed by a string of garbled cussing and the shutting of two truck doors. I jumped again as the engine roared to life, driving Bill and Max away. Luckily they went out the back driveway as I remained glued to the tree.
Looking around, I realized that despite being only two blocks from my heavily populated neighborhood, I was in the middle of a business district that was closed and locked up for the night. Those guys were no fools; they knew no one would be around. I had every right to freeze earlier- no one would have heard my screams if I’d gotten into trouble.
Relief escorted air away from my lungs as I heard the truck motor further into the distance, but a thought in the back of my nosey head made the blood leave my face. The rusty truck carrying Bill and Max had left, but the other vehicle was still here. Spike was still hanging around the garage, and I didn’t know if he was OK.
The remaining street lights flickered on as sunset whispered its goodbye. I figured I should call 911 if the guy was still lying on the side of the garage; I could no longer see him in the shadows from where I was standing. Even if he was gone, I thought I should still call. I walked cautiously across the top of the parking lot, looking for Spike. A shadowed figure slowly stood up, and my breath was slammed beneath the trap door of my throat.
“H-hey! Are you ok sir?” I managed. For all he knew, I had just walked over.
“I’m fine,” he clutched his ribs as he coughed, “thanks.” Well, that was convincing.
“You don’t look too good,” I said as I leaned in close enough to see him moving with a strained and painful effort. I remained far enough away to leave room between us should I need to run. “Can I call an ambulance for you, or something?”
“Look, you need to get out of here. It’s dark, you’re alone, and those guys might circle back.” He didn’t look up. Speaking through clenched teeth, he had his hands on his knees, regulating his breathing.
Why did he say “those guys?” How did he know I’d just witnessed the fight?
“What guys.” It wasn’t a question, really, since I didn’t need an answer.
“I saw you dropping off your car when I came down the front street, there, earlier.” He pointed to the front of the lot and took a deep breath before he straightened himself all the way upright. He stood maybe 6’0”, 6’1”; it was hard to tell given the distance I kept.
“Those idiots were sitting in their truck waiting for me. I didn’t want you to get caught up in the middle if I had shown up right on time. They must have had music on and didn’t hear you pull in.”
“I . . . uh . . . I’m really sorry . . .” I stood there like a deer in the headlights. He’d just suggested that he planned on being on time for whatever the hell that was all about. He saw a woman alone in a garage parking lot and circled the block, effectively making him late. He was beat up, in part, for protecting some woman he didn’t even know. Me.
“Sorry? For dropping off your car? Look . . .just . . . we both better get out of here. I’m fine, no need for medics. Get home, or wherever you’re going.” His words were even. He sounded like a man who rarely took “no” for an answer, and expected me to follow his orders. He turned without bravado and headed for his car.
“I . . . OK . . .” I just stood there as the ice-cold wave of the last half hour crashed violently over me. Spike turned around and stared in my direction for a minute before speaking. He couldn’t see my face, of that I was sure, due to the darkness that swept in without invitation.
“Shit. I’m sorry. Are you ok? I don’t know what you heard or saw and it’s probably best if you don’t think too much about it. Are you OK to get home?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
I suddenly had no words; my throat was tight under the noose of panic. If I’d blinked, I would have started crying right there in the parking lot, so I kept my eyes wide and slowly turned to go home.
“Hey, you alright?” he repeated, his voice up an octave. He took a step forward, landing just under the streetlight to the side of the parking lot.
He was standing much closer to me now, but still about 20 feet away. Despite the haunting shadows cast by the street light, I could make out more than his height. He was broad, tight but not a muscle-head, with a narrow waist that held up his dark blue jeans. A snug red t- shirt clung to his shoulders and rested just on top of his belt. He was pretty hot and that thought annoyed me, given the circumstances. I couldn’t make out his face, but could tell he had dark hair and a fair complexion.
“No, yea, it’s fine. Glad you’re ok.” My emotions bound an unforgiving fist around my vocal chords. I had to get out of there.
He nodded as he touched his hand to his bloodied lip, cursing as he pulled it away.
I turned and ran. He didn’t call after me, didn’t follow me, and I didn’t look back. I ran all the way to my apartment, locked all the doors and windows, and tossed through a sleepless night.
***
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The clock marched time through my ears on Friday as the work day neared its end. Usually up to my neck in paperwork, today had been graciously light, and I was ready to go home and get ready for girls night. I thought I might wear my black pants and a tank; not too conservative and not too slutty. Never too slutty.
“You want a ride tonight, Ember, or you gonna meet us there?” Monica, my best friend and co-worker, startled me away from my gaze out of the window.
“Geez Mon! You scared the hell out of me!” I huffed, realizing I startled her, too, and continued. “Sorry, yea I’ll meet you there- nine o’clock, right?”
“You sure? I mean, after what happened the other night you don’t want us to come get you?” She tilted her head to the side.
“Monica, it didn’t happen to me, remember? Besides, I have my car and I’ll meet you there at nine. You can’t imagine how much I’m looking forward to it.”
“I guess you’re right. See you at nine.” She turned and headed out of my office.
“See ya!”
I still hadn’t shaken off the events from the garage a few nights before; the emotional trauma loitered in my gut days later. Tonight, I declared to myself, I would get over it.
Chapter Two
I took stock of myself in my full-length mirror while I touched up my make-up. Looking good,
November. My height of 5’8” seemed to work in my favor; people typically didn’t mistake me for younger than my 26 years, and guys usually didn’t try to mess with me the way they might a 5’1” counterpart. My thick auburn hair fell in soft waves to just below my shoulder blades, and my green eyes set in my pale face made people think I’d won the DNA lottery.
I rarely struggled with self-esteem issues growing up, save for the acne debacle of freshman year high school. I liked how I looked, so I took good care of myself. I was an athlete in high school, continued working out through college, and maintained a healthy relationship with the local gym.
My friends assume my lack of boyfriend means I have some serious issues since clearly, according to them, my looks don’t have anything to do with it. They are the kind of friends that fuss over their looks more than I do, and they insist I don’t have to care what I look like. Why do women do this to themselves? Anyway, my lack of boyfriend didn’t have anything to do with my looks or my personality. It had to do with the men. They’re idiots. Not all of them, of course; just the ones that are single, 25-29 (my preferred age range), and trolling for a meaningful relationship in a bar with Jose, Jack, and Jim as chaperones. Please.
Even though my parents raised me with an appreciation for all things love, I’m a realist. I was born on the warmest day of that November in New England, under the bluest sky they’d ever seen. My name, November Blue Harris, exemplifies everything my parents loved about that day. Despite my mother’s encouragement to always love with reckless abandon, I grew up slightly guarded and suspicious. To her, spontaneity was as easy as breathing. To me, it seemed like skydiving without checking to see if you had a backpack or a parachute.
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