Another Chance at Love (Another Series Book 1)

by Suzanne Sweeney

  Trent was the first of three major disappointments that rocked my world. Individually, I could have dealt with them. But all three happening within days of one another broke me. I lost my fiancé whom I loved. Perhaps it wasn’t the deep, aching, powerful kind of love I write about in my books, but it was love – real and meaningful.

  On the heels of my break-up, I found myself the unwitting target of a pair of psychotic criminals. Their appearance and eventual assault in Hawaii was most likely the result of weeks or months of calculated planning and plotting. And every indication suggests that their hope was to get me to leave with them by any means necessary and join their merry little band of maniacs.

  The imagination I treasure punishes me now with visions of unspeakable possibilities of what could have happened to me, one more terrifying than the next.

  And the third was walking away from an apartment that I loved, a career I cherished, and the life I adored, which was difficult to say the least.

  It changed me. I no longer dream about writing stories of happily ever after. Suzi and Liam will never marry and never have children. I’ve toyed with the idea of writing again, and every time I allow my mind to go there, Suzi is running away with a man she just met and Liam is too busy chasing the almighty dollar at work to even notice.

  And sometimes, I imagine penning new stories about the most violent lovers conceivable – vampires without a conscience.

  Those are the things I imagine. Those are the things that blur my mind and skew my perceptions.

  So now I find a man that I’m attracted to, whom I think might even be attracted to me. He’s handsome, successful, and for some strange unfathomable reason, fate keeps bringing him right to me – literally. He presented himself to me in Hawaii and today, he showed up in my coffee shop. And how do I react? I shut down, curl up into a protective shell, and run away as fast as my legs will take me. Pathetic.

  If the teenage version of me could see me now, filled with bitterness and cynicism, she would be ashamed.

  So what do I do when I’m sad? The very thing that most girls do when they’re down – shop therapy. I still have a sizable balance in my bank account and thanks to the slow trickle-down method of paying out royalties, I’m seldom left without a steady stream of income.

  I go back downstairs and start brewing water for my French press. My laptop fires right up and I navigate straight to Pottery Barn.

  My empty home is now ready for some furniture. After going through pages upon pages of sofas of all shapes and sizes, I decide that my cottage needs a touch of classic style. I choose a rolled arm leather sofa two-piece sectional with a chaise lounge. It costs me over four thousand dollars and should arrive in two to three weeks.

  Even though I rebuffed his advances, Cole left me feeling . . . sexy. So I decide to indulge myself a little more by visiting one of my favorite New York storefronts online – Saks Fifth Avenue – and treat myself to several pairs of very expensive Dolce & Gabbana silk panties.

  I feel better already.

  Shopping really is the best kind of therapy.

  After I enjoy a hot cup of coffee and a good silly movie on Netflix, I’m starting to feel like myself once again and ready to face my brother and his family. His place is just a short drive and within minutes, I find myself standing on his front porch with a pepperoni pizza in hand.

  Megan is changing the baby, something that seems to happen a lot, leaving Philip and me to chat. Despite my best effort, Philip sees right through me and comments on the melancholy that lies not far beneath the surface.

  “Give it time,” he tells me. “You’ll find a new normal and eventually, you won’t even think about what you left behind. You’ve got great friends, an exciting new business, and a brother that would lay down his life for you. Do you know how many people would kill to have those things?”

  I know he’s right, and his words should make me feel better, but they don’t. I know in my mind, the rational part of me, that he’s one hundred percent right. But in my heart, the emotional part of me, it feels like a lie.

  “Do you think I’ll ever be able to be Kensington Layne again?” I ask and wait hopefully for his thoughts on the subject.

  He pulls me in for a hug. “Kenny, let go of that part of your life. Please? For me. You made a decision and you have to accept the consequences – both the good and the bad.”

  Looking into his eyes, I ask, “Did I do the right thing – walking away?” I’m on the verge of tears. “I feel like such a coward. It’s been over six months and it’s not getting any better,” I sniffle.

  “Of course you did the right thing. It’s not like you really had a choice,” he assures me. “Why the sudden mood swing? Did something happen?”

  I shrug casually, stroll across the kitchen, grab a glass, and fill it to the rim with a light Riesling. “Caitlin thinks I should start dating.”

  Philip sighs. “And?”

  “And – I don’t think I’m ready.”

  “Just don’t rush into anything,” Philip warns. “Before you even think about being alone with some schmuck, let me run a background check on him.”

  “Detective Harper, you stop scaring your little sister this very minute.” Megan is standing at the entrance to the kitchen with a scowl on her face. She brushes past her husband, takes me by the hand, and guides me towards the kitchen table.

  I wait, not sure what she’s going to say.

  “Kenny, you can’t let other people or your own fears control your life. I’ve sat back and watched Philip scare you to death with stories of the worst parts of humanity. It’s true that there are terrible people out there. God knows you’ve learned that the hard way. But there’s also amazing people out there, too. Meeting someone new is a gamble. You never know what you’re getting yourself into. But don’t put all your hopes into wanting and needing that person to be right for you. Put your faith into knowing that no matter what happens, you can trust yourself to be able to deal with it.”

  Philip disagrees. Adamantly. “Bullshit. Weed them out early is what I think. Don’t waste your time on someone who’s not worth it. By the time you figure out he’s a piece-of-shit whack job, it’s too late. I won’t let anything happen to you. Period.” He takes a swig of beer. “End of discussion.”

  When Philip says the discussion is over, he usually means it. I know he worries about me and just wants me to be safe. How can I argue with that kind of logic?

  CHAPTER 5

  PHILIP AND MEGAN RETURN CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT. I’m sprawled on their couch, watching one of Netflix’s movie recommendations for me – the horror flick, The Babadook. The film’s beautiful art direction depicts a crooked, twisted fairytale, with dreamlike sequences that never quite reveal what is true and what might be a hallucination. I’ve spent the last two hours on pins and needles.

  “Did you two have a nice night?” I ask Philip as I turn off the television and clean up after myself. I look around for Megan, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She probably headed straight to the nursery to check on the little man.

  “We did,” he replies, helping me clean and straighten up. “It’s late. Why don’t you stay? You can crash in the guest room.”

  It’s sweet of him to offer but I much prefer sleeping in my own bed. It’s been a long day and I just want to go home, have a drink – maybe a Cinnamon Toast Crunch cocktail – and curl up with my favorite pillow.

  I pull into the driveway to discover the house is empty. Two cars sit in the driveway – Brie’s Jeep and Declan’s car – but Cait’s car is missing. It looks like they all went out again tonight. So I curl into my bed, pull the sheets up to my chin, and I’m sound asleep before my head hits the pillow.

  Time passes, I’m not sure how much, and I find that I’m no longer in my bed, or even in my own home. I’m at the beach sitting on a beach chair reading a book – not just any book, it’s my book. The sand is burning hot beneath my toes. I squint up and decide that it must be close to noon based on the sun blar
ing directly above my head.

  The beach is packed. Nearly every inch of it covered with towels and blankets for as far as the eye can see. Just ahead of me is a group of three young children constructing a sand castle – my favorite thing to do. I admire their handiwork. They have everything a proper castle needs, including a mote. The mote, however, is dry.

  They notice me watching and one brave little boy no older than four asks in the sweetest little voice, “Would you pweese get me some watah for my mote?” He has the bluest eyes and a dimple in his cheek. “I’m not allowed by the watah wifout a gwown up.”

  I cannot resist. “Sure,” I tell him, standing up and walking to the small group. “Can I use your bucket?” I ask, holding out my hand.

  Thrilled with my offer, he shoots straight up and happily hands me his prized possession – a bright blue bucket with matching shovel.

  “Make sure you get enough,” he warns. I agree and as I approach the surf and breaking waves, I hear him call to me, “Thank you.” With bucket in hand, I take a few cautious steps into the water.

  The tide recedes, so I take a few more steps into the water. When the next wave rolls in, I find myself waist deep in the cool waters of the Atlantic Ocean. After dragging the bucket through the water, I pick it up to inspect and I feel a sudden pulling at my ankles.

  It’s a riptide and it’s pulling me into deeper water. I furiously wave my hands in the air, trying to get someone’s attention, and scream, “HELP!” but there is no one in the water with me. Where has everyone gone?

  There are blank faces just sitting there on the beach, watching me as I drift away. No one moves a muscle. What is wrong with these people? Why won’t someone help me?

  Frantically, I search the horizon for a lifeguard stand, only to find there are none. Not a single one. Where did they all go?

  I swim as fast and hard as I can, but it’s no use. I’m getting pulled further and further away. The faces on the beach are getting smaller and smaller.

  The harder I fight and the more desperately I swim, the more exhausted I become. The water out here is much colder, and I can feel my arms and legs stinging from the cold. It becomes increasingly harder and harder to move.

  Eventually, I am too far away to even see the beach. I don’t know how much time has passed, and before I know it, I’m bobbing up and down in the water, trying valiantly to keep my head above water.

  Until I can fight no more.

  Exhaustion overtakes me. I cannot move. I have no more struggle left in me. This time, when I go under, rather than force myself up for oxygen, I sink lower and lower. I am paralyzed. I cannot move, my legs and arms are now dead weight, dragging me deeper and deeper into the abyss.

  I’ve held my breath as long as I can, and my body chokes with one last effort to breath. Only instead of air rushing into my lungs, it’s water. The burning pain is indescribable. I cannot cough it up and I cannot find the air I so desperately need. A few moments of suffering, and everything stops. The pain is gone. I stare upward toward the surface, catching one last glimpse of the sun as I sink even lower. Until everything fades to black.

  I startle awake, my heart pounding so hard it’s all I can hear. Sweat sticks to my skin and I am panting for air. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I realize I’m in my bedroom.

  The nightmares are back.

  I swallow hard, running a trembling hand through my damp hair. But what exactly had spurred its return? Was it the movie? Running into Cole?

  For the first few months after everything that happened in Hawaii, I’d suffered bad dreams. Recurring dreams about being trapped in every imaginable way: boxes, rooms, cells, holes, and pits.

  But when I leased the abandoned lot on the boardwalk, they were quickly taken over by stress dreams of the my hair and fingernails falling out variety. They’re better than the nightmares, though, and they don’t wake me up in a sweaty mess at night, so I deal with them.

  I’m a trembling, clammy mess and there’s no way I can go back to sleep. So instead, I wander around the unfurnished house, being careful not to wake our houseguest, Declan, who’s snoring contentedly in the living room. Quietly, I do a load of laundry and then sit outside on my porch reading a book until the sun comes up.

  Today, I’m finally reading a book that I discovered a year ago, Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell. I just love this book. It reminds me not just what it's like to be young and in love, but also what it's like to be young and in love with a book. Right up my alley, so to speak.

  The front door swings open wildly, and out pours Brie awash in bangles and braids. She startles when she sees me. “Oh shit, Kenny – you scared the crap out of me. How long have you been out here?”

  “Not long. A couple of hours, maybe.”

  “That stinks.” She looks up at the sky and makes a face. “It looks like it’s going to rain. You should go back to bed and try to get a little more sleep. I think it’s going to be slow today.” Brie turns on her heel and hurries to her Jeep. She rolls down the window and calls out, “I’ll see ‘ya when I see ‘ya!”

  I don’t need more sleep. I need to keep busy and to keep my mind occupied.

  As soon as she pulls out, raindrops begin to fall slowly from the gray sky. I take a deep breath and inhale, taking in the sea air mixed with the distinctive fresh, earthy aroma of an approaching rainstorm; the sweet smell of cleansing of the world.

  There’s something oddly soothing about a storm. The patter of rain as it falls on the roof and porch is the most peaceful sound in the world. The longer I stay, the more peace and serenity wash over me.

  Sometimes, the rain makes me feel wistful and romantic. I’ve spent many a rainy day writing pages and pages of emotional heartbreak and untethered joy. It’s the most complementary weather for writers.

  The longer I sit here, the more I learn that it’s also the most complementary weather for readers. It’s easy to get lost in the imaginary world crafted by seasoned writers. And so I sit, shielded from the punishing rain until I’ve consumed six or seven more chapters.

  All I can think about on the way to work is getting a big, fluffy blueberry muffin and a skinny cinnamon dolce latte. It’s every bit as comforting as it is satisfying. Just right for a rainy day.

  It’s all Brie’s fault our refrigerator is empty all the time. Why bother shopping when I can eat like this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?

  Just as Brie had predicted, the streets are deserted and the parking lot vacant. I’m glad I didn’t rush to come into work early.

  Brie comes bustling out from the storage room behind the coffee bar. “Perfect timing. I was just going to sit down and have something to eat myself. Want to join us?” She grabs a croissant and pours herself a fresh strawberry lemonade.

  “Us?” I ask.

  She lifts her chin to indicate a table in the corner. I spin around and find Cole sitting at a table, arms crossed over his chest, watching. The pose is casual, but the gaze is intense and assessing.

  My breath catches at the heat in his expression as he stares down at me. Cole suddenly gets up and moves towards me. Eyes wide, I watch as Cole’s face comes closer . . . and then completely bypasses mine as he reaches behind me for a napkin from the counter behind me.

  Unfortunately my body responds to his proximity in a way I really wish it wouldn’t. It is completely out of sync with my brain. Confused and upset, I hold still as Cole pulls back with the napkin in his hand.

  Cole’s eyes flicker over me before coming to a halt at the muffin in my hand. “Blueberry muffin. Do you know who made that delicious pastry?” he asks.

  I swallow hard, trying to pull myself together. “Um, I’m not sure.” I turn to Brie for help.

  “These particular muffins are pure blueberry perfection,” she answers. “Soft and moist on the inside, just slightly crisp on the outside, full of juicy blueberries, and with a streusel topping that’s to die for. They’re sourced locally, of course. Straight from the kitchen of Rush Desserts in Asbury
.” Brie smirks at Cole. “And of course, that particular establishment just happens to be owned and operated by –”

  “Juliette McGuire,” Cole finishes her sentence. “My cousin. Technically, she’s my cousin’s wife, but as far as I’m concerned, we’re family.”

  Cole smiles and his whole face lights up. A full-on, teeth-flashing smile. And man, does he have beautiful teeth. Perfectly straight. Ultra white. Million-dollar smile. But then, everything about him is toe curling . . . right down to his big bear hands.

  Cole and Brie continue their discussion on the fine products that leave Juliette’s kitchen as they make their way back to the table where Cole had been sitting. It seems clear that Cole McGuire isn’t going anywhere, so I silently vow to get a hold of myself and learn to control my physical reaction to this man. Maybe spending more time with him will help.

  Cole sits down beside me, his long legs buckling to the side and brushing against mine. Heat burns where we touch and I try— oh, how I try—to ignore his presence.

  At the moment, Cole’s attention is clearly focused on Brie and I’m perfectly fine with that. It means that I can avoid eye contact and enjoy my breakfast.

  “Mm, this is the best,” Cole finishes on a groan and consumes the rest of his bagel in two bites. Just as I look up, he licks his lips, and my ninety-dollar black lace panties are soaking wet. “Did the bagels come from Rush, too?”

  “Nah, we get them from the local bagel shop down the road. I’d tell you the name, but I’m afraid you’d stop coming here for breakfast and go there instead,” Brie answers.

  “Not possible,” he tells her. “I like it here too much.”

  “You must like it here. You come every day,” Brie observes. “You order a large shaken iced black tea at eight o’clock sharp and you sit at that same table every day.”