Holiday Fantasy

by Adrianne Byrd

  Summer’s heart began to thunder and her body suddenly flushed with heat. Her eyes darted around the room. Tre.

  She swallowed. “I hope it’s not R-rated,” she said, battling to calm her nerves, trying to sound light and unaffected by what was transpiring.

  “I can’t imagine saying I love you to someone who means the world to you could be R-rated. Because I do love you, Summer Lane. And my resolution for this year and every year that I breathe is to love you more every day and keep you happy.”

  The air stuck in her throat. She could barely swallow, and the crowd at Blues Alley was going wild, cheering and jumping up and down. She turned to Leslie, who was grinning like a fool.

  “Don’t you want to know how I’m going to make that happen, Dr. Lane?”

  Leslie was nodding her head frantically. And the crowd was screaming, “Yes!”

  Summer swallowed. “Yes,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize.

  “I’m making a commitment here and now to you and to everyone who’s listening, that I’m going to work on us, each and every day. Nothing will be more important than me and you. I promise you that, Summer.”

  She fought back tears and lost the battle.

  Leslie was cueing her to cut to the next song.

  Shaking off her shock, Summer spoke with a choked voice into the mic. “There’s something I need to say to this very special caller, folks, with an oldie but goodie from Marvin and Tammi, ‘Ain’t Nothing like the Real Thing.’ And that’s going to take us into the New Year.”

  With trembling fingers she snatched up the phone, cutting off the conversation from the listening audience.

  “Tre?” Her voice shook.

  “Why don’t you meet me on the dance floor. You have about two minutes to midnight.”

  She took a breath, trying to still her heart, and looked at Leslie then the flashing lights on the phone. She picked up her headset. “Les, I—just keep playing the music.”

  “You go, girl.” Leslie gave her a thumbs-up.

  Summer pulled off the headset and rushed out of the booth. Squeezing by revelers who all wanted to stop and congratulate her, she smiled her thanks, tried not to be rude, and pressed on, winding her way around bodies, tables, and rearranged chairs. She peered over heads, trying to spot Tre before the stroke of midnight. And all of a sudden there he was, almost as if the waters had parted.

  His smile greeted her, leading her to him like a beacon in the night. Then she was in his arms again, dancing to the closing notes of “Through the Fire” by Chaka Khan.

  “I meant everything I said on the radio, Summer.”

  “I know,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “I feel the same way.”

  “I’m going to talk to Stan about coming back to the station.”

  She grinned. “He won’t be able to get you back fast enough.”

  His expression grew serious as the noise level escalated with the twenty-second countdown to the new year.

  “You think he’d have a problem with a married couple working at the station?”

  She froze. Her mouth opened, then closed.

  “Tre?”

  “Five, four, three…”

  “Marry me, Summer.”

  “Two, one…”

  “Yes!”

  “Happy New Year!” The room seemed to explode with light, horns, uncorked champagne, and screaming and stomping partiers.

  Tre beamed, grabbed her around the waist, and spun her around. “Tell me again,” he shouted.

  “Yes, Tre Holland, I’ll marry you!” She tossed her head back and laughed, and she’d swear all the clapping and shouting was in celebration of her and Tre.

  “Happy New Year, baby.”

  “And to many more,” she whispered a moment before his lips touched down on hers.

  As she gave herself up to the pleasure of his kiss, a fleeting thought passed through her head. Absolutely no phones in the house.

  Tick-tock!

  That pesky biological clock was going to get slowed down after all.

  BLIND FAITH

  Kayla Perrin

  This story is dedicated to my friend Annette Johnson.

  We met at a library, a favorite spot for both of us.

  You as a librarian, and me as a novelist.

  You quickly helped me feel at home in Miami, at a time when I really needed that support. You were a big lover of books, and you had a heart of gold.

  Sadly, you left this earth too soon.

  I can’t believe it’s been a year already. I hope that on the other side, you’ve got the library of your dreams.

  I miss you, Netty.

  Prologue

  Andrea Dawson knew she was going to die.

  As much as she wanted to deny that truth, as much as she wanted to hang on to hope, she knew she had to face reality. If she hadn’t been found already, it was unlikely she ever would be.

  The accident had happened in the blink of an eye. One minute she had been driving, the next she had been flying off an overpass somewhere on the outskirts of Buffalo. It had all happened so fast. So fast, in fact, that she hadn’t had time to be scared. Her car had crashed through layers of branches of numerous trees before finally coming to a stop.

  She wasn’t exactly sure where she was, nor how long she had been out here. She only knew that after screaming until her throat was raw, it had become painfully obvious that no one had witnessed her accident. And if no one had witnessed the accident…

  God help her, she didn’t want to believe that she would never be found—not before it was too late.

  It was dark—again. How many nights had come and gone, she wondered. She had been in and out of consciousness since the accident, so she couldn’t be sure. Two nights? Three?

  More?

  Uttering a soft moan, Andrea tried to swallow. Her mouth was so dry, she didn’t know how much longer she could last without something to drink. Yesterday—at least she thought it was yesterday—she had been able to stretch her fingers out the window and scoop up the light frosting of snow. Now, she just didn’t have the energy.

  Something was broken. A rib probably, and maybe her left wrist. She hadn’t been able to move her left arm immediately after the accident.

  She angled her head toward the back seat, as if by just looking in that direction, she could will her purse into her hands. With the force of the collision, her purse had somehow ended up in the backseat.

  “Why is this happening?” she asked aloud, trying not to despair. Her cell phone was in that purse—and out of reach. She had tried desperately to move her body, to see if she could somehow squeeze herself out from behind the steering wheel, but the front end of the car had smashed on impact, trapping her in the driver’s seat.

  Terrence… She closed her eyes and thought of her four-year-old son. Thought of him and tried with all her might to fight the tears.

  “Think of his smile,” she told herself. “Think of how much he needs you.”

  Sighing softly, she thought of the picture she loved most of Terrence—the one where he had his arms wrapped tightly around her, and his face pressed against hers as if he wanted to bond their bodies together. Both were wearing grins as wide as the moon. It had been taken just a few months earlier.

  Suddenly, Andrea felt a burst of determination and strength, even as a tear slid down her cheek.

  I can’t die out here, she told herself. I can’t. She had to fight to stay alive. She couldn’t die here, cold and alone in the middle of nowhere. Not when she had a son to get back to. A son who was young and needed her desperately.

  With all her might, Andrea stretched her body, ignoring the pain that ripped through her ribs. She reached her right hand toward the left-side window. Slipping her fingers through the crack, she felt for drops of moisture.

  The window was dry.

  Andrea softly cried. She wanted to stay strong, but with each passing moment, it was getting harder and harder.

  “Dear God,” she sil
ently prayed, “please let someone find me. I don’t want to die here like this.”

  Her stomach grumbled, reminding her just how hungry she was. And she was so cold, she could no longer feel her toes. How could she survive being out here much longer?

  “Give me strength, God. Please…”

  Andrea’s eyes fluttered shut, and she forced them open. The energy she’d expended trying to move had exhausted her. But God help her, she had to stay awake. If she went to sleep, she didn’t know if she would ever wake up.

  Maybe if she kept her mind active, that would help her stay up.

  For the past however many days she had been trapped in her car, Andrea had tried to keep her thoughts on Terrence, her reason for getting out of here.

  But now, she finally allowed herself to think about what she had tried so hard to block from her mind. The very reason she had ended up careening over an overpass and into this bushy abyss in the first place.

  Chapter 1

  Fifty hours earlier…

  Andrea rounded the corner in the restaurant and stopped dead in her tracks. Then she jumped backward, taking cover behind a potted plant.

  Good Lord, it couldn’t be him.

  Not here. Not now.

  No way.

  When Andrea Dawson glimpsed that handsome brown face, her first instinct was to flee—into the kitchen, into the bathroom, into a hole in the ground. Heck, even an alien abduction would be nice right now. Anything to get her out of this potentially embarrassing situation.

  There was no way she could go over to that table and serve the people there if one of the men dressed in the expensive Italian suits was Mark Potter.

  Mark Potter. Oh God, could it really be him? Wiping her now sweaty hands on her burgundy apron, she peered through the plant leaves for a better look. The man she thought might be Mark had his back to her—a broad, well-sculpted back if she ever saw one—and she’d originally only seen the side of his face. But that face… How could she forget the face of the first man who’d claimed her heart?

  “What are you doing?” Andrea nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard Trevor’s angry voice. “You have three tables waiting for lunch, there’s a line at the door, and you’re standing behind this bush? You better have a damn good reason for this.”

  Andrea swallowed as she turned to face Trevor Churchmuch. His narrow face was red as a beet and she felt two inches tall beneath his intimidating gaze. She could tell her manager that she wasn’t feeling well, which, as of right now, was quite true. Or, she could muster up the courage to go to her table and face the men there, even if Mark Potter was one of them.

  Her manager chose for her. “Table three wants their bill. And table six is still waiting for a greeting. You’ve got food in the kitchen waiting to go out. Unless you want to be standing in the unemployment line tomorrow, I suggest you get moving.”

  Inhaling a deep, steadying breath, Andrea took a step forward. Despite her mind’s protest, one foot followed the other until she was at table three, handing the Crawfords their bill. The elderly couple came in weekly for lunch.

  “Take care,” she said to them, forcing a smile.

  But that was the easy part. The hard part was going to table six—the table where she thought she’d seen Mark Potter. With dread flowing through her veins, she turned and faced the table in question. She could do this. She had to—since she could still feel Trevor’s eyes boring into her back. Praying that Mark wasn’t really sitting at the table, she slowly walked toward it.

  Her heart sped up as she neared the table. Oh God, the man was looking more and more like Mark! She sucked in air, forcing herself to breathe—and nearly choked. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t do this. If the man indeed was Mark Potter, she wasn’t about to stick around and find out. Barely pausing at the table, she blurted, “I’ll be with you in a minute,” then, before any of the men could respond, ran into the kitchen. If Trevor fired her, so be it, but right now she needed to collect her wits. Ignoring the waiting food, she flew to the bathroom, cursing her bad luck every step of the way.

  Inside she found Pamela, her co-worker, on yet another smoke break. “Pam,” she said, immediately relieved. “Thank God you’re here.” Maybe her luck was turning. “I need you to take table six for me.”

  Pamela took a long drag of her cigarette, then ground it out in the sink. “Sorry, hon. I can’t. I’m in the weeds.”

  If she was in the weeds, meaning totally swamped, then what was she doing here having a cigarette, Andrea wondered, but didn’t ask. Instead, she pleaded, “I’ll take one of your tables. Two if you want. I just really need you to take table six for me.”

  “I can’t.” She flashed an apologetic look. “I’m already behind. I only took a quick smoke break because I was going to die if I didn’t have a cigarette.” Shrugging ruefully, Pamela opened the bathroom door and sauntered out.

  “No, Pam, wait—” But Pamela was gone. Groaning, Andrea turned and gripped the edges of the sink, then stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her normally bright brown eyes were now bulging with terror. Lines of concern were etched on her forehead. Oh God, she couldn’t go back out there. She couldn’t face Mark Potter.

  Stop acting like a fool! she told herself, then drew in a slow, steady breath. She was being ridiculous, acting like a spoiled child having a conniption fit. She was a mature adult with a job to do. She would go back out and do it. If the man at the table really was her old flame—and she prayed he wasn’t—he probably wouldn’t recognize her anyway. After all, ten years had passed since she’d dumped him and gone on with her life.

  Gathering all her courage, she left the bathroom and went back to work. She brought out the lunch entrees for table four, then, curling her lips in a grin, approached table six.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen.” She couldn’t sound more cheerful if she was doing some cheesy commercial. “How’s everyone doing?”

  “Starving,” a dark-haired man replied, glancing at the Rolex watch on his thick wrist. “I think we’re all ready to order.”

  “Okay, what would you like?” Normally, she would have suggested the lunch special, but right now she wanted to get away from this table as quickly as possible. Thankfully, the men knew what they wanted. Writing down the orders of the first three men on her order pad, Andrea carefully avoided eye contact with the possible Mark Potter. And when it was his turn to place his order, she focused all her attention on her pad and pen, not daring to look him in the eye.

  “Great,” she announced when he was finished, her tone deceptively calm despite the realization that it was truly Mark at her table. The voice was unmistakable. “It shouldn’t be too long.”

  As she turned on her heel to leave, grateful that he hadn’t recognized her, his familiar velvety-smooth voice stopped her dead in her tracks. “Andrea?”

  A shiver of dread skittered up her spine. No! her mind screamed. Please, no…

  “Andrea Dawson?”

  Swallowing down her panic, Andrea turned around slowly. Mark’s face lit up with recognition, and his lips formed a wide, sexy grin. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Mark?” Andrea asked, pretending to be just as shocked as he.

  His eyes crinkling as he beamed at her, he nodded. “It’s me, Andrea. Mark Potter. Wow, what a surprise.”

  He wasn’t kidding. This kind of surprise could give someone heart failure. “Yes, it certainly is,” she said, feigning delight at seeing him again. “Um, uh, I’ve got to uh, run…back into the kitchen. You know, um, for food. So, I’ll, uh, talk to you in a minute.”

  “Okay. I’ll be here.”

  Turning, she whimpered. Armani! That was an Armani suit Mark was wearing! As she scooted to a computer terminal to punch in their order, she realized that this was the most humiliating day of her life. Mark was clearly some kind of businessman, and if his expensive suit was any indication, he was doing very well. While she, Andrea Dawson, was waitressing in a greasy spoon!

  She could just imag
ine Mark’s feeling of victory, of sweet revenge, after the way she had dumped him ten years ago. The irony of the situation did not elude her. Years ago, she was the one who’d had everything going for her—social status and wealth. Mark, on the other hand, had come from an average, working class family. Eventually, despite their love for one another, they hadn’t been able to get past their differences. Now, it seemed their situations were totally reversed. How would she ever live this one down?

  When she delivered the lunch orders to table six, Mark was smiling widely at her. Was it an arrogant, look-how-times-have-changed smile, or a genuine one? Of course not, she told herself, acknowledging that she was being paranoid right now. Mark had never been the petty type, and she couldn’t imagine him being that way now.

  Still, she wondered if he wasn’t secretly getting a kick out of having the woman who had once dumped him serve him spaghetti with Mama’s special meat sauce.

  “There you go, gentlemen,” she said in a sing-song voice. She certainly wasn’t going to let Mark know that seeing him again had fazed her in any way. “If you need anything else, just give a holler.”

  Before she could escape, Andrea felt a warm, callused hand on her arm. The hand of a man who used to help his father fix cars. Tiny currents of electricity ran up and down her arm, startling her with their intensity. Finally she turned, facing the man she had once loved so fiercely.

  “I know you’re busy, but can I have a moment of your time?”

  “Um…”

  “Let me at least introduce you to my associates.” Gesturing to the men at the table, Mark said, “Andrea, this is Michael Di Carlo, Robert Tremont, and Greg Yates. Gentlemen, this is Andrea Dawson. An old friend.”

  She was more than an old friend, but was glad that Mark hadn’t mentioned that. His associates merely nodded at her, but seemed more interested in their lunches than in an old friend of Mark’s.

  Which was fine with her.

  Mark turned his attention back to her. “So tell me, Andrea, what are you doing here?”