SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION

by ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA®

  Then slowly, gradually, the physical intensity eased. Their bodies went loose and their muscles relaxed and their ravenous passion slipped into something more comfortable. His taste buds registered the sweet aftertaste of honeyed pound cake on her lips, his fingertips registered the softness of her sweater, and his heart registered the contentment soaking into his limbs. An unhurried diminuendo of tiny, breathless kisses eased them into reality, and she turned silently in his arms to face the pond again, serenity radiating from every line of her form.

  He kissed the top of her head, counting every curly, soft blessing beneath his lips, and accepted that he was a goner. The farm had beckoned him from the moment he set foot on the land. But kissing Therese was coming home.

  “I have scars, you know.” Her voice was soft, barely audible above the crickets and the riot of his still-pounding heart.

  He shook his head to clear the mist and kissed her head again. “What?”

  “Scars. From the surgeries. I have them. I probably always will.”

  He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see him. “I have them, too.” His had been around longer, had far more time to fade, but that was okay. He still recalled when they were raw and ragged. He knew how to help them heal.

  “I thought I should warn you,” she said quietly. “For when we make love someday.”

  His pulse quickened, and he made a mental note to kiss every inch of all her scars when they reached that point. Then he took a deep breath, willing his voice to stay steady despite the heady combination of arousal and affection reverberating along his nerves.

  “It won’t matter,” he said, his tone tender but firm. And it wouldn’t. Because scars were powerful, a sign of determination. What mattered was that they were both going to live.

  CiCi Coughlin is a storyteller, strategist, and chronic student—also a dog schmuck, Sinatra fan, and nacho connoisseur. She writes about the funny, sexy, quirky lives we all lead and loves experimenting with offbeat ideas. She pens everything from flash fiction and short stories to novellas and novels. Sometimes the heat level scorches; sometimes it simply simmers. Her twelve-book, high-heat series, Boudoir de Deux, is halfway finished and includes her award-winning novella Tex-Mex Sex Hex. As per usual, she has a plethora of other projects in the hopper.

  CiCi, who lives south of Atlanta with the Staffy mix who rescued her, also writes mysteries, magic, and more as Maggie Marsh.

  Find her at http://CiCiCoughlin.com and on Instagram @maggieshewrote or Twitter @maggieshewrote.

  A PRICKLE SPIDER-WALKED DOWN my spine. I lowered my turkey sandwich and scanned the cliques scattered around the quad. Past the cheerleaders holding court in their thigh-high pleated skirts, past the skaters perched with their boards on top of the concrete retaining wall, beyond a trio of sophomore girls checking their cellphones, he drew my stare. Wind ruffled his hair as he leaned against the flagpole.

  Our gazes collided like a six-foot swell crashing against the hull of a small boat. His lips parted; he straightened his lanky stance. I drew in a quick breath and averted my gaze. Where had he come from? Vogue? Vanity Fair? Maybe a castle in the United Kingdom was missing its ginger-haired prince.

  First-day-at-a-new-high-school nerves trembled my hands as I stashed my half-eaten sandwich into its plastic cube and snapped the blue lid into place. Be cool. I finger-combed my hair. The sight of caramel brown tresses slipping through my fingers startled me. For a second I had forgotten the dye job, another layer in my disguise. If I didn’t look like Sailor Saint James, and I didn’t bear her name, then no one would hound me.

  Sailor, why weren’t you on the yacht with your father? Did he ask you to stay home because he planned to kill himself?

  I wriggled on the boulder, searching for a more comfortable perch. A local pediatrician had donated the money for the wellness garden bordering the quad. The lavender, rosemary, and sage intermixed with the oversized rocks were supposed to lower student anxiety. Bees buzzed alarmingly close, a chaotic platoon of miniature drones. My throat constricted.

  I should have sailed with him. Maybe I could have stopped … whatever happened.

  I rotated my cashmere-lined leather baseball cap so the brim shaded my eyes. Most of my trappings of wealth had been lost: my private school, our home and, of course, the yacht was collateral damage. My designer clothes hung untouched in the cramped closet in our small loft above a dying strip mall on the outskirts of town. Fashion editors and bloggers had praised my signature style—too distinctive now that I needed to blend in, not stand out. Only the baseball cap, seemingly ordinary but deceptively well designed and pricey, remained.

  I risked another glance at the redhead. He had halved the distance between us. A rogue basketball escaped a nearby pickup game and bounced his way. He caught it, barely breaking stride.

  “Over here!” a player shouted.

  I expected the boy to send the ball bouncing back to the court. Instead, he lobbed a powerful chest pass.

  “Dude! Join us,” the player shouted.

  The redhead inclined his head toward me. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  The other boy sized me up then pumped his arm at the ginger.

  My plan to blend in imploded. The wretched boulder refused to crack open and swallow me whole. My adrenaline surged as the boy neared. Before I could formulate an escape, his shadow slanted across me. Hope and excitement gleamed in his eyes. “Sailor? Sailor Saint James?” His copper brows twitched.

  My stomach free fell. Crap. I should have fled to the girls’ bathroom while I had the chance. I cleared my throat. “You have me confused with someone else.”

  His pale sage eyes narrowed then he rubbed his lower lip. “May I join you?”

  He knows. Panic rooted me. I pushed up the sleeves of my boy-shirt and vintage bomber jacket. Then, remembering my mini-sailboat tattoo, I tugged them down. Good manners branded during Junior Cotillion fought with the word flee screaming inside my head. I gave him a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s a free rock. Suit yourself.”

  Unexpected dimples emerged on either side of his perfect mouth. “Oh yeah,” he said, grinning as if I had slipped up somehow and proven my true identity. He joined me on the wide boulder.

  I hoped the cold granite froze his skinny butt.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he said.

  “Sure I do. You’re the guy who stared at me for forty minutes in first period Spanish.” Remembering sent a blush storming across my cheeks. First day, first class, and he had me so distracted I nearly blew my chance to make a good impression on Señora Mendoza.

  I tilted my chin up so I could stare at him from beneath my cap. Seeing him up close sparked an elusive memory that danced just beyond my reach. I bit my lip and shoved my lunch box into my messenger bag.

  He stuck out his hand. “Nathan Sheehan, formerly of Three Oaks Elementary School.”

  My jaw dropped. I recovered, closed my mouth, and willed my features into a neutral mask. Hopefully, my jacket muffled my heartbeat’s sudden spike. Sheehan! This freckled fire god is the boy who sat behind me in fifth and sixth grade and tugged my hair? Stunned, I shook his hand. The warmth and roughness of his skin sparked an unexpected flutter in my stomach. “I’m Haylee Birch.”

  Several emotions played across his face in rapid succession. His brows knitted together in confusion, then something sparked a flicker of triumph and validation in his eyes. My muscles tensed. Did he know Birch was my middle name and my mother’s maiden name? Had my voice given me away? How many times had I whirled in my desk chair after a hair pull and snarled, “I hate you, Nate”? Never Nathan. Always Nate.

  “Haylee, huh?”

  “Yes.” My ears burned. I withdrew my hand, but his energy still crackled across my palm. I smoothed my hands over my hair.

  “Hmm.” He shifted and his knee brushed against mine. Heat seeped through his black jeans. I inche
d away. He did a good job pretending he hadn’t noticed.

  “Can I trust you with a secret, Haylee?”

  Good one. I crossed my arms over my torso, walling myself off. “I’m the queen of secrets.”

  “Okay, but promise you won’t laugh.”

  “Promise.” I prayed he’d say, “Wow, I’m such an idiot. I totally mistook you for the debutante daughter of a big shot developer.”

  He drew in a long breath, then released it through his nose. “At the end of sixth grade, my parents were convinced an earthquake was about to plummet California into the ocean.”

  I breathed in his scent, mandarin and spice with a hint of musk. “You’re kidding.”

  “Would I lie about something so embarrassing?” he asked.

  I would. I remembered his parents because of their bright copper hair. They had seemed down-to-earth, not flighty. Mrs. Sheehan—actually Doctor Sheehan, she had a PhD in psychology—had counseled veterans before she quit to raise Nate and his two brothers. Mr. Sheehan had been the carpenter for at least one of the Saint James planned community developments. He and Dad had greeted each other by name and shaken hands at the fifth-grade science fair. Funny. I didn’t remember them speaking to each other at the sixth-grade fair.

  I glanced about. “So divination wasn’t their strong suit?”

  “No.” Nate’s dimples reappeared, bracketing a sardonic smile. “It gets worse. They dragged me and my siblings to Indiana.”

  I pressed my lips together.

  “Don’t laugh. It sucked. The worst part was leaving my secret crush.”

  My brows arched. “Seriously? That was the worst part?”

  “Don’t hate on young love. A broken heart is a clinical malady.”

  His mock woe expression catapulted me back to fifth grade. Don’t be mad, Sailor. I removed a piece of seaweed from your hair. See? The little devil had dangled a length of fake kelp he had bought at the dollar store, complete with a realistic minnow hanging off the end. Irritation scrabbled against my memory vault. Nate had been in love with someone? I didn’t remember him bothering any other girls. “She must have been quite special.”

  “She was … probably still is.” His gaze roved my face. “But I think she hated me.”

  I smirked. “Maybe you mistook her for someone else.”

  “Very funny.” Nate’s stare rummaged my core. I blinked, and he dropped his gaze. “No, I knew exactly who she was.” He picked at his thumbnail. “And what she was.”

  I shifted on the boulder. “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. “Totally out of my league.”

  “Ah.”

  “But I couldn’t stop myself.”

  “What did you do? Trip her in the halls?”

  “No!” Nate bumped his shoulder against mine. The breach zinged a charge along my arm that arrowed to my core. He fingered the zipper of his body-hugging hoodie jacket. “Give a guy some credit. I was much smoother than that.”

  Remembering the hair pulling, I had my doubts.

  “I invited her to my house for my first boy-girl birthday party.”

  I flashed on his family’s rambling two-story house. Dad had cajoled me into accepting Nate’s invitation. Sailor, you have to go! Even if you hate the guy, you’ll love his house. It’s a hidden gem. I bet you’ll fill an entire sketchbook when you return.

  I had gone, determined to check out the old Victorian and then hide in a bathroom and text my parents to pick me up. Instead, I had been swept away by the house’s lived-in charm and Mr. Sheehan’s restoration: crown molding, wainscoting, and—in a side parlor that had been transformed into a small library—an intricate custom bookcase. Nate had discovered me tracing my fingertips over the sleek mahogany.

  “Want to see something cool?”

  My heart jumped at his sudden appearance. How had he ditched his other guests? Without waiting for my answer, Nate pressed on a side panel adorned with hand-carved mermaids. The panel popped open, revealing a pale sea-foam room, barely big enough to contain two gray beanbag chairs and a drum table. A mini-chandelier strung with sea glass hung from the ceiling. Splashes of colored light caught my eye as they danced across the superhero comic books strewn across the floor.

  “Where is the light coming from?” I asked.

  Nate clasped my wrist. “I’ll show you.” He drew me into the hobbit-sized room and pointed to a spot high on the exterior wall.

  “Wow.” Sunlight streamed through a circular stained glass window that depicted a golden-haired mermaid perched on a rock outcropping. In the turquoise sea surrounding her, three attentive dolphins stood upright in the water.

  “Welcome to the inner sanctum of Mermaid Manor.” Nate scooped a pencil from the table. “Come here.” He situated me against the doorjamb. He smelled of barbecued hamburgers and boy. “Hold still.”

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I felt the pencil slide along the part in my hair then heard it scratch against the wood frame. When he finished, I eyed his handiwork.

  Nate wrote my name and the year on the wall beside the mark. “There. Now you’re an official member.”

  “Of what?”

  “The mermaid club.”

  “Hand me the pencil.” I made a flicking motion.

  Nate passed it over. “Why? What are you going to do?”

  I smirked. “You’ll see.” I drew a tiny sailboat next to my name and the date then slapped the pencil against Nate’s palm.

  His gaze slid from the sailboat to me. “I like it.”

  “Thank you. Dad promised I could have a sailboat tattoo when I turn sixteen.”

  “Cool.” Nate assumed a somber expression at odds with his wild hair and mischief filled eyes. “Within these walls, you can only speak the truth.”

  I glanced past him. “And read comics.”

  His eyes glittered. “Well, yeah.”

  “Haylee?” Nate’s voice brought me back to the present.

  “Sorry. I was just thinking about what a smooth operator you must have been, luring your secret crush to your castle.” I tried to picture the other girls who had been at the party, but all I could remember was the secret room and the sound of Nate’s mother calling his name.

  “I wasn’t that smooth,” Nate confessed. “I sat behind her in school. Her blonde surfer hair reminded me of a mermaid. I drove her crazy tugging on it.” His eyebrows flicked up. “At least she noticed me.”

  My heart tightened like wire rope on a winch. I gathered up the ends of my dyed hair and dropped them behind my shoulders. Hopefully, Nate didn’t notice my fingers trembling.

  “Now you know my deep, dark secret. What’s yours?”

  A fresh blush fast-tracked up my throat and blazed toward my eyes. Blinking away tears, I collected my messenger bag and stood.

  Nate scrambled to his feet and clasped my wrist. “Sail—Haylee, I’m sorry. I’ve been away for years. This is my first day back, and I saw you, and …” He released my wrist.

  I clapped my hand over my mouth and fled.

  I hate you, Nate.

  ALL NIGHT, OLD NEWSPAPER headlines had rippled through my nightmares like yellow and black contagion flags.

  “Saint James Abandons Plan to Build 50 Luxury Homes.”

  “Tradesmen Hit Hard by Saint James Pullout.”

  The words remained imprinted on my mind while I made my way to my first period class. Had our financial decline started four-and-a-half years ago? My shoulders ached from being buffeted by the throng. I recoiled from the onslaught. Shoulders hunched, my torso angled sideways, I threaded through the pushing, cacophonous crowd. Were all public high schools like this, funneling hundreds of students into narrow hallways and stairwells? My old school resembled a low-key village. Right now, my friends would be sauntering
across tamped earth paths as they headed toward clustered freestanding classrooms. “Hi, Sailor!” kids from all grades would call out. I’d wave and say, “Hey!”

  Not here. And I’m not Sailor Saint James anymore. Well, technically I am, but only because Mom won’t let me legally change my name. “Give it a year, Sailor, then see how you feel.” She did agree to a temporary modification. Luckily, Mom and the principal had been sorority sisters in college. They must have taken a blood oath to aid each other because Ms. Miller got all the teachers to agree to call me Haylee Birch.

  Finally crossing the threshold to Spanish, I checked my cellphone. My chest constricted. Still no texts from my so-called friends asking me where I had moved to or wishing me good luck. Maybe they had forgotten me. Or, maybe they believed the tabloid reports that Dad had been bankrupt and had deliberately sunk the yacht—and killed himself—so Mom and I would get the insurance money. Only the insurance company was holding up our claim pending their investigation. Standard procedure, we were told, when no body had been found and the payout would be in the millions. Meanwhile, the legal costs of fighting them were burying us deeper and deeper.

  Dad would never have done that to us. Not on purpose. Never.

  The school bell bellowed at about two hundred decibels. Startled, I dropped my phone. Nate, who had sidled up to me unnoticed, dove and caught it.

  “Here you go.” His long fingers grazed my skin as he handed me the phone. The contact fluttered my stomach. Nate Sheehan was a pest, I reminded myself. Yes, he had grown and thinned out. And yesterday after school, I might have fantasized about tracing the fine line of his jaw from his ear all the way to the soft flesh of his lips. But Nate could blow my cover any second. So, no way was I going there.

  “Thanks.” My fingers closed around the phone.

  “My pleasure.” Those pale sage eyes sucked me in. Students shuffled past us. Chairs scraped. Conversations died down. “About yesterday—”