SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION

by ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA®

  “Please,” I beg as soon as my mind returns to my body. I’m limp and sated, but still I want more. I want him. “Please fuck me.”

  He doesn’t disappoint, and when he thrusts inside me, every part of me is already so primed that when he climaxes, he takes me with him and I shatter once more, this time with his eyes on mine, and we get lost in the storm together.

  After, he pulls me close, and I sigh, contented. I shut my eyes, just for a moment, only to find the sun streaming in when I open them again.

  I sit up, confused, and then angry when I realize that we’d drifted off. We have so little time before he leaves, and I hate that we’ve wasted even a moment.

  Beside me, Blake wakes, and I see the same realization play over his face. He tamps down the disappointment, then smiles at me. “I’ve missed you so much,” he admits as he pushes himself up to lean against the headboard. “Please tell me it’s not one-sided.”

  I sigh and scoot next to him. “There hasn’t been a minute since I left that I haven’t regretted not going with you to Hawaii after we finally landed in LA.”

  “But you had your audition, your five-year plan. You’re working for Stark now, so I’m guessing you didn’t get the pilot?”

  “I got it. We shot three episodes, and I think it was some of my best work.”

  “Then … what?”

  “They shelved it.” I say flatly. “And I quit the next day. I didn’t bother waiting for my twenty-sixth birthday. There was no point. I realized I’d never be able to control anything so long as I stayed in acting. Too much of it was out of my hands and it made me crazy.” I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t miss it.”

  What I don’t tell him is that the best moment of my life—meeting him—had also been unplanned and out of my control. I know it; I’m still not quite ready to face it.

  “Anyway, I got the job at Stark International, partly because of their employee education program. I’m working toward my business degree.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “At first, I wasn’t sure. I thought it might be an interim job while I figured out what I wanted. But I love it. And the odds are good I’ll get a permanent job as a project manager once I graduate. In the meantime, I’m learning a ton.”

  I shrug again. “So that’s me. Nothing earth-shattering. Not like you.” I face him more directly. “You’ve been busy. Two major centers going up on opposite sides of the country. That’s impressive.”

  “You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

  My skin flushes. “Maybe.”

  “I like that.” He draws his finger along my naked arm, making me shiver. “I like it a lot.” He takes my hand, presses it to his mouth. “The world shifted for me when I saw you in Stark’s office, Penny. I told you once we can’t fight reality.” He holds up his tattooed wrist. “We’re meant to be together. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a basic, core truth. I knew it the moment I met you, and I’ve only grown more sure with time.”

  I turn away, scared by how right his words feel. “Blake …”

  The room phone rings, and he grabs it. I draw a breath, relieved by the interruption.

  “Thank you,” he says, then hangs up the phone with a scowl. “My car is here. Dammit, they were supposed to text a fifteen-minute warning.” He glances at his cell, then looks at me. “Well, shit. I forgot to charge it. I was a little distracted last night.”

  I manage to wobbly smile. I know he has to rush to meet his plane, but I’m regretting the loss of those fifteen minutes.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” he asks once his duffel is packed and slung over his shoulder. “We can have the week we didn’t take in Hawaii in New York. I’ll take you to the opera, a bawdy Off-Broadway play. I’ll make love to you on my balcony, and buy you a glass of wine at this little café near Columbus Circle.”

  Immediately my chest tightens. “Are you serious?”

  “Baby, don’t you see that I love you?”

  “No—” I shake my head, my heart thudding in my chest. “You can’t say that. Not yet. It’s too fast.”

  This is what I was afraid of that first time. The impetuousness of going off book and running away with a stranger to Hawaii. The fear now that if I say I love you, I’m tempting the gods.

  Love at first sight means that control is out of the equation. It means giving in to pure emotion. But how can that be real? God knows it was never real for my mom.

  “Pen?”

  “I can’t.” My voice is choked, and I realize that I’m crying. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t.”

  For a moment I think he’s going to argue. To try to convince me that, yes, of course, I can. But he nods sadly, then bends to kiss me. “All right,” he says. “You know where Manhattan is if you change your mind.” He cups my cheek. “Penny,” he whispers. “I won’t say I’m in love with you. Not if it scares you. But I will say that I could easily fall in love with you. And I think you could fall in love with me. Give us a chance, baby. Change your mind and come to New York.”

  And then he’s gone, and I’m left standing in an empty hotel room, feeling more lonely than I ever have in my life.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and let the tears flow, mourning the loss. Because the truth is, I want him here. I want him beside me whether it’s in New York or here. It doesn’t matter.

  I just want Blake, now, and forever.

  Forever?

  For a moment that thought, so new and shiny, makes me freeze.

  What’s more, it doesn’t terrify me.

  I stand, my mind churning.

  I’m thinking I want this to work. I’m thinking I need to try.

  I’m thinking I need to call Human Resources.

  Mostly, I’m thinking that I need to get my ass to the airport, and fast.

  I’M GASPING AND OUT of breath when I finally reach the gate. The moment I’d arrived at the airport, I’d bought a coach ticket on the only United flight to New York that was scheduled to take off around noon. Now, I’m clutching the boarding pass tight in my hand. Everyone is staring at me, but I don’t care. There’s only one face I care about, and I don’t see it. Dammit, I don’t see him anywhere.

  I turn a circle, surveying the crowd, but he’s not there, and a well of panic swells inside me. He hadn’t told me the airline; I’m only assuming it was United because that’s what we flew when we got waylaid in Chicago. But what if he’s on American? Or any of a zillion other airlines. For that matter, what if he’s on a private jet? Or he’s flying out of Burbank and he’s not even in this airport?

  I reach into my purse for my cellphone. I already texted twice from the taxi and got no response. Maybe he still hasn’t charged his phone. Maybe he’s ignoring me. I don’t know, but I have to try.

  I’m about to type out another groveling, plea for forgiveness, when I see him stepping out of a coffee shop across the corridor.

  He hesitates, then looks right at me and starts walking toward me, as if I were emitting a homing beacon that only he can hear.

  I see hope flash across his face before it’s replaced by a neutral expression colored only by a hint of curiosity.

  “Come to see me off?”

  I shake my head, and for a moment, I can’t seem to make my voice work. Instead, I thrust my boarding pass into his hand. He looks at it, and when he looks up, the hope has returned, along with a kind of boisterous joy that makes me feel light inside.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I was scared,” I admit. “Of change. Of taking a risk. Of everything.” I draw a breath. “But then I remembered that it was you. And I know in my heart that you’ve got my back. I think I’ve know that from the first moment I grabbed your hand on that plane, and you held on.” I smile, tears pooling in my eyes as I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “You take my fear away, Blake. You always have.”

 
His smile is wide, boyish, and deliciously sexy. I smile too, then burst into laughter when he pulls me close, finally silencing me with a Hollywood-happy-ending kiss. Deep and melting, where the guy bends the girl back so far they are both defying gravity, both trusting the other not to fall.

  We break apart, gasping and grinning, and he pulls me upright as all around us travelers start to applaud. My cheeks heat, but I grin, then take a little bow as Blake laughs beside me.

  “What about your job?”

  “I took a week’s vacation.”

  I think I see disappointment flash in his eyes, but all he says is, “You’ll stay with me.”

  “At least until I can find my own place,” I say, then break into a broad smile. “I’m moving to New York, Blake.”

  “Oh, baby,” he says, pulling me into his arms and holding me tight.

  “And I’m going without a plan, totally out of control, and it feels great.”

  I don’t mention that I have a couple of cushions—my job, for one, because the odds are good I can transfer to the New York office. And, of course, Blake himself is the biggest cushion of all.

  I can see forever with him, I’m sure of it. But I’m not going to say that out loud. Not yet. For once in my life, I’m going to go with the current, without planning five steps ahead.

  I’m going to trust what I feel, and I’m going to believe that what Blake and I have is real and forever.

  Even so, for at least a little while, I’m staying in my own place. Once I find a place, anyway. Because Blake and I did everything backward. I want the dating, the nights spent at each other’s apartments, the mornings meeting at a mutually convenient café.

  I want all that first.

  And then, yes, I want forever.

  The first boarding call for our flight echoes through the terminal, and he glances at my ticket. “Coach?” he says.

  “All I could get,” I admit. “For that matter, all I could afford.” My first-class ticket to LA had been a gift from my agent. “Smuggle a cookie to me, okay?”

  “For you, anything. Although I think I can do better than that.” He leaves me befuddled, then heads to the gate agent. I watch their negotiation, see the exchange of paper and my stomach leaps as I become more and more certain that he’s negotiating a first-class seat for me.

  Two minutes later, he’s back.

  “First class was full,” he says. “Sorry.”

  “Oh.” I never realized how physical an emotion disappointment is. I’m heavy from the weight of it. “That’s okay. I’ve got a book. I’ll be fine.”

  “So I traded my ticket with the lady who had the seat next to you.”

  I gape at him. “You downgraded? You’re moving your seat from first class to coach?”

  “Considering the company, I didn’t consider it downward mobility at all.”

  “Wow,” I tease, my grin wide with happiness. “This might be love.” Only after I’ve said the words do I realize I’ve broken my own rule. My cheeks heat, and I start to call them back.

  But I don’t get the chance.

  “Sweetheart,” he says, with his eyes on me and his voice heavy with meaning. “I think it just might be.”

  A former attorney, J. Kenner (aka Julie Kenner) is the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal, and number one international best-selling author of over seventy novels, novellas, and short stories in a variety of genres. A five-time RITA finalist, JK won the first RITA given in the category of erotic romance with her novel Claim Me, book two of her Stark trilogy.

  Visit her website at http://www.jkenner.com to learn more and to connect with JK through social media!

  September 8, 1805

  NOTHING CAN MATCH THE beauty of a late summer wedding, when the salt air carries the warmth of the sun-heated sea over the cooling landscape, holding off the inevitable darker days to follow. Everyone gathered in the ancient church at Cloverhill agreed this was so, though the lovely bride was scarcely more than a child, and more likely to be compared to the early buds of spring than the fading leaves of September. And yet, at sixteen, she had known her charming groom half her life, and the families had long hoped they would marry someday, for so well matched were they in temperament and intellectual pursuits and their passion for the marvels of the natural world.

  “I am sure his horse threw a shoe, or something of that sort,” whispered Mrs. Wharton, attempting to calm the bride and her younger sisters.

  “Mother, Edward would then rely on his own shoes and walk from the peninsula,” said Katharine. “It must be something else, for he is impossibly reliable.”

  She gazed upon the small bouquet she’d gathered that morning, confident in her groom. Edward was unfailingly steady, trustworthy, and strong. The bond between them was not created by lightning, but by a slow-building fire that grew in warmth and intensity over many years.

  Nestled between the flowers were small fossil shells. Though the lilies would wilt by evening, the shells, ancient and enduring, would last forever.

  She believed the same was true for their love.

  “The guests are restless,” said Mr. Wharton, emerging from the church. “Edward’s family is not here either.”

  Katharine fingered one of the shells, a little snail Edward found years ago, telling her such a specimen was common in the far-off Caribbean, a place he might visit one day. He did not know how the little snail shell came to Cloverhill, but he knew where it was now destined. His smile as he said those words had a most extraordinary effect on her, for it felt like all the breath had left her body.

  “Are you well, daughter?” her father asked.

  Still caressing the shell, she glanced at her father. “There must be a reasonable explanation.”

  But when the explanation finally came, it seemed anything but reasonable.

  As the Wharton family stood close together, circling their expectant bride, Edward’s cousin approached them through the graveyard. Dressed in formal attire, as befitted a member of the wedding party, and one who would someday be the Earl of Penfield, he nevertheless looked wretched.

  “He is not coming,” he said.

  “What is the meaning of this?” cried Mrs. Wharton.

  “My cousin, Edward Danforth, eloped this very morning with Miss Delphina Rutherford and sends his most pained regrets to Miss Wharton.” Denham winced as he handed a slim envelope to Katharine. “He asked me to deliver this note, with his prayer that you can somehow find the generosity in your heart to forgive him.”

  Mr. Wharton uttered an expletive his daughters never heard before. And his wife screamed so loudly, congregants immediately rushed to the door of the church. The two little Wharton sisters sobbed.

  But Katharine just stood, quite alone, trembling as a sapling in the brisk sea breeze. Her unusual bride’s bouquet, representing everything she loved, slipped through her fingers to the slate path, suddenly hateful to her.

  And so, as her wedding guests crowded about, wanting answers no one had, Katharine lifted her foot and ground the bouquet into the stone, feeling the shells crack beneath her white satin slippers.

  April 12, 1814

  “WHAT IS THE NATURE of forgiveness, in a truly practical sense? We say we can forgive, but is it possible if one can never forget?” Katharine Wharton mused. She studied her three companions, wondering if anyone in Cloverhill still recalled the events of eight years before. Certainly, no one ever spoke of them. Nor did she, though scarcely a day passed without at least a fleeting thought of what might have been, of the joy that would have been hers and Edward’s. Their life would have been a grand adventure sustained by their love; they would have had children and a home filled with treasures gathered on their travels. Even now, with hope long gone, the remembrance of that love remained. And because of that, she imagined that she forgave him.

 
The letter that had been thrust into her hand on the day she was to be married offered no explanations but revealed both frustration and anguish on the part of its writer. She did not know why he chose to leave her for another, but through the years and the losses she knew he endured, she somehow felt his pain as deeply as her own.

  Katharine settled in her chair and sipped her tea. It had cooled even as her speech had become heated, but the sweet, strong taste of the brew remained invigorating. Over the rim of the teacup, she studied the faces of her friends, guessing Estella would be the first to speak.

  “Act lively, my dears,” she urged when no one responded. “Our tea is getting cold, and Mrs. Moon has gone to the village, leaving us to our own devices. Shall I pour you another cup, Estella?”

  Estella Lakewood shook her head, perhaps distracted. She might remember. But, just as likely, she was formulating a philosophical argument, for she had the advantage of being educated along with her brothers when she was a child. Unlike Deirdre Clarke, Portia Watson, and Katharine herself, Estella was a true scholar.

  But that was precisely the point of their weekly salons in the Octagon House. They each yearned to be scholars and philosophers, the bluestockings whom many of their acquaintances regarded with mild disdain. Estella was invited to join them when they were somewhat unsure of themselves, when they hoped she would raise the level of discourse. But, in fact, they each proved capable of reading, studying, and formulating opinions. Estella stayed on, often relinquishing her authority to the others. And the one who most frequently claimed it was Katharine.

  Estella finally met her blue-eyed, questioning gaze.

  “Is it possible to live a full life without regrets? Is there a single person who has not done the unforgivable?” Estella asked. “Excepting yourself, Katharine, for everyone knows you are a paragon.”

  Katharine blushed. “I am not, and I do not believe it is flattering to be thought so. To make an error is to be human.”