by Leger, Lori
“Glad to see you came to your senses.”
“Glad my kids came to theirs.”
“God bless Maw Maw Elaine.”
She smiled. “Yep, God bless her. And Sam?” She reached out for him.
“Yeah?” He slipped his arms around her waist, pulled her close.
She lifted to her toes, brushed her lips against his before pausing. “I still love it when you call me Baby.”
Carrie woke slowly, kept her eyes closed as she became totally aware of her surroundings. The steady thump-thump-thump of a heart reverberated in her right ear. Her head rested against a broad chest.
Sam’s chest. Sam’s heart.
The heart of the man who claims to love her.
Did she believe him?
Absolutely.
Would he love her enough to forsake all others?
If she didn’t believe that, she wouldn’t be here.
Carrie passed her finger softly along the side of his face. She smiled at the twitch of his nose while he slept peacefully, his arms wrapped protectively around her.
Could she grow to love this man as much as he claimed to love her?
She hooked her foot around his bare calf, pulled him closer. She slid the arch of her foot along the muscular length of it until he released a low, pleasurable moan. Still sleeping, he tightened his hold on her, strengthening the skin-to-skin contact—all inhibitions vanished after their first beautiful experience at lovemaking. Her lids lowered as she settled further into his warmth.
Could she?
Hell, she already did.
Late summer of 2013
Carrie Langley dusted the credenza, lifting the latest family photo—her and Sam sitting on a porch swing, surrounded by all five of their children with the addition of several grandchildren.
For whatever reason, she and Sam had clicked, and she was as in love with her husband today as she’d been in their first year of marriage. All indications pointed to him feeling the same way. Sam was a wonderful husband, a doting stepdad, and a loving grandfather.
He slipped his arms around her from behind and hugged her tightly before whispering the words he’d repeated countless times to her over the years. “I love you, Carrie.” He placed a gentle kiss on the side of her neck.
She smiled as she rested her head against her man—her rock—Sam.
“I love you, Sam. Always.”
They had successfully built a life together, joined their two families into one. They were far from rich with material wealth, but always had enough to get by—while rich with something of much more importance.
She placed her hands over his and closed her eyes, thanking God for whatever troubles had eventually led her to this man. As far as she was concerned, God had come through for her and her children, and she owed him.
She owed him big.
Thank you so much for letting me share Carrie and Sam’s story with you. Please consider leaving me a review at your favorite ebook retailer and/or Goodreads. Reviews are a writer’s best friend. Even the bad ones if they’re constructive. Merci!
~Lori Leger
Blurb for Last First Kiss
Her girls want a daddy—she wants her old life back—all he wants is the three of them.
After Giselle Granger’s husband dies in a tragic accident, she’s left with their two young daughters, and struggling for the strength to live in a world without him.
When Jackson Broussard loses his wife in the same accident, he finds himself free of the woman whose lies and manipulations have made his marriage and life a living hell. He feels bound to the past by his desire to do right by his friend’s widow and children, even though Giselle makes it clear she doesn’t want his help.
Can the two former co-workers forget their differences in order to construct a new future together? Or will they be left with nothing more than a last first kiss and two broken hearts?
Early January
Jackson Broussard crawled through the gaping hole left by his blown out windshield. He struggled to his feet, wincing as pain shot through his left knee. Weak kneed and wobbly, he stood in place, trying to get his bearings. A lone observer standing in the midst of chaos. Within moments the shriek of sirens joined the wails and cries of other survivors.
He tensed as a fire truck’s air horn jarred his traumatized senses, and then gasped and coughed, regretting the deep breath he’d taken. He choked on the acrid smell of burning rubber, and something else, a putrid odor that burned as it settled at the back of his throat. He fought the urge to vomit as he watched in horror, while inky fingers of smoke billowed skyward from several locations.
Jackson cringed at a woman’s sudden hysterical screaming, not wanting to think about what she’d seen that made her lose control. Cries and moans of others joined in, collaborating to form a chorus of misery and death. The accident involved more vehicles than he could see or count. Male and female, young and old. Death would have no sympathy for the innocent.
He attempted to walk, but his knee kept buckling. Half dragging, half crawling, it took him another five minutes to find Chloe, his wife, where she’d landed after being ejected from his truck. Her face a bloody mass of bones and shredded tissue, her thin body bent, broken beyond repair.
He fought back another wave of nausea, knowing one seat belt could have made the difference between life and—this. As usual, she’d refused. Nobody told Chloe what to do. Law enforcement, or otherwise.
Should he believe she was gone? Or was it just another one of her cruel tricks to try and humiliate him? He studied her broken body again. No, there would be no coming back from this. He had to wonder. Would death bring her the peace she obviously lacked in her lifetime? God knows, there was no love between them anymore, but even so, he’d never stopped trying to make her happy for once in her dissatisfied, miserable life.
Jackson rose on shaky legs, allowing his mind to drift back to the moments before the accident. In typical Chloe fashion, she’d spent the last moments of her life berating him, screaming because his single act of kindness toward others had inconvenienced her. But … what act? He squinted against the throbbing in his head, the pain in his chest. What had he done to piss her off? Fighting off the dizziness, the sudden urge to pass out, he struggled with a missing piece of the puzzle, recognizing its importance to the completed picture.
Frustrated, he put both hands to his head, and willed himself to concentrate. Think. Retrace the events that lead to this moment: The stadium’s malfunctioning traffic light after the benefit ended shortly past noon, him allowing several cars to turn in front of him, pausing to let one more vehicle pull out in front of him—the black Expedition and its occupants, and the last action, the catalyst for Chloe’s steady stream of jibes that had escalated into increasingly ugly accusations.
He swung around, made himself dizzy as total recall caused a tightening in his chest. Where are they? Jackson spotted the SUV lodged against the guardrail and uttered a silent prayer as he stagger-crawled his way to Toby’s truck. He forced himself to stand. His heart hammered in his chest when he saw his friend in the driver’s seat. Just as quickly, it sank. The unnatural tilt of his head confirmed his dread. He reached through the shattered window, searching for a pulse, and found none. “Oh God, Toby,” he groaned, despair stunning him for a moment as he realized one of his best friends was gone.
“Giselle!” Toby’s wife slumped in the passenger seat, also buckled into place. He stumbled his way around to her, his heart plummeting at the blood pooled around the gouge on her forehead. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically as she labored to breathe. He ripped a piece from his already torn shirt to wipe the area clean, and allowed himself to relax once he saw the bleeding had already began to clot. He thought of the couple’s two young daughters. What would happen to them if they lost both of their parents? Oh, God, she had to be okay.
Supporting himself on the truck he looked around. “Help. Somebody help!” he croaked, stepping away to find someone.
&
nbsp; He staggered back to Chloe’s body, swaying unsteadily, struggling through the pain and dizziness to remain on his feet. He fought the blackness closing in on him, determined to remain conscious until he made sure someone helped Giselle. Finally, two EMT’s approached at a run.
“Sir, are you injured?” one asked.
He grabbed his head, squeezing his eyes against the sudden pain, then fell on his knees beside Chloe. “My wife is gone. You can’t help her.” He struggled to raise his hand, to point at the black Expedition. “My friend Toby didn’t make it, but his wife has to live, for their little girls.” He grabbed for the debilitating pain in his head again before collapsing onto the I-210 roadway.
He woke trying to scream, jerking away from the image of Chloe’s bloody face filling his mind.
“It’s okay Mr. Broussard, it’s okay.” The ER nurse spoke in a soothing voice.
Jackson blinked once, twice, and again to clear his eyes, and searched the nurse’s face for clues.
She smiled down at him. “You’re at St. Luke’s hospital, and you’ve got a mild concussion. You’ll be all right. How’s the pain?”
He reached slowly for his head and felt. No bandages. He grabbed the nurse’s hand as one particular memory rushed at him. “I need to find someone who was also in the accident.”
“And I’ll help you do that, Mr. Broussard. Is it a family member? Was there a passenger in the vehicle with you?”
“My wife was with me, and she—didn’t make it.” He sounded calmer than he felt. Was he drugged? “There was a black SUV with a couple in it. The driver was my friend and I—I think—I think his neck was broken. I couldn’t find a pulse. His passenger, his wife, had a cut on her head, but she was breathing. They have two young girls and no other family. She has to be okay.”
“I need her name and a description.”
“Her name is Giselle Granger. She’s tall and slim, about five foot eight, with shoulder length, curly, brown hair, and green eyes. She had a big cut on her forehead, right about here.” He touched his own head above his right temple.
“I’ll check, and be right back. You stay here, Mr. Broussard.”
He grabbed her hand again. “What did they do with my wife? She—” He swallowed the bile as the image of her flashed in his mind again. “She went through the windshield.”
The nurse gave him a look of sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Broussard. I’m not sure if they’ve transported her yet. I’ll check on that for you, too.”
She started to turn away then stopped. “If she’s not already in the morgue, she will be soon, and we will need you to ID her.”
He nodded, tried to sit up. “I can do that whenever you need me to, but can you help me find Giselle? She’s a co-worker of mine and her husband was a close friend.”
She nodded. “I’ll see if I can find her.”
“Ma’am, did I have a phone on me?” Jackson pulled his phone from the bag of belongings she handed him and made two calls. First, to his only living relative, his Uncle Bill, asking him to meet him at the hospital. The second call was much harder to make. He knew Toby and Giselle’s girls were staying with another co-worker, a close friend of both his and Giselle’s, Carrie Langley. He’d heard the two women making arrangements at the office yesterday. The phone rang several times before Sam, Carrie’s husband, answered the phone.
“Sam, this is Jackson. Is Carrie around? I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He struggled to control his emotions. In seconds, Carrie was on the line.
“Please tell me you weren’t involved in that horrible accident, Jackson. At least fourteen vehicles, it’s all over the news.”
He cleared his throat. “I wish I could. God, you don’t know how badly I wish I could. Toby …” He gathered his courage, spoke the words he hated hearing much less saying outloud. “Chloe and Toby—They’re both gone.”
Her next word came out in a single sob. “Giselle?”
“I’m waiting to hear.” His voice broke.
“Oh, God. This is a nightmare,” she groaned.
“If it was, we could wake up from it. As it is, well, if she—” he stopped himself and swallowed, unwilling to face the thought. “When she wakes up, she’s going to need you here.”
“I’m on my way.”
He stared at the I-Phone, saw Call Ended flash across the screen. In his mind, he saw the picture Giselle kept of her girls in her cubicle at the office. He remembered well the devastating pain of losing a parent. He had lost both of his before his fifth birthday. In the same way, a car accident. Thank God for his one relative, his dad’s brother, Bill Broussard. He hated to think what would have happened if he hadn’t had Uncle Bill. Toby and Giselle’s two little girls had no one else.
The nurse entered his room, jarring him from his thoughts.
“Mr. Broussard, there’s a woman by that description upstairs, but I can’t give you any information other than she seems stable. She’s still unconscious. Do you feel like taking a trip to her room to verify her identity?” She pulled a wheelchair over to the bed.
“I can walk,” he insisted. His knee was sore but definitely better.
“Not on my shift.” Her tone demanded respect.
Jackson sat obediently, and gathered his thoughts on their way to the fifth floor. Before the elevator doors opened fully, he heard Giselle’s hysterical pleading. He catapulted out of the wheelchair, limped toward her heartbroken cries, then stood in the doorway. He stared at the woman he’d worked with for five years, barely recognizing her through her tortured facial expressions. His heart ached as her cries rose in volume.
“Somebody tell me where my husband is! Is he alive? He has to be. Please, tell me. His name is Toby…Tobias Granger and he was driving a black SUV. Please tell me if he’s okay—I have to know. He’s got black hair, brown eyes, he’s six-two and slim.”
Jackson stood tall as stiff resolve seeped into his core. Be strong for her. “Giselle.”
She swung her piercing green eyes in his direction. “Toby?”
As recognition dawned, Jackson watched her hope melt away like ice under hot tap water.
“Where is he, Jackson? Have you seen him? They won’t tell me anything. Please, get them to tell me,” she begged.
He spoke from the doorway, his voice steady, as calm as he could manage, given his heart was shattering at what was about to happen. “Giselle, try to calm down.”
A doctor paused at the door before pulling him away. “Sir, are you a member of her family? We’re trying to find someone to be with her when we tell her about her husband. He was DOA.”
Jackson shook his head, his gaze reverting back to Giselle. “She has no family. Neither she, nor her husband had any living relatives, other than their two young daughters. She’s a co-worker of mine, and her husband is…” He swallowed hard. “He was a good friend.” He turned back to the doctor. Dr. P. Allemande, he read from the tag. “We were all involved in that accident. I’d like to be with her when you tell her, if you don’t mind.”
She gave him a slow nod and patted his arm. “Okay, but you need to get back in your wheelchair. You don’t look too steady.”
He sunk into the chair the nurse held for him and let her roll him into the room then next to her bed.
“Giselle,” he said, staring up into huge, green, amber flecked eyes, now red-rimmed from tears.
She spoke in a voice hoarse with crying. “Jackson, where is he?”
“Mrs. Granger,” Dr. Allemande began. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband didn’t make it.”
Jackson watched as she let her head fall back on the bed, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Giselle, I’m so sorry,” he said, fighting back his own tears.
She lifted her head to meet his gaze with wild eyes. “You’re lying.”
He grabbed her hand as his own voice cracked. “I’m so sorry, Giselle. Toby was such a good man, a good friend.”
“No! Noooo!” She pulled her hand from his. “You’re l
ying! You’re jealous, because we’re so happy and you and Chloe aren’t. It’s a lie. It has to be. I can’t live without Toby. I can’t!”
He cringed at her heartbroken wail. “Giselle, I know how happy you were but you still have two beautiful daughters. Think of Mackenzie and Lexie.” He gripped her hand tightly as the doctor moved in to give Giselle a sedative.
“Oh God. I can’t do this without him. How can he leave me? How could he? I can’t take this. I can’t take it. I don’t want to live without him.” She crossed her arms in front of her face. “Please, God, Take me too. Why didn’t you take me too?”
He felt her soul crushing misery. “Don’t say that, Giselle. Toby wouldn’t want that. He’d want you to be here for your daughters. Think about your girls. Your two beautiful girls—Mac and Lexie. Toby loved you so much and he would want you to live so you could take care of them.”
Her body shook with hysterical, heartbreaking sobs. Jackson cried with her, repeating her daughter’s names over and over, hoping she’d find some strength, some will to live for her and Toby’s girls. Slowly, the sobbing lessened and she quieted. The drug seeped into her system, calming her. Giselle pulled her hand from his, and turned away, remaining silent through the continuous flow of tears.
Jackson felt a gentle touch on his shoulder and nodded as the nurse wheeled him out of the room and back into the elevator. The gentle whoosh of doors closing shut out the image of Giselle’s crushed presence. He closed his eyes and zoned out, wanting to mourn for his friend properly, knowing he couldn’t until Toby’s wife and daughters were taken care of. And Chloe. Dear God, what the hell was he supposed to do with Chloe?
“Mr. Broussard?”
Jackson opened his eyes, shocked at the sign on a set of double doors three feet in front of him. The single word in thick, block letters, MORGUE, was a harsh reminder of his reason for being here. He nodded and the nurse pressed a button on the wall. Two seconds later, the technician opened the doors to let them inside. Within two minutes, he sat in front of a table as the tech lowered the vinyl sheeting to expose the body.
“Dear God.” He covered his mouth with one hand, thankful for the shock he’d apparently suffered at the accident scene. Nothing could have prepared him for what lay before him. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been halfway clothed, and the other half covered with blood. This—this showed the ravaging effects of how her life had ended. It sickened him. The soft voice of the nurse reminded him he wasn’t alone.