Healing You

by Katana Collins

  Oh, God. Her face flushed and she cradled the almond flour cupcake in her palm as though it belonged in a museum. Hell, it sort of did. Almost two years of their tête-à–tête, and he’d finally caved. “You made this for me? What happened to ‘I will never bake anything gluten free’?” She dropped her voice lower, giving her best shot at a Manchester accent.

  “It’s a big day for you. Your brother and best friend’s engagement. I didn’t like the thought of you up here… on the top of this mountain… cupcake-less.”

  “Well, thank you. That was very thoughtful.” Heat pooled deep down inside of her as something between them shifted. Ronnie smiled, pulling the fondant barbell off and holding it up. “And this? Is this sugar free?”

  “Okay, you’ve got to cut me some slack. Not everything can be free of refined sugar. I can’t create a barbell cake topper out of tofu.”

  A breeze caught the scent of chocolate and caramel from the other cupcakes and their sugary scent brushed by Ronnie like a welcome memory of birthdays and parties years ago. He grabbed one of the other cupcakes… the real cupcakes… and held it up for Ronnie. “How about I wrap one up for you to go? Just in case you change your mind and decide that tofu crap isn’t worth the calories. If you’re going to indulge, you may as well make it good.”

  She almost said yes. She almost dipped her finger into the chocolate buttercream right then and there and wrapped her lips around its creamy deliciousness. But then, it would just be a substitute. Because she didn’t want the buttercream. She didn’t want the cupcake. And she definitely didn’t want the calories. What she wanted… was Lex.

  She took a step away from him. Away from the temptation. The sugar. His intoxicating scent. Just being near the sweets had her wanting to run the opposite direction. Had her wanting to step on a scale and make sure she wasn’t affected by it.

  “Oh, come on,” he joked, holding the caramel chocolate cupcake out to her. “It can’t be that evil. Evil, wicked chocolate.”

  Ronnie licked her lips, salivating at the thought—at the smell. At Lex. “Split it with me?”

  “I really shouldn’t be eating on the job.”

  “In this family? They’re not gonna let you leave without celebrating with us, anyway. You might as well.”

  He looked around with a quick glance over his shoulder. “Oh, all right.” grabbing a napkin and a plastic fork, he cut the decadent cupcake down the middle, handing half to Ronnie. “Cheers,” he said, holding his half up and tapping it against hers.

  “Cheers.” She took a bite, flavors exploding across her taste buds. Rich chocolate, creamy caramel, a bit of a crunch on the buttercream, and a touch of salt to offset the sweetness. It was… for lack of a better word… perfect. “Oh my God,” she groaned, closing her eyes.

  “If I said ‘I told you so’, would it sound too arrogant?”

  Ronnie swallowed the bite, not able to answer him just yet. How long had it been since she allowed herself that sort of indulgence? Six months? At least? She had a bite of pie at Cam and Lydia’s engagement party, but that was it. One bite. And she was still standing. She still maintained her workout schedule and muscular physique. A little indulgence now and then certainly wouldn’t kill her. Letting go of that constant control and micromanaging of her diet and fitness might even do her some good.

  When she opened her eyes, Lex’s smile was the first thing she saw, and it was like looking at him in a whole new way. With a whole new level of confidence. “Lex,” she said, “would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?”

  She wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected. A grin. A hug. A smirk, maybe. But she was met with none of those things. Instead, his already fair complexion paled even more and he gulped his bite of cupcake down hard. Her moment of confidence peaked and much like after lifting a heavy weight, it fell, landing on the ground with a thud.

  “Oh. I, uh, um… well, Ronnie,” he stammered, wiping at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I probably shouldn’t—”

  Ronnie backed away, shaking her head. It was a cupcake. A fucking cupcake from a baker and here she was reading into it like every other dumb airhead in Maple Grove probably did. Did the sugar rot her brain with one bite? God, she was an idiot. “Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Please, wait. Let me explain.”

  Behind her, she heard her family cheer, and a quick glance behind her confirmed that Yvonne and Steve had returned. “Don’t. It’s fine, really. I should…” She didn’t bother finishing her sentence, but gestured behind her to where her family was circling around the happy couple. She couldn’t deal with his rejection just then. She had to go be happy for someone else. Happy for another couple.

  Gulping, she spun, taking the extra breath to force away that burning sensation behind her eyes. What a stupid thing to be upset about. Two years of fantasies of the British baker down the drain. What a waste of energy. And time. Forcing a smile on her face, she walked over to hug the future bride and groom, dropping the cupcake into the trashcan on her way.

  A Note from the Author

  This was a particularly challenging book for me to write. In September of 2014, our beloved dog, Red was diagnosed with canine lymphoma. We were fortunate enough to be accepted into the program Frankie’s Friends which offers financial help to families whose animals have been diagnosed with severe or terminal illnesses. With their help, Red was able to get the chemo treatments he needed and we had an additional year with our sweet boy.

  In the summer of 2015, we said goodbye to Red and he drifted off into his forever peaceful sleep where he could spend eternity chasing squirrels, running in the snow, and diving his snout into the lake in an effort to try to catch fish. We miss him dreadfully every day, but with Healing You, I was so happy to get the chance to rewrite Red’s ending. To give him the outcome we all wish he had gotten.

  As a thank you to Frankie’s Friends, I’ll be donating a portion of the profits from Healing You to them in an effort to help other animal friends in need. They are a great organization and if you have a moment, I encourage you to check out their website. www.frankiesfriends.org

  About the Author

  Photo by Katana Photography

  Katana Collins is lucky enough to love her day job almost as much as she loves writing. She splits her time evenly between photographing boudoir and newborn portraits and writing steamy romances in a variety of genres—paranormal, contemporary, new adult and suspense.

  She bounces between living in Brooklyn, New York and Portland, Maine, with an ever-growing brood of rescue animals: a kind of mean cat, a very mellow chihuahua, and a very not mellow lab puppy… oh yeah, there’s a husband somewhere in that mix, too. She can usually be found hunched over her laptop in a cafe, guzzling gallons of coffee, and wearing fabulous (albeit sometimes impractical) shoes.

  Visit her on the web at www.katanacollins.com

  To contact or interact with Katana, go to Twitter (@katanacollins) or Facebook.com/katanacollins. If you loved this or any other of her books, consider joining her street team, Kat’s Kittens, on Facebook!

  Excerpt from Cam’s Story

  Capturing You

  (A Maple Grove Romance, Book 1)

  Prologue

  The edge of the heavy card stock bit into Lydia Ryder’s palm as she gripped the pamphlets. Numbness crept up her body, beginning with her toes until it nearly swallowed her.

  “There are alternatives when and if you’re ready to be a mother. Premature ovarian failure doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t have children. There are plenty of options. In vitro, adoption…” Dr. Seaver’s voice faded into the recesses of Lydia’s mind. Even though the doctor only stood only a few feet away, it may as well have been miles.

  Lydia stared, hypnotized by the pamphlet in her hand. Coping with Infertility…

  She wasn’t even thirty years old, too focused on her photojournalism career to consider a serious relationship, much less a family. Hell, she didn’t even know if she wan
ted children, and yet here she was—with nature making the choice for her.

  “Depression can be very common in the wake of a discovery like this. I’m referring you to a therapist—someone you can talk to. And in the meantime, we’ll start you on estrogen therapy. You’ll feel a lot better once your hormones are balanced. Lydia… are you listening?”

  She jumped at the weight of Dr. Seaver’s palm on her shoulder. With rapid fire blinks, she raised her gaze to the gynecologist. “Yes. Yes, I’m listening. Thank you, Dr. Seaver.”

  She pushed off of the exam table, hiking her leather camera bag and laptop case onto her shoulder and draping her blazer over an arm. Taking the prescriptions the doctor held out, Lydia tucked it into her purse along with the folded pamphlet.

  There was another few minutes of chatting, but she could barely focus enough to listen. It was as though she was submerged in water, straining to hear those above her.

  When she left the building, the roar of New York City traffic was like white noise, as comforting as the sound of waves crashing or crickets chirping.

  The prescriptions and pamphlet—merely three pieces of paper—weighed heavily in her purse. It was a boulder on her shoulder. Moisture welled in her eyes, the tears burning like acid, but she blinked them back. She would not mourn. She would not cry over something she never had and didn’t know she even wanted.

  With a glance at her watch, she felt the relief that she wasn’t yet late for Noah Blue Tripp’s press conference. She passed by a Newsstand off of Hudson; that horrible article that her name was now attached to sat front and center, nestled between People and Us Weekly. Noah Blue: Hot Actor, Cold Heart. She cringed at the cover; at the differences between the portrait she took, a smiling Noah against a simple white backdrop, paralleled against the dingy, dark photo that the ghost writer had found of him drunk at a club.

  It was her first ever mainstream magazine article. She understood why the Daily View wanted one of their veterans ghosting her. But did they have to so utterly botch her article? Not to mention the fact that they used off the record information. By the time Lydia had read the new copy, the article had already gone to print and it was too late. The ghost writer claimed that it would be their word against Noah’s.

  She pushed on, ignoring that queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. To make matters worse, a rival magazine, City Star, saw the Noah Blue article and liked it so much that they offered her a full time job.

  She hadn’t said no, but she also hadn’t said yes. Gotcha journalism and TMZ reporting was the last thing she had expected her life to become when she graduated with her BFA in photography and writing. Her throat tightened, sweat forming beneath her button down shirt as June’s hot sun beat down on her. But now? These medical bills were going to add up if she didn’t get on a better insurance plan. And how often did photographers get the opportunity for salaried jobs with paid vacation and sick days? It was a good opportunity; even if she only did it for a short time to pay off some bills. Lydia pushed her eyes to the ground, watching carefully as she huffed down the city sidewalk toward the press conference. The building was just ahead—a tall, corporate looking building that was plopped right in the middle of the West Village’s old city charm.

  She froze, waiting at the stop light from across the street as city traffic whizzed by. She blinked as dark hair, olive skin and dimples came into view. Noah Blue. Standing just outside the building, talking to another man. Oh, God, she felt sick about what had happened. The Daily View using that story about his sister-in-law’s funeral was just appalling. And even though the magazine’s lawyers had warned her to stay far away from him, she just couldn’t. She owed him an explanation; an apology.

  The light turned green and she rushed forward as Noah walked into the coffee shop that was in the lobby of the building. Her laptop and camera bag bumped her hip with each bouncing step. What the hell was she even going to say? What could she say?

  She shook the doubtful feelings away. It didn’t matter. She needed to apologize; even if it opened herself up to a lawsuit. She needed to look this man in the eyes and tell him that she had nothing to do with that story—but even still, that she was sorry.

  She pushed through the glass doors as the familiar smell of heady arabica wafted around her. Scanning the bustling cafe, she looked for those signature blue eyes and dimples that made Noah Blue Tripp famous. How did he manage to disappear so quickly? There was a huge line of people waiting to place their orders. Then again, he was a star… maybe they let him through to the front of the line? She weaved her way through the crowd, just in time to see a glimpse of Noah getting on the elevators in the lobby.

  Damn. But maybe it was better this way. She didn’t even want to go to this press conference—she knew exactly what happened with that article. What else was there to learn?

  That nauseous feeling flooded her core once more and she leaned against the wall beside the restroom door. Was it the hormones Dr. Seaver had injected her with today? Or was that her stupid conscience rearing its head? Either way, it felt horrible. She felt horrible.

  Pushing off the wall, Lydia turned and reached for the bathroom door just as it swung open. A broad-shouldered man in a plain white T-shirt and perfectly fitted jeans barreled toward her. He didn’t look up as he shook his hands of water. Defined muscles pushed against the shirt in the most delicious way, and she stood frozen to the floor as he collided with her. Her ankles wobbled over the pencil thin heels she wore, and she yelped, stumbling backwards as a strong hand darted out, steadying her just in time.

  She began an apology as he said at the same time, “I’m so sorry.” His voice boomed over hers, and her mouth went dry at his tone—one hundred percent masculine and utterly delicious. She could dip that voice in chocolate and eat it for dessert.

  He smiled. A genuine smile from a stranger in New York was not a common thing. Two dimples formed on either side of his mouth. Heat raced across her body, and Lydia’s skin tightened under his gaze as it swept her face.

  His chest was heavy with each breath and she watched as his expression shifted into something more melancholy, reminding her of where she’d just come from. She placed a palm on her purse, remembering the pamphlet.

  “My fault,” he said as he dropped his hand from her elbow. She’d barely noticed he had still been touching her—it felt that comfortable, like his hands were simply meant to be on her body.

  A heaviness sat in her belly as a thought hit her hard like a bucket of ice water. Dating—meeting men… it would never be that easy, flirty thing again. Sooner or later, if things got serious, she’d need to have the infertility conversation. She was suddenly very thankful that his hand was nowhere on her anymore.

  Shrugging, she gave him a small smile. But even as she lifted the corners of her lips, she could feel the quivering sob forming in her chest. Like a striking match, it started small, but given the circumstance could quickly form into a roaring fire.

  His jaw tightened as he swallowed and creases settled across his sun-weathered face. “You can do this,” he said, almost as though he knew; as though he understood.

  Her fake smile sagged, and for the first time all day, Lydia allowed herself to feel the full weight—the full sadness of her loss. She didn’t bother brushing off the runaway tear.

  The man stepped to the side. Slowly, she reached for the doorknob, pausing just before she opened it. “Thank you,” she answered, looking up into his bright blue eyes once more. She smiled, warmed by the kindness of this stranger, before closing the door behind her.

  After splashing some cold water on her cheeks and taking a moment to collect herself, she exited the bathroom and moved to the end of the long line. Somehow, the crowd was comforting. And even though there wasn’t a single friend in the coffee shop, Lydia felt far less alone in the presence of strangers.

  Two people ahead of her, she saw the man from the bathroom. Just as she looked up and caught his eye, he turned his head back toward the menu board. Lydia
exhaled a silent breath. Of course he wasn’t interested in her, not in that way. No man wanted to date a crying woman.

  “Mommy! Mommy! I want a blueberry muffin!”

  The child’s voice came from directly behind her and cut right through to her heart. With a stiff spine, she turned to find a little girl with light brown hair, ruddy cheeks, and light eyes. Heat flushed across Lydia’s face, and her chest expanded with a held breath that felt like a bubble lodged just to the right of her heart.

  “Is that how you ask for things?” the mother asked, her voice razor sharp.

  The little girl groaned, and the next thing Lydia knew, the kid was stomping and thrashing her limbs around. Her screams pierced through the low, chattering hum of the café.

  The mother gave a weary sigh and somehow managed to talk over the screams. “You have until three. One—two—”

  Lydia shifted, looking to the board uncomfortably. What do you do in this situation? Pretend like it wasn’t happening? Ignore the tantrum? Hardly any of Lydia’s friends had kids yet—she could count on one hand the number of times she’d held a baby. The noise abruptly stopped.

  “Now apologize to Mommy.”

  Mommy. Mom. Mother. Mama. Lydia clamped her eyes shut, squeezing as hard as she could as though this subtle movement could completely eradicate any thoughts of children or motherhood from her mind.

  “Kids,” the man in front of her murmured with a snort. “Who needs ’em, right?”

  Lydia’s eyes snapped open, excitement pulsing in her brain. Was bathroom guy talking to her again? But instead, she was met with the gaze of a different man directly in front of her. He was handsome in a much different way than the guy from earlier. Kids, who needs ’em. Was he kidding? She scanned his body—he was in great shape, even if a little pretentious in the way his shirt was rolled just perfectly to the elbow.