by Amanda Faye
His eyes never leave mine staring back at him, like he's the strangest creature I've ever encountered.
When he seems to settle, at last, he wipes the tears from his eyes, giving me a beatific smile.
"What a pair we make, my Susie Q. Imagine if we'd had this talk five years ago. Hell, five months."
I smile at him, sadness behind my eyes.
"The child I'm carrying might actually be yours."
The grin melts off his face, to be replaced with a steely composure.
"The child in your belly is my child. It’s mine because I say it’s mine, and I'd like to see someone try to tell me different."
Tears spring to my eyes again, and I blink in rapid succession, trying to will them away.
I reach for him, bringing my hand to his face.
"I'm tired. Take me to bed?"
He covers my hand with his, rubbing his cheek against my palm.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Chapter Eleven
Matthew
It's three days before my parents finally get back to me. The Fourth of July slash engagement party is tomorrow night, and we go home two days after that. If I had realized it would be that difficult to get the ring to me, I wouldn't have bothered asking.
"Hey guys," I answer the phone, and they respond with the usual chorus of “hello”s that's a staple of conversing with them together. Honestly, it can get a little dizzying sometimes.
"Sorry, it took us so long to get back to you. We went up to Mr. Smither's jewelry shop and explained the situation to him. We've always been good customers to them."
"So have the Belles," I mumble under my breath.
"Exactly," my father chimes in, pleased I caught on so quick.
"So, he made a call to a friend, who made a call, and so on. It arrived in the diamond district this morning and should be at," I listen as papers rumple in the background. "Where's the sheet with the address on it, sweetie?"
The diamond district? My parents, man. All this, to give me a stupid ring I could have grabbed from their house in three days. They really are amazing.
"Aha!"
My father rattles off a jewelry store located a couple of miles from the Hamptons house.
"You should still have plenty of time to swing by and get it," my dad says, pride in his accomplishment evident in his voice.
"I want pictures Matty, of when you propose, and the ring on little Susie Q's finger. Send me a belly shot too! I need to post it on Facebook. Let all the old biddies know I'm finally going to be a grandmother."
"You guys. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Honestly. Next week. Sunday dinner. Your place."
"You bringing my daughter in law?" my mother asks, glee in her voice.
"You can bet on it."
I'm already bounding up the steps in the hallway by the time I hang up the call, needing to get my keys and wallet.
Susie Q is asleep, her afternoon nap lasting longer than usual. She didn't want to take it, afraid of being judged. I tucked her in anyway. It's hard work growing a human.
The minute I walk into the store, I hear Mom’s voice in my head, buy her something pretty, which is how I end up with a professionally cleaned wedding set—my grandmother’s—in a custom box, and a teardrop sapphire necklace with the date we made love engraved on the back.
I have the ring box already, when I reach for my ringing phone, not paying attention to anything other than the salesclerk packaging up the necklace.
"Get here quick," Julie snaps in my ear, bypassing all pleasantries.
My senses sharpen, and the air whooshes from my lungs. If something happened to Susanna or the baby—
"What happened?" I demand, already attempting to get the clerk's attention. "I'll come back for it," I yell over my shoulder, running for my car.
"David's office got a call half an hour ago. From a man claiming to be the father of Suzanna's baby. Demanding half a million dollars to keep silent. He gave them twenty-four hours to decide."
Mother Fucker.
"I'm on my way," I snap as I hurl myself into the driver's seat and drop my phone in the chair next to me.
As it connects to my car, and I tear down the road fast enough for the autobahn, I smack one of the autodial settings.
"Matthew, twice in one day. What a—"
"Mom," I interrupt her with fear in my voice. "Put Dad on. I need his help."
I slam on the brakes, bypassing the parking structures and coming to a stop on the front walkway. Julie started running the minute she saw my car pull up and is almost at my door by the time I cut off the ignition.
"Where are they," I beg, my desperation to get to Susie making my voice sharp.
"In the drawing-room," she pants, pivoting on her heel and chasing me back into the house. I take the front steps two at a time and burst into the house so hard the door bangs open then rebounds in my direction. I just barely manage to keep it from hitting Julie who’s trailing behind me.
The drawing room doors are shut, the better to keep the family's intimate details from the staff. Better not to test the bounds of those confidentiality contracts. Even with the heavy wooden doors closed, I can hear David Belle yelling at his daughter. The Secret Service is standing in the hallway, and I see them twitch as I come running down the corridor.
They're not stupid. They know trouble when they see it.
I throw open the doors, my eyes grazing over the room until I spot my Susie Q, sitting in a chair in the corner, tears streaming down her face.
"If it isn't the other moron," her father yells, hands thrown in the air. "Go away, Matthew. Don't you think you've done enough damage here?"
Ignoring him, and the security detail discreetly following me into the room, I rush to Susie, dropping to a squat in front of her.
"Are you okay?" I ask her, cradling her face in my hands. Her eyes are puffy, face damp and red. She's cradling her bump, growing bigger every day, and I place a hand on top of hers, cradling our child with her.
She nods yes, then no, then shrugs her shoulders as she takes in a shuddering breath. I'm going to kill that man.
"How could you?" David yaps, his voice closer than it was a minute ago. "We trusted you, Matthew, and you fucked us."
I close my eyes, desperately trying to keep a hold of my temper. Placing a kiss on Susanna's lips, I rise and face her father.
"How could I what, David? Do everything in my power to protect your daughter? Easy. I love her. What the fuck is your excuse?"
He recoils as though I've slapped him, and I take the opportunity of his brief silence to take the reins of the conversation.
"It doesn't matter, David. I've handled it. I don't give a shit what you think. It's already done."
As if I timed it, half the cellphones in the room go off at once. Tyler pulls his from its holder, then twists to show it to Alex.
Mrs. Belle pulls hers from a pocket and audibly gasps into the room.
"What did you do?" David barks, regaining his equilibrium.
"My lawyer—"
"Your father," he interrupts me, nastiness on his voice.
"My lawyer," I speak again, loud enough to carry over him, "put out a press release. It says, and I'm paraphrasing here, that Susanna was in a relationship when she found herself pregnant, at which point the man cut off all contact, and she discovered he'd been using an alias for the length of their acquaintance. That I, having been in love with her since childhood, saw my chance and took it.
“As I helped her prepare for impending motherhood, we became closer and fell in love. It says that we're only making the announcement now because the family, a model for everything good in this country," I sneer, and I can't keep the derision from my voice, "is being blackmailed. Because you are so very proud of your daughter, you have nothing to hide."
David is seething, Mrs. Belle looks moments from passing out, and the brothers have their heads together, already planning a way out of the hole I put them in.
&nb
sp; "Lastly," I say as I turn and face Susie Q, pulling my grandmother’s ring from my pocket, "it says that while that child does not share my DNA, it will share my last name, as will its mother, and the first person to say a word about her in the press will be the first person sued into bankruptcy."
I drop to one knee in front of Suzanna, cracking the lid on the black velvet box.
She sucks in another shuddering breath, a tremulous smile peeking out through the tears. I bring my hand to her face, wiping away the moisture as best I can.
"Every word of that is true, my Susie Q. I was in love with the girl you were, and now I'm in awe of the woman you've become. I know it didn't happen the way we wished it would, but as far as I'm concerned, you are carrying my baby. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
She giggles, and whimpers, and brings a hand to my face, cupping my cheek in her palm.
"I told you yes a week ago," she quakes out, and I'm so relieved at the smile on her face that I throw my head back and laugh.
"So long, Susie Q, as you know you're mine," I say, as I slip the ring onto her finger.
"Yours," she agrees, leaning down to place a kiss on my lips. "We both are."
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Biography
Amanda Faye currently resides in Atlanta with her high school sweetheart and husband of 15 years and their 4 amazing children.
She's had a passion for reading and writing since she was a child. She stole her first romance novel from her mother at age 12 and hasn't looked back since.
You could say being a Reeder is in her blood. (Family joke)
Catch a sneak peak of Book FOUR in the Forbidden Fruit Shorts Series, available for pre-order now. Add it to your tbr pile today!
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53352220-tall-dark-and-brooding-forbidden-fruits-4
Order yours at Tall, Dark, and Brooding
Chapter One
Natalie
September
I should not have had that last shot.
Frankly, I shouldn't have had the first.
But the third?
That was a bad decision.
It's the last Sunday before fall classes start at Calgary Conservatory and 4:4, the local piano bar, is overflowing with students. Each is attempting to get one more drink in, one more fling out of their system; before we buckle down, and the real work begins.
4:4 is always loud and crowded. When it isn't putting on scheduled shows, which they do two-three times a week, it's a free for all at the piano bench. And the guitar, and the microphone. And whichever random instruments are hauled across the street from the practice rooms to the stage available for the patrons to play.
There's a certain feeling of frenzieness in the air tonight. The boisterous laughing is a smidgen too raucous, the singing a little too strained. Calgary Conservatory is the most prestigious performing arts school in the nation. It's not for the faint of heart.
When we let loose, we really let go.
It's boredom, more than anything else, that makes me order the last shot of vodka. Boredom has always been my downfall. Most of the bad choices I've made in my life are traced directly back to the doldrums that come from studying one subject since I was little more than a baby.
I knew the moment I watched Beauty and the Beast at age five that I was going to be a musician. I cried my eyes out when the beast became a prince. Not because he was the hero, but because the music supporting him was just so beautiful. Still, that doesn't mean that it doesn't become tedious now and then.
Steven, my brother from another mother, was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. But he's late, as usual. I'm in my fifth year at Calgary, my first in the master's program. It puts me apart from the other students in the bar. While I get hugs and cheek kisses as dancers and performers make their way in and out of the building, no one stays to talk. I am the same, yet oh so different now.
Hence, the shots.
As the liquor slides down my throat and loosens the vertebrae in my spine, I feel spiders crawl all over my neck. I can feel the eyeballs boring into my head and look left and right until I finally see Paul sitting several seats down from me at the bar. He's alone too, but that's because he's universally hated.
I pull my phone from my pocket, texting Steve as quickly as I can.
Where are you? Rescue me! Mall Cop is here.
I feel bad for using the nickname the undergrads gave Paul. I liked the Paul Blart movies. It's rude to disrespect them by throwing our Paul into the mix. But the name stuck. And he hates it, so I use it.
Two minutes. Lay one on me when I get there. That'll shut him up.
Two minutes.
Two minutes could last a very long time. I glance at Paul against my better judgment, and he's staring at me, licking his lips. I feel like a pork chop. One that's undercooked and poorly seasoned. He waggles his eyebrows in my direction, and I have to swallow back the bile rising in my throat.
Boredom. It kills me every time. I went on one date with Paul at the end of last semester. One.
Why?
You guessed it. Because I hadn't had a date in two years and my vibrator needed new batteries. He'd been asking me, hounding me, for weeks, and I figured letting him buy me dinner one time wouldn't cause any lasting damage.
How wrong I was.
I sent a mass SOS message before we even got to the appetizers and was out of there with a fake emergency five minutes later.
The door opens, and I think I see black hair, but I can't be sure.
I rise from the barstool, and Paul mimics my motions, lifting his leg and pushing away as I try to lose myself in the crowd.
I fail.
For all that his slimy personality gives him a small demeanor in appearance, he's still rather tall. Bad, because he can see me over the crowd, but beneficial because I can see him closing the distance.
Son of a biscuit.
I create and discard random escape plans, each one more outlandish than the one before.
There!
Steve, bless his heart, is finally pushing his way through the crowd. Or he was.
Gosh darn it, he's moving in the wrong direction! I feel my sternum collapse with the feeling of miserable surrender.
No. Absolutely not.
I refuse to start my master's program like this. If I begin the school year this depressing, I'll spend the whole semester singing arias about cow farming and pig manure. I won't allow it.
I don't give Paul the chance to catch up to me, using my slight size to dart in and out of couples and groups, making my way to the scraggly haired asshole that's supposed to be my best friend. With a final lunge and a gasp of celebration, I grab him by the wrist and yank him around to face me. Not caring that fifty percent of this bar knows who we are, and that Steve is incredibly taken, I climb him like a tree and plant my lips against his.
When suddenly I realize I've gone from bad to worse.
The first thing I notice is that the man pressed up against me isss—not Steve.
Sure, they have the same head of shaggy black hair. And they do have similar body types. Easy to confuse in my moment of panic and slight inebriation. It becomes obvious, however, as I arch on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around this man's neck, that there is where the similarities stop.
Whereas Steve has the body of a dancer, powerful and robust, he's slight for all that; lithe and tightly compressed. The man with his chest pressed up
against mine is broad, like a football player. Or an opera singer. The sharp intake of breath he sucked down when my lips hit his expanded his pecs like a balloon filling with air, and I swear he doubled in size under my fingertips.
The lips molding with mine are lush and full. The face they belong to has a five o'clock shadow rough against my cheeks. Not that I don't appreciate it. The sting adds a new texture to our kiss, and I find myself trying to get another millimeter or so on my tippy toes so that I can bring myself closer to it.
Still, though, Steve has a baby face. Couldn't get scruffy if his life depended on it.
Steve is of average height. 5'11 at the most. This man? He towers above me, so much so that as I crane to reach his lips, he dips and kisses me deeper, bringing the mountain to Mohammed.
And Steve? Well, he'd never palm my ass like that. Ever. Just the thought brings a giggle to the surface. Which my mystery man uses to his advantage, plunging his tongue in and exploring my mouth when I part my lips to laugh.
I should probably be more upset that a stranger is caressing me in a bar. But since I started it, and it feels so very nice, I decide to forgive the newcomer for his tiny indiscretion.
I let my nails graze against his scalp, and he moans into my mouth.
It was an accident.
I was simply trying to better my grip.
So, I didn't slip.
That's believable? Right?
Instead, he hauls me closer, bending his knees and lifting me as if I weigh nothing more than air. Wrapping my legs around his waist can't be held against me either.
What else was I supposed to do with them?
The sounds around us fade into nothing. Instead, I hear trumpets, heralding the returning conquer. Saxophone riffs trill up my spine, and Whitney Houston returns from the grave to belt 'I Have Nothing' into my ear.