Never Got Over You

by Scott, S. L.

  “It took us three times to get it right.”

  “Third time’s a charm.”

  As he caresses my cheek, the amusement disappears and is replaced with sincerity. “We aren’t lucky, Natalie, and charm had nothing to do with it. We’re destiny.”

  I release a breath and then lean against him. “I should send The Chad a thank-you gift. If it hadn’t been such an awful date, I wouldn’t have been heading home.”

  Bending down to kiss that spot just below my ear that makes me weak in the knees, he then says, “Yeah, I’m not that big of a man. Let’s just leave him in the past.”

  I laugh. “Already forgotten.”

  My best friend comes over with the shot hat. When she holds it up, I say, “Nope. That gets me in trouble every time.” I kiss Nick’s scruffy cheek, because he’s so damn sexy, and he’s all mine.

  His arm wraps around my waist and he kisses me right back. “I’m just the kind of trouble you need.” He helps me from the bar.

  “If I put that hat on, we’re going to end up making Cookie’s wish a reality.”

  Twirling me out, he brings me back in, holding me tight against him. Dipping me, he asks, “Would that be so bad?”

  “I still want to have two kids with you, but I’m thinking we have some fun for a few years, build the business, and grow your career. What do you say?”

  “I already said it in front of the world.” I’m whipped up against him, eye to eye. “I do.” I kiss him, and when he sets me down on my feet, he adds, “We have time for a family.” Cheek to cheek, we slow dance. “I’m happy we’re returning to New York together. No more long-distance. You’re stuck with me now, Mrs. Christiansen.”

  Harrison comes over and says, “The bar’s opening up to the public soon, so we have to wrap it up.”

  A two-hour window to celebrate marriage to this man is not long enough. Good thing I have the rest of my life with him. Nick asks, “You ready to start that honeymoon?”

  “Definitely.”

  As we hug everyone goodbye and thank them for being here, I see Harrison trying to talk to Tatum and her effectively blowing him off. I’m curious what happened between them, considering how well they hit it off last time we were here. If that’s not a story in the making, I don’t know what is.

  Hugging my dad, I rest my head on his shoulder. It’s not but a few seconds, but we sway together. He says, “You owe me a father-daughter dance.”

  “I promise we’ll get one when I’m back in New York.” He looks good. Healthy and happy. My mother’s never been more relaxed, even talking to Cookie about astrology and the moon phases of women. I’m not sure what that means, but I love that they get along so well.

  While everyone goes outside, Nick and I stand there, holding hands. He’s still Mr. Sexy, but there’s no smug found in his smile. Just pure, unadulterated joy. It looks good on him. Our guests start chanting our names. Nick kisses my bare shoulder and then offers his arm. I wrap mine around his, and we rush through the doors into bubbles being blown. The bubbles fill the air as we pop a few running toward the parking lot.

  Nick stops and then laughs so hard that he holds his stomach. When he turns back to me, he says, “Is this the actual scooter we rode on?”

  “It is. And now it’s all ours.”

  “You’re very good. The strings of cans and just-married sign are a nice touch.”

  “What can I say? I strive to bring smiles.”

  He comes to me and lifts me into the air. “Mission accomplished.” Lowering me slowly, he takes advantage and kisses me from my collarbone to my lips, until my feet are firmly back on the ground. He achieves an impossible feat, considering I’m floating on cloud nine.

  Taking the helmet with my new name—Mrs. Christiansen—on the back of it, he carefully places it on my head and snaps the strap under my chin before putting his on. I pull my skirt up to my thighs and slip onto the seat. When he gets on the scooter, he asks, “I thought you hated everything on two wheels?”

  I wrap my arms around him, holding on for the ride of my life. “I did, but I hadn’t met you yet, and here we are now married. How are we so lucky to have found our way back to each other in a city of almost nine million people?”

  “It’s not luck, baby.” Starting the engine, he revs it a few times before looking at me over his shoulder with a big grin. “I would have found you again one way or another because the truth is, I never got over you.”

  The End.

  Add The One I Want to your Goodreads To Be Read Now. Click here: Goodreads

  Spoiler Alert: It’s about a certain someone from Never Got Over You.

  Make sure to check out the sneak peek I included for We Were Once. Turn the page.

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  We Were Once Prologue

  I’ve never died before, but I recognize the feeling.

  We Were Once Chapter 1

  Chloe Fox

  “Promise me you’ll protect Frankie with your life, Chloe.”

  Glancing sideways, I find it hard to take this seriously. “Um . . .”

  My mom hugs Frankie to her chest like the son she never had. “You’ll give him a good home, feed him, and nurture him?”

  I think this is taking it a little too far. “It’s a plant, Mom, not a human.”

  “It’s not just a plant. It’s a bonsai tree. They’re fickle creatures—”

  “Technically, it’s not a creature. It’s a miniature tree.”

  “Creature or not, promise me you’ll take care of it, Chloe. This isn’t just a plant. This little guy can provide harmony and calm to your place.”

  “Mom, I got it.” I attempt to pry the potted plant from her, but when she resists, I ask, “Do you want to keep Frankie? He’d love New York City. You can take him to Central Park or a show on Broadway. A quick trip to MoMA or the Statue of Liberty—”

  “Very funny.” She shoves him toward me. “Take him. I bought him for you.”

  “We can set up a visitation schedule if you’d like?”

  That earns me an eye roll that’s punctuated with laughter. “You might think I’m being dramatic, but I can already tell this is what your apartment is missing. I wish you’d let me decorate it more. So, mock me if you must, but that little guy is going to bring balance to your life.”

  “It’s a lot of pressure to put on a plant, don’t you think?”

  “Little tree,” she corrects stubbornly as if I’ve insulted the thing. Crossing her arms over her chest, she raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You want to be a doctor, Chloe. Treat it like a patient. Water, attention, and care. The basics.”

  Holding the plant in front of me, I admire the pretty curve to the trunk and branches. It’s easy to see why my mom picked this one. “I’ll try not to kill it like the plant you gave me last year.” I set the plastic pot down on top of a stack of textbooks on the coffee table. “But you have t
o admit that I gave that ivy a great send-off.”

  “You did. Right down the trash shoot.” She laughs again, but I hear the sadness trickling in.

  “Why are you getting upset?”

  The green of my mom’s eyes matches the rich color of the leaves when she cries, just like mine. “I think the bonsai has had enough water for one day. Don’t you think?” I ask teasingly to hide how much I hate the impending goodbye.

  She laughs, caressing my cheek. The support she’s always shown me is felt in her touch. “I’ve had the best time with you over the past few weeks. I’m going to miss you, honey.”

  Leaning into it, I say, “If everything goes to plan, I’ll be in the city next year, and we can see each other all the time.”

  “You’ve worked hard. Now it’s time to enjoy your senior year.” Her departure pending, we embrace.

  “I enjoy working hard, and my grades still matter this year if I want to get into med school.”

  A sympathetic smile creases her lips when she steps back. “I’m sorry you feel you have to be perfect all the time or that you feel medical school is the only option for you. It’s not. You can do—”

  “It’s what I want.” This subject was the final blow to her marriage to my dad. They disagreed about a lot, but my schooling and future were the sticking points. I don’t want to relive it.

  Moving to the couch, she fluffs a pillow, but I have a feeling it’s only out of habit. “Seeking perfection is the easiest way to find disappointment.” She eyes the pillow, satisfaction never reaching her eyes. Standing back, she swings her gaze my way. “Happiness is a much nobler mission.”

  After she divorced my father, she put it into practice. After leaving Newport for Manhattan two years ago, she’s happier than ever. “I know you have big plans, Chloe, but you’re only young once. Go out with Ruby. Have fun. Kiss boys. You’re allowed to do what you want instead of what others want for you. You’re allowed to be you.”

  Be me? The words strike me oddly. “Who am I?”

  “Ah, sweet girl, whoever you want to be. New experiences will allow you to see yourself through a new lens.”

  I sit on the couch, blocking her view of the pillow she just fixed. “Is that why you left Newport?”

  “Yes, I wanted to discover me again. In Manhattan, I’m not Norman’s wife or the chair of the preservation society. I’m not running an eight-thousand-square-foot house or hosting garden parties. In New York, I get to be Cat Fox and Chloe’s mother. Those are my favorite roles I’ve ever had.”

  Working with my father might have been great for my résumé, but back home, I’ll always be compared to the great Norman Fox. I’ll live in his shadow if I return to Rhode Island and won’t ever stand on my own accomplishments. So I understand what she means a little too well. She seems to think she was saved. Is it too late for me?

  “Do you know who you are?”

  “I’m learning every day. All I’m saying is life is happening all around you. Look up from the books every now and then.”

  Turning around, she takes one last glance around the apartment. “You need a pop of color in here. I can send sofa pillows.”

  I get what she’s saying. She’s the queen of décor and has strong opinions regarding my life. She’d love to not only throw some pillows on my couch but also put a man in my life.

  She never understood that good grades are much more rewarding than spending time with boys who want nothing more than a one-night stand. “Don’t send pillows,” I say, grinning.

  A sly grin rolls across her face. “You can snuggle with them, or a guy—”

  “You want me to date.” I sigh. “I get it.”

  “College guys aren’t the same as high school boys.” She takes her purse from the couch and situates it on her shoulder as she moves to the door.

  I roll my eyes. “Could have fooled me.”

  “You just haven’t met someone who makes your heart flutter.”

  “You’re such a romantic.”

  Kissing my cheek, she opens the door, and says, “Take care of yourself, honey. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I close the door and rest against the back of it, exhaling. After two months of working at my father’s clinic and then staying with her in the city for the past two weeks, I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have time to myself and silence. Pure, unadulterated—

  Knock. Knock.

  I jump, startled from the banging against my back. Spinning around, I squint to look through the peephole, and my chin jerks back.

  A guy holding a bag outside my door says, “Food delivery.”

  “I didn’t order food,” I say, palms pressed to the door as I spy on him.

  A smirk plays on his lips. Yup, he flat-out stares into the peephole with a smug grin on his face. Plucking the receipt from the bag, he adds, “Chloe?” The e is drawn out in his dulcet tone as if it’s possible to make such a common name sound special. He managed it.

  I unlock the deadbolt but leave the chain in place. When I open the door, I peek out, keeping my body and weight against it for safety.

  Met with brown eyes that catch the setting sun streaming in from the window in the hall, there’s no hiding the amusement shining in them. “Hi,” he says, his gaze dipping to my mouth and back up. “Chloe?”

  “I’m Chloe, but as I said, I didn’t order food.”

  He glances toward the stairs, the tension in his shoulders dropping before his eyes return to mine. “I have the right address, the correct apartment, and name. I’m pretty sure it’s for you.” He holds it out after a casual shrug. “Anyway, it’s getting cold, and it’s chicken and dumplings, my mom’s specialty that she only makes on Sundays. Trust me, it’s better hot, though I’ve had it cold, and it was still good.”

  He makes a solid argument. All the information is correct. I shift, my guard dropping. I’m still curious, though. “Your mom made it?”

  Thumbing over his shoulder as though the restaurant is behind him, he replies, “Only on Sundays. Me and T cook the rest of the time.”

  “Who’s T?”

  “The other cook.” He turns the bag around. Patty’s Diner is printed on the white paper. Then he points at his worn shirt, the logo barely visible from all the washings.

  “And Patty is your mother?”

  He swivels the bag around and nods. “Patty is my mom.”

  My stomach growls from the sound of the bag crinkling in his hands, reminding me that I haven’t eaten in hours, and chicken and dumplings sounds amazing. Only “culinary cuisine,” as my dad would call it, was acceptable when I was growing up. Comfort food didn’t qualify because anything with gravy instead of some kind of reduction was a no-no.

  Grinning, he pushes the bag closer. “As much as I’d love to stay here all night and chat about the mystery of this delivery, I have other food getting cold down in the car. You’re hungry. Take the bag and enjoy.” He says it like we’re friends, and I’m starting to think we’ve spent enough time together to consider it.

  I unchain the door and open it to take the bag from him. Holding up a finger, I ask, “Do you mind waiting? I’ll get you a tip.”

  As if he won the war, two dimples appear as his grin grows. The cockiness reflected in his eyes doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s more handsome than I initially gave him credit for.

  Handsome is a dime a dozen in Newport. Good genes passed down long before the Golden Age run in the prestigious family trees of Rhode Island. So good-looking guys don’t do much beyond catch my eye.

  He says, “I can wait.” I pull my purse from the hook near the door and dig out my wallet. He fills the doorway, snooping over my shoulder. “Where are you running to?”

  Huh? I look up, confused by the question. “Nowhere.”

  Following his line of sight, I realize what he’s referring to just as he says, “The treadmill. That’s the point. You never get anywhere.”

  “It’s good exercise.”

  “Yeah,” he s
ays, his tone tipping toward judgmental. “You’re just running in a circle. Stuck in place.”

  “I’m not trying to go anywhere. I’m—”

  “Sure, you are.”

  When I answered the door, I wasn’t expecting to have my life scrutinized under a microscope. “Why do I feel like you’re speaking in metaphors?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you feel like I’m speaking in metaphors?” His tongue is slick and his wit dry, which is something I can appreciate, even when it’s at my expense.

  Handing him a ten, I say, “Hopefully, this covers the therapy.”

  He chuckles. “I’m always happy to dole out free advice, but I’ll take the ten. Thanks.” Still looking around, the detective moves his attention elsewhere. “Nice bonsai.”

  “Thanks. My mom gave me Frankie.”

  “Frankie?”

  I tuck my wallet back in my purse and return it to the hook. “The little tree?”

  Eyeing the plant, I can tell he wants to get a closer look by how he’s inching in. He says, “Bonsais aren’t miniature trees. They’re just pruned to be that way. It’s actually an art form.”

  “You seem to know a lot more about it than I do,” I reply, stepping sideways to cut off his path. “Are you a plant guy?”

  “I like to know all kinds of things about plants. Mainly the ones we eat. I wouldn’t suggest sautéing Frankie, though.”

  “Why would I sauté Frankie?” I catch his deadpan expression. “Ah. You’re making a joke. Gotcha.” I laugh under my breath. “You’re referring to food.”

  “Yeah.”

  I take the door in hand as a not so subtle hint. “I should get back to . . .” I just end it before the lie leaves my lips. I have no plans but to study, and that sounds boring even to me. “Thanks again.” I’m surprised, though, when he doesn’t move. “Don’t let me keep you from those other deliveries.” Hint. Hint. Hint.