Fortuity: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (The Transcend Series Book 3)

by Jewel E. Ann

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gracelyn

  I could be off my game if I had one—which I don’t—so I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure Nate was flirting with me last week when Gabe stayed for dinner. However, if that were true, then he would have invited me to stay for dinner too … Right?

  It doesn’t matter. That’s all I need to remember. Man ban. Who cares if he’s flirting? I have no desire to reciprocate. Well, that’s not true. I walked away swinging my ass like a pendulum. The accurate phrase is: I have no desire to be in a relationship ever again.

  Three strikes.

  I’m out of the game.

  Death.

  Cheating.

  Chicken.

  Sounds like a farmer going vegan. Nope. It’s the short story of my love life, which is a long story that’s stretched more than twenty years.

  “Mind if I ask why you’re not married?” Mr. Hans pops a breakfast burrito into the microwave while I brew coffee and making scrambled eggs for Gabe.

  “Unlucky at love.” I grin, stirring the eggs in the frying pan.

  “Does that mean you’ve never been in love?”

  “No. I’ve been in love three times.”

  “And you’ve had your heart broken three times?” He takes his burrito out of the microwave and sits at the kitchen table by the window.

  “You’d think so, but in hindsight, I’ve only truly had my heart broken once. Gabe!” I call up the stairs.

  He runs downstairs, grabs his plate of eggs and toast, and runs back upstairs.

  “Good morning to you too,” I murmur.

  Mr. Hans chuckles at Gabe as I sit at the table with my coffee and buttered toast.

  “Are you good at keeping secrets?”

  “I think so.” He pauses his cutting motion and glances up at me.

  “I hear dead people—well, just one. I hear a dead person. Or I used to. He’s been quiet lately, but it was hell on my love life.”

  “If it’s Elvis Presley, you will have made my whole day.”

  I grin. “Sorry to disappoint. Brandon Alan, my first and truest love. He died of a congenital heart condition when he was twenty-two. He spent his last year on the transplant list. No luck. I met him when he was eleven and I was ten.”

  Mr. Hans grins and so do I.

  “Yes. Gabe’s and Morgan’s age. Crazy, right?”

  “I met my wife when we were not even old enough to crawl. Our mothers were best friends. It took me seventeen years to convince her I was her soul mate. Stubborn thing thought she had to date every guy but me just to make sure she wasn’t missing out on anything better. Can you believe that?”

  I grin, knowing he has at least two toes sticking out of holes in his socks as we speak. “Unimaginable.”

  “So this Brandon guy, you hear him?”

  “Yes. Well, I haven’t in years, but I think it’s because I haven’t dated anyone in years. He only speaks to me when I’m in a relationship. And before you report me to social services as an unfit guardian for Gabe, let me just say that I know it’s not really his voice. It’s this leftover part of his spirit inside of me. It’s my conscience disguised as him.”

  He finishes chewing and wipes his mouth with a hanky. I’ve noticed he uses a hanky for everything. “I like the scenario where his ghost is talking to you much better than you pretending that it’s not really his voice.”

  A wry grin slides up my face as I tear my toast into small pieces, plucking them into my mouth with the same caution as my confession. “I like it too. It’s like he’s with me.”

  “Margie doesn’t talk to me, but she said very few words even before she died. Looks … she gave me looks. Mostly death glares, but occasionally she smiled with pink cheeks, fluttering her eyelashes at me like she did when we were younger. How many people can say they’ve known the love of their life for their entire life? We were born one day apart, almost to the exact minute.”

  I like this story. “Who’s older?”

  “Well, I am of course. She died.”

  I shake my head and grin. “You know what I mean.”

  “She was one day older, and I never let the old bat forget it either.”

  My face hurts from the size of my grin. “I love that. Brandon and I were crazy, and he was so ornery. Always playing jokes on me. Embarrassing me so much, but it was just us. He made me up my game, always finding a better revenge.” I sigh, letting my smile fade. “Just before he died, he said, ‘You win, Grace. Now go find another worthy opponent.’ Such a jerk. He just had to be awesome until his last breath, clearly making him the winner. And I think he damn well knew it. That was twenty years ago, and I still hear those words like an eternal echo.”

  “There’s a fine man staying next door that might be a good match for you. A widower. Good looking. Age appropriate.”

  “No.” I stand, dumping my toast crust into the trash and topping off my coffee mug. “I’m done. No more men for me. No more dating. No more catastrophes. I’m forty-one and just … done.”

  “Oh, Elvis, you have more than half a life left. You’re really going to spend it alone?”

  Leaning against the counter, I sip my coffee. “No. I have at least eight years left with Gabe. Beyond that, I can’t imagine needing anything more than a library card and two or three cats. As long as my parents are still alive, I’ll have them. I make friends pretty easily … I might even move back to Idaho where most of said friends live.”

  “Oh lord … you cannot be serious. Books, cats, and Idaho?”

  “Mmm …” I rub my lips together. “Sounds amazing, right?”

  Three knocks on the door make me jump, tightening the sash to my robe. “Company?” I cringe, thinking I might need to get my ass upstairs.

  “Delivery. I imagine.” He slowly unfolds from the chair and shuffles to the door. “Good morning.”

  I empty the rest of my coffee in the sink and rinse out my mug.

  “Come in. Can I get you some coffee?”

  Wait? I freeze. Who is he inviting into the house? I can’t get to the stairs from the kitchen without passing the front door.

  “Sure.” Nate’s voice.

  My body hurls into panic mode. I’m trapped—in a short terry cloth bathrobe with bunnies on it and a hood. Yes, I have a hood with bunny ears on it. Don’t even get me started on my hair that surely has a party happening in the back.

  “Where’s Miss Morgan?” Mr. Hans asks.

  “Taking a shower.”

  Mere seconds before the two men enter the kitchen, I lick my hands and wipe down the back of my hair.

  “Elvis, look who’s joining us for coffee.”

  Before Nate traipses into the kitchen, I get a full second to shoot Mr. Hans a scowl.

  “G-good morning.” Nate trips on his words as his eyebrows stand at attention, gaze assessing my robe.

  Bunnies. So what? My shoulders slide back, chin simultaneously inching upward to prove I’m confident in my own skin—and a bunny robe. “Good morning. I was just going upstairs to shower.”

  Mr. Hans grabs Nate a coffee mug while my confidence wavers under Nate’s swelling smile.

  “Do you not work today?” Nate asks.

  I clear my throat. “This afternoon.”

  “What’s the salon called? I need a trim.”

  “It’s only for women.”

  He squints. “Never heard of that. Can they do that?”

  “Uh … yeah. There have been men-only barber shops for years.”

  “Well, that’s a bummer. I was hoping you could trim my hair.”

  “Sorry.” I shrug.

  “I have scissors and clippers. Margie used to cut my hair. Elvis can cut your hair at your house or right here in my kitchen. I even have a cape.”

  “Great!”

  “No!” I protest Nate’s “great.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll pay you.”

  “Come on, Elvis, cut the guy’s hair. He helped you move in. It’s the least you can do.”


  I don’t like Mr. Hans anymore. Not at all.

  “Just a little trim around the ears and in front.” Nate runs his hands through his hair.

  God … he’s sexy.

  “I figured you were growing it out to put it in a ponytail.” I smile as if I meant to say that aloud.

  Nate sips his coffee and sits at the table with Mr. Hans. “Why would I do that?”

  Because that’s how Jamie Fraser wears his hair, except when he’s in bed, doing very sexy things to—I shake my head, trying to erase the ridiculous thoughts popping into it.

  “No reason. I’m going to shower. I didn’t know you were coming for coffee.”

  “I came over to borrow a few tools,” Nate says.

  “Coffee first.” Mr. Hans holds up his mug and Nate taps it, like two guys at a bar.

  I shuffle my bare feet out of the kitchen, not feeling like toasting to anything in my short bunny robe.

  “Don’t worry about my hair. If you’re not comfortable doing it, I’ll find someone else.”

  My body jerks to a stop in spite of my brain telling me to politely say “okay” and keep moving. Nope. Not me. I’m offended that he’s implying I can’t cut his hair.

  A hair stylist cuts hair.

  He thinks I’m a hair stylist.

  I should be able to cut his hair.

  “Tomorrow morning. Your place. I like my coffee black.” I continue up the stairs, beaming with pride for a full ten seconds. It’s not until I’m behind my closed bedroom door that I freak out. What did I just do?

  Oh my god.

  Oh my god.

  OH MY GOD!

  I spend the rest of the morning glued to my phone screen, much like Gabe, watching videos on cutting men’s hair.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nathaniel

  Morgan and I spend the overcast day writing letters to friends we’ve met around the world—real letters with paper and pens. Then she reads on the sofa while I work on my book—the book that’s handwritten throughout six different spiral notebooks. It’s hard to spend hours writing on a laptop while preaching to my daughter the evils of the almighty screen.

  “There she goes again,” Morgan, from her nest of blankets on the sofa, stares out the window—the one below my bedroom window. It’s become a regular event.

  Gracelyn and Gabe arrive home.

  Gabe goes in through the deck door.

  Gracelyn strips to her panties and bra behind the grass plants, shoves her clothes into a bag, and dashes up the stairs to her bedroom.

  I won’t lie … I don’t exactly hate her routine. However, my curiosity grows with each episode.

  “You haven’t said anything to Gabe or her, have you?”

  Morgan shakes her head. “You said we didn’t want to make her feel embarrassed.” She tosses her book aside. “I’m going over to see Gabe.”

  “I figured.” I stay focused on the window as if Gracelyn’s still undressing. As if I haven’t had sex in a long time. As if—

  “Do you think it would be cool if Gabe were my boyfriend and Gracelyn were your girlfriend … just for the summer?”

  “What?” My head jerks in her direction as she slips on her shoes. “N-no.” I shake my head like the torso of a wet dog. Where did she come up with that ridiculous idea?

  She shrugs. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. And you haven’t had a girlfriend since Mom. It would be nice to practice a little before I start school this fall.”

  “Practice?” I tilt my head to the side.

  “Yes. If I get a boyfriend in school, I don’t want him to think I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Kill. Me. Now.

  “And …” I clear my throat. “What do you mean by doing?”

  Eye roll. Shocking.

  “That’s just it! I don’t know. Gabe can show me.”

  “Show you what?” I sit up, dropping my notebook and pencil onto the cushion beside me, my blood pressure in the unhealthy range.

  “Daaad! I. Don’t. Know. It’s like when you try to get me to try something new to eat and I say I don’t like it. You say I can’t know that until I taste it. Well … I need a taste of a boyfriend.”

  “No! You don’t.”

  She opens the door and tosses me a sour face over her shoulder before leaving. “Figuratively.”

  The door shuts.

  I lose five more years off my life.

  And now we have a boyfriend situation.

  *

  The next morning, Gracelyn arrives on time with a plastic bag and an odd smile. It’s more of a cringe, scraping her teeth over the corner of her bottom lip as Gabe plops down in one of the porch chairs with his tablet to wait for Morgan. The girl who used to get ready for the day in less than five minutes now takes fifty minutes.

  “Come in,” I say to Gracelyn, eyeing Gabe. It’s not that I don’t like him. He seems nice enough. I just don’t know about him being the object of Morgan’s affection—her obsession. “Coffee. Black.” I nod to the mug on the counter as she sets the bag on the kitchen table.

  “Thank you.” Her hand shakes as she lifts it to her lips.

  “Is something wrong?” I stare at her shaking hand for a few more seconds before meeting her wide-eyed gaze.

  “No. Why?”

  “Your hand is shaking.”

  She steadies the mug by lifting her other hand to help set it on the counter. “I was just a little nervous. I didn’t know how hot it was. Didn’t want to burn my tongue.”

  I return a slow nod. “So, do you want my hair wet or dry?”

  “It’s best dry while I use the clippers.”

  “I only want it trimmed. No need for clippers unless you think the back of my neck is too hairy.”

  Her lips part, but no words come out.

  “Just trim it up a bit with scissors so I don’t have hair hanging in my eyes.”

  “The order is clippers and then scissors.”

  I chuckle. “I don’t want it buzzed.”

  “The clippers have different guard lengths.” She seems … upset? On edge. It’s weird.

  “O … kay. You’re the expert.” I pull out a chair and sit down while she dumps the contents of the bag onto the table. After plugging in the clippers, she inspects the guards and a small smile jumps onto her face when she catches me watching her.

  “Let’s do this.” She shoves one of the guards onto the clippers and flips the switch. “Oh!” She startles when it hums. “That tickles my hand.”

  “Maybe I should remove my shirt or grab a towel.”

  “What? Oh … shoot. No.” She shuts off the clippers and grabs the folded cape by the bag. “Sorry, I spaced on the cape. I’m just … out of my element.”

  “But you do this for a living.”

  “Not in people’s kitchens.” She wraps the cape around me.

  I tug on the neck a bit.

  “Too tight?” She narrows her eyes.

  “It’s fine.” Breathing is overrated.

  The clippers come to life again.

  “Just a trim,” I remind her.

  “Yes, Nate.” She guides my head forward so my chin tips toward my chest as she brings the clippers to my nape and swipes up. “Shit!”

  “What?”

  She shuts off the clippers. “Um … nothing. You know … I think I’ll just use the scissors. Clearly it’s what you’ve wanted me to do. And you know what they say?”

  “What’s that?”

  Gracelyn unplugs the clippers, shoving all the pieces back into the bag before grabbing the scissors and comb. “The customer is always right.”

  I nod. “I suppose you do get a lot of requests for styles and colors that you fear the customer won’t end up liking.”

  “You guessed it.”

  “I filled a spray bottle if you want to wet my hair. It’s over by the sink along with a towel.”

  “Whatever the customer wants.” She grabs the bottle and wets my hair … a lot.

  “Wow … you used the wh
ole bottle of water.”

  “Too much?” She wrinkles her nose while furiously wiping my face, neck, the cape, and even the floor.

  “Nah … I like it wet.” I chuckle.

  She stops, staring at me with lifted eyebrows and pink filling her cheeks.

  “My hair. I like my hair wet. Get your head out of the gutter, Elvis.”

  Her eyes narrow. “It’s not in the gutter. I was just … just looking at your hair.” Shifting her gaze to my hair, she steps forward and runs her fingers through it, putting her chest inches from my face.

  I shouldn’t like her chest in my face, but I do. Just like I like watching her undress and run up her balcony stairs. And the damn short bunny robe … I like it too.

  “You’re right. I don’t need to cut that much.” She’s not cutting anything. She’s just combing my hair with her fingers.

  I close my eyes because it—she—feels good. Of course, I’ve had women cut my hair before, but they’ve never done it with one leg between mine and their breasts so close. It’s unclear at the moment if she’s trying to give me a trim or seduce me.

  She grabs the scissors and makes her first cut.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  I keep my eyes closed. Everything she does is slow and gentle. After every few cuts, she combs her fingers through my hair some more. If this haircut lasts all day, I’m good with that. I don’t need a girlfriend, in spite of Morgan’s not-so-brilliant idea.

  A good haircut works plenty of magic. I might opt for more frequent trims while we’re here this summer.

  “Why the grin?” She rips me away from my thoughts.

  I straighten my lips and peek open one eye. “Nothing.”

  “I think I should just call it.” She steps back, cocking her head to inspect my hair.

  “Call it?” I chuckle. “Sounds like you’re giving up or someone died? Is that what you tell all of your clients when you finish?”

  “Oh my gosh, Dad! You’re getting a Mohawk?” Morgan skips into the kitchen.

  I glance over my shoulder at my daughter with her hair dried straight and her lips fully glossed. In an instant, I regret letting her get tinted lip balm.

  “No Mohawk. Sorry to disappoint you. Just a trim.”