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

by Jewel E. Ann

  “Dinner was phenomenal, but the company was indescribable.”

  The residual disappointment and anguish melts from his face. “Agreed.”

  “Night, Nate.”

  “Goodnight.” He turns and sulks out the door.

  I lean my back against the wall, close my eyes, and smile. It feels … Well, I’m not sure what word to use. It’s just incredible to feel.

  After slipping into my not-so-sexy tee and boy-shorts, I brush my teeth and wash my face. Then I contemplate reading a book or watching a show.

  The book wins.

  I look for my Kindle in my purse, but it’s not there. I check a few other places before opening my nightstand drawer.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” In my drawer is the box of condoms and a sticky note with Mr. Hans’s chicken scratches on it:

  I think you’ll need these before I will. Dare I say have fun?

  I’m not sure why he gave them to me instead of returning them to Nate, probably to mess with both of us.

  It’s ten-thirty. I’m ready for bed. Makeup is off. And Nate’s probably had a cold shower or done other things to remedy his situation.

  “Just go to sleep,” I tell myself.

  Ugh … I never listen, and that’s what brings me to Nate’s door at a quarter to eleven. It’s dark. There’s no sign that he’s still awake. I should go. I turn, heading back to the stairs. Then I turn back around.

  After doing this so much that I’m dizzy, I ring the doorbell.

  I can’t. Go!

  I run down the stairs with my bare feet and scantily clad body—total chicken. I hear his door creek open, and I freeze. It’s really dark. If I hold stone still, maybe he won’t see me and go back inside assuming it was some young kid playing a prank.

  “At least leave a plate of cookies if you’re going to ring my doorbell and run, Elvis.”

  “Shit …” I whisper, turning around slowly.

  He walks down the stairs, bare chest, bare feet, and low-hanging jogging shorts.

  “I was uh …” I hold up the box of condoms. “Just dropping this off. Mr. Hans put them in my nightstand drawer. I had no idea. I was looking for my Kindle, not condoms.”

  He stops in front of me.

  “So … here.” I shove them into his chest. “That’s all. Night.” When I let go, they drop to the ground.

  He studies me like the condoms don’t exist. “How do you feel about late-night dips?”

  I glance out at the water. “Not too good.”

  “I agree. It’s a terrible idea. We should definitely do it.”

  “Wha—Nate!”

  He bends down, tosses me over his shoulder, and races to the water.

  “No! Nate! This is a terrible id—” Cold water fills my ears in a whoosh as he submerges us.

  “C-cold …” I say when he drags me to the surface with him. Nate warms me with his mouth on mine. I might drown, but it will be in this kiss, not the eternity of water embracing us.

  “Jerk …” I try to push away when he releases me to catch a breath.

  His response is to pull me back to him for another kiss. My fight washes away with the tide, leaving me with my arms and legs wrapped around him. At some point, I forget where we are, losing all sense of direction and time. He becomes the only north I need.

  Goose bumps scatter along my skin from the night’s soft breath. Capable arms carry me up the beach as he kisses my lips, along my jaw, and down my neck.

  “Don’t hate me,” he whispers, releasing me to my feet.

  “What are you doin—NATE!”

  He sprays me with the hose, and the water is colder than the ocean. I shudder, hugging myself as he quickly rinses himself off.

  “T-t-towel …”

  “No towel. Sorry.” He chuckles, grabbing my hand and pulling me behind him, making a slight detour to grab the dropped box of condoms. “I didn’t exactly plan this, but we need to get rid of our wet clothes.” Stopping at his door, he traps the condoms under his arm and grabs the hem of my tee.

  I stiffen my arms to stop him from peeling off my shirt. “Sorry.” I release a nervous laugh. “Instinct. I suppose you saw them earlier.”

  He dips his head and brushes his lips over mine. “I did.”

  I relax my arms, letting him work my soaked shirt up my torso. It lands on the deck with a slap.

  He kisses me.

  I remind myself he’s not mine.

  His patient hands work my shorts down my legs, leaving me naked and incredibly vulnerable.

  He kisses me.

  I remind myself he’s not mine.

  My shaky hands pull off his shorts and briefs.

  He kisses me.

  I remind myself he’s not mine.

  With the box of condoms in one hand and mine in his other hand, he guides me into the house, up the stairs, and to his bedroom.

  Maybe my own insecurities obscure my ability to see him as anything short of perfect, but he touches me with steady hands, confident lips, and a strength that tips my world on its side.

  A breathless anticipation settles into my chest when he pulls away, leaving me naked in the center of his bed as he rolls on a condom. How is he not shaking? I’m certain the only sound in the room is my body quivering right down to my bones.

  “You’re so sexy …” He grins, pressing his hands to my knees.

  I smile.

  “And beautiful.”

  He’s not mine. He’s not mine. He’s not mine.

  I pretend he’s a foster puppy—cute, playful, irresistible, but temporary. The cuteness will wear off. The playfulness will turn into destruction, and the irresistible part will turn into responsibility. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone’s happiness, not even Gabe’s. I’m just trying to keep him safe, fed, and educated for the next eight years. He can go find his own happiness after that.

  “What if you don’t remember?” I smirk as he parts my bent knees and glides his hands along my thighs.

  “What if I don’t remember how to have sex?” It’s too dark to clearly see the expression on his face. He’s nothing more than a silhouette, but I imagine the bend of his lips conveys complete confidence.

  “Well …” I can’t hide the break in my voice, my nerves cracking my words. “I’m sure you can remember where things go, but there’s an art to this.”

  He settles between my legs, propped up on his arms, hovering above me like an animal trapping its prey. With every dip of his head to kiss along my hip bone, my stomach, my breasts, he taunts me. My breaths quicken, and my hips lift from the bed, searching for him.

  “I’ll let you decide later,” he whispers along my neck as a finger slides between my legs.

  My breath catches, and I release it with a soft moan just before his mouth captures mine. It’s slow like my fingers threading through his hair, like his body lowering to mine, like the way he fills me.

  I don’t expect such patience. He wasn’t patient earlier when we couldn’t find the condoms. It’s been a decade. I expect things to move along rather quickly.

  They don’t.

  Now that we’re here in the moment, he takes his time. Two tangled bodies. The glow of the moon and the stars filtering through the thin curtains just enough that I can see the glint in his eyes when he rolls us over, me straddling him. His hands slide to my breasts. I cover them with mine, closing my eyes as we move slowly together.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Hmm?” He hums in my ear with his chest to my back, our legs scissored, and his arms enveloping me.

  Reality remains shrouded in darkness. I’m not sure what time it is, but he seems fine with me staying here, so I don’t think about my wet clothes on the porch or anyone holding me accountable in the morning.

  “Are you still mad that she’s gone … Jenna? I mean … grief is automatic. It’s the normal emotion that fades over time, but the anger lasts. At least … it does for me.”

&n
bsp; “Well, it hasn’t been that long since your brother and his wife died. I’ve had a lot longer to deal with the loss of my wife.”

  I should drop it. It’s pretty weird that I brought up his dead wife after having sex with him for the first time. Does she talk to him like Brandon talks to me? Well, he hasn’t in a while, but I know it’s only a matter of time before he weighs in on this bad idea.

  “What do you think happens after we die? I mean … no one knows for sure, so it’s okay to have an opinion, a guess.”

  Nate doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. Maybe he’s asleep. I twist my neck to glance back at him. He’s not asleep.

  “Is this conversation too heavy?” My nose scrunches.

  His head inches side to side, eyes slightly narrowed. “No. It’s … interesting.”

  I maneuver to face him, resting my head on the pillow. “I think so too. Most people don’t want to talk about death, Heaven, Hell, ghosts …” I throw that out there. Why not? It doesn’t have to mean that I believe in them, that I hear my dead boyfriend’s voice, that I sometimes wonder if he’s watching me—shaking his head and rolling his eyes that I’m forty-one and single.

  “Or reincarnation …” He feathers his fingers down my arm, following it with his gaze.

  I smile. “I like the idea of reincarnation. I like when I see someone I know I’ve never met, but something just feels familiar. I like déjà vu—moments that have no explanation in your brain, but something … your heart … your soul … just knows.”

  “My …” Nate presses his lips together.

  “Your?” I press my palm to his cheek, tracing his bottom lip with my thumb.

  He kisses it, bringing his gaze back up to meet mine. “Nothing.”

  The words “don’t hold back” and “just tell me” die on the tip of my tongue. I’m holding back. I’m not telling him things. If we were in a different place in our lives, at a different time, with a million miles of open road in front of us, I would tell him. I would want him—need him—to know everything.

  “I should go.” I share a sad smile.

  He slides his hands over my hip, resting it on my bare ass. “Why?”

  Curling my lips together, I shrug. “I don’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to say.” I chuckle.

  He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. “You should go,” he whispers. “I have to be up early in the morning.”

  “Oh.” I stiffen, suddenly feeling like I’ve overstayed my welcome. “You do? Sorry.” I start to pull away.

  He tightens his grip on my ass and laughs with his lips still pressed to my forehead. “No. I don’t. It just seemed like the right thing to say.”

  “Jerk …” I shove his chest.

  He chuckles, grabbing my arms and pinning them above my head as he rolls on top of me, ravaging my mouth until I surrender the fight. As I relax, he eases his hold on me and works his lips down my body, kissing, biting, laving every inch of skin.

  I keep my arms outstretched above my head, close my eyes, and bite my bottom lip as he drapes my legs over his shoulders and proves he’s an expert who needs no practice.

  “God … Nate …” I grab his hair and keep him there for roughly eternity.

  *

  A half-empty bed greets me in the morning.

  No note.

  No fresh picked flowers.

  No coffee and toast.

  I’m glad. Really … I am. Notes, flowers, and food fall under the realm of courting and wooing. We’re neighbors having sex. No need to wrap the situation in Christmas lights and adorn it with a glittery star.

  A grin slides up my face as I climb out of bed and stretch. I pad into the bathroom.

  “Oh my god …” I cringe. Is that salt on my face or just excessive eye crusties? And my hair!

  Note to self: a dip in the ocean followed by lots of sex equals a hair catastrophe. I wish this were just a little bedhead. It’s been many years since I’ve gone to sleep with wet hair that’s not at least had a comb run through it. I wonder when it got bad. Did it look a little less hideous with my head on the pillow? Gah! I doubt it.

  Nate saw this. Even if we were able to be more than neighbors having sex, there’s no way he’d leave flowers, breakfast, or a love note to this situation.

  I try to comb my fingers through it, but it’s way too tangled and matted. I’ll probably have to shave it down like Nate’s. As panic sets in, my mind goes in many directions.

  Where is he? Probably downstairs.

  What do I have to wear? Nothing.

  Can I fix my hair here? Unlikely.

  Am I willing to let him see me like this—on purpose? I’d rather not.

  Preservation mode takes over. I tug open dresser drawers until I find a shirt. Any shirt. I slip it on. Luckily it hangs below my ass. It doesn’t fix the hair situation. I could tip my chin up and face him or I could sneak out.

  The balcony.

  I’m not sure why Mr. Hans didn’t build steps down from Nate’s balcony. Thankfully, the air-conditioning unit is right below. I climb over the railing and inch my hands down the spindles. Then I let one leg start to hang down before dropping my other leg. “Shit!” The weight of my body jerks my arms, but I keep a firm grip—dangling from the balcony.

  Not gonna lie … I thought my feet would touch the air-conditioning unit. I thought this would be easy. No big deal. They don’t. Worse than that, with my arms above my head, the shirt has ridden up my body, exposing my bare ass and somewhat neatly trimmed muff. If I let go, I could collide with the unit instead of landing on it. My bare feet could get torn up if I land in the patch of rocks. Or I could just die.

  Death might be preferable if I don’t get this figured out before someone sees me. My hands start to slip.

  “No no no …” All the muscles and tendons in my wrists and arms start to burn.

  “Good morning.”

  I whip my head around, trying to see over my shoulder, but my outstretched arm obscures my view.

  Nate.

  “I take it you’re not a fan of stairs?”

  “Help. I’m slipping!”

  He chuckles. “Oh, Elvis, I’m going to help you. Then you’re going to explain this.”

  Kill. Me. Now.

  “Let go.” He slides his hands almost to my waist.

  “I’m heavy. You might not—” My hold gives out. “HELP!” My body literally slides down his. His arms wrap around me, bringing me to a stop a few inches before my feet touch the ground.

  “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” I ask. Maybe I can shift the focus.

  He gives me a grin that makes me angry and kind of turned on at the same time. “Well, I’d say because you’re wearing it, but truthfully, I just got back from a jog. I think it’s interesting that, given the current situation, the question that’s being asked is why I’m not wearing a shirt.”

  I don’t care about my ass that’s still hanging out in the breeze, or the fact that he caught me hanging from his balcony. It’s my hair.

  Vain? Probably.

  If we were an old married couple, committed and legally bound for better or worse, I wouldn’t be so vain. We’re not that couple.

  We’re neighbors having sex. That requires a certain level of attraction and a certain level of hygienic effort.

  I … am a fucking mess.

  He’s not even looking at my hair. No shits given. Why the hell did I panic?

  “You have some sleepy bugs on your face.”

  Rolling my lips together, I nod slowly. “Thanks for noticing. Could you just put me down?” I wriggle out of his hold as he sniggers. After shoving the shirt down to cover myself, I take quick strides toward my balcony stairs, leaving a handful of my dignity in the wind.

  “You’re really not going to tell me why you were hanging from the balcony?”

  “Shit!” I rattle the stupid handle that won’t open because the door is locked. I slowly walk down the stairs, chin tipped toward my chest, desperate to f
ind the nearest rock to crawl under.

  He’s tailing me, but I don’t care at this point as I skulk to the deck door.

  “Are you kidding me?” I whisper to myself, encountering yet another locked door. I didn’t lock it when I left. I know I didn’t. The handle must have been locked from when I went to bed, and I didn’t check it when I decided to deliver the condoms. Still holding the handle, I press my forehead against the door and roll it back and forth.

  “I have some cut up fruit. Toast. Eggs. Coffee. Want to join me for breakfast?”

  Keeping my head glued to the door, I mumble, “I want a shower, shampoo, and conditioner. Lots of conditioner. My own clothes. And to rethink the decisions I’ve made in the past ten minutes.”

  “Did you … try to escape because of your hair?”

  I don’t answer.

  “There’s a huge bottle of conditioner in Morgan’s shower.”

  No response. If I keep my eyes closed long enough, this moment will disappear. Right?

  “Well, you know where to find me.”

  After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity, I hear voices down the way. The moment has not disappeared. I guess erasing time is not my superpower after all.

  I’m still wearing a tee.

  Disastrous hair.

  Crusty face.

  It’s time to take shelter. Easing to the edge of the deck, I glance in both directions. There’s a group of kids headed this way. I have to go now.

  My desperation lands me at Nate’s door in under five seconds. I don’t knock. I sulk inside and straight up the stairs to Morgan’s bathroom and the big bottle of conditioner.

  After a long shower of working my fingers through each tangle and matted area, I dry off and use one of Morgan’s elastics to pull it back into a small ponytail. Still … I have nothing to wear except Nate’s tee.

  The aroma of coffee and something sweet leads me downstairs into the kitchen.

  Nate glances up from his phone, cup of coffee, and cinnamon roll. “Feel better?” He grins.

  “I’m locked out. No. I don’t feel better.”

  “Have a seat.” He nods to the chair bedside him, where he’s poured me a cup of coffee too and set a cinnamon roll and fruit on a small plate.