Last First Kiss: A Second Chance Standalone Romance

by Jane Anthony

  Her face falls in a neutral expression, her lashes fluttering over her big green eyes. “Wow. That’s really fuckin’ cheesy, Jess, even for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m kidding.” She giggles, pulling me closer as I attempt to roll away. “It was sweet.” A moment of silence passes before she asks, “Do you want to know how many I’ve been with?”

  “No.”

  Surprise treks across her expression. “Really? You don’t care?”

  “Unless you’re about to tell me I was your first, I don’t want to know.”

  She licks her lips with a sad smile. “I wanted you to be my first. I used to have these stupid daydreams about you coming back into town to take me to prom. We’d dance and kiss, and I’d tell you I loved you and announce that that was the night. We’d both be nervous and shy, but we’d get through it together.” She snuggles back into my side again, her breath fluttering across my throat. “I guess that’s just stupid girl stuff.”

  My chest tightens under her warm palm. I cover her hand in mine, soothing the burn. I should have been here. I should have come back when I said I would and claimed her then. I never realized how much my leaving would change both our lives.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to take you,” I admit in a hoarse whisper that hurts my throat.

  “It’s okay. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

  I tighten my grip just enough that an impish little moan flies out. “I am.”

  THE LOW DIN of chatter stirs me from a deep sleep. For a split second, I’m lost. But memories of Wren assault my brain. Her soft skin and wild whimpers, the feel of her undulating beneath me. Her sweet smell fans around me in a haze of lust and sugar. It thickens my cock under the dusty purple sheet, but she’s not here. My sleepy gaze slides to the open doorway. Light flickers against the hallway wall. It lures me from her bed to see what’s up.

  The wooden floor feels cold on my feet. I amble into my boxer briefs, then wander out to find her. Alluring blue light dances in the living room, but the woman in front of it stops me in my tracks. My T-shirt hangs off one creamy shoulder, her bare legs crossed beneath the Dell perched on top. Every clack of the keyboard beats with my heart. Quiet contemplation twists her features. I stand in the shadows watching every emotion roll across her face as the words pour from her chest and onto the machine teetering on her lap.

  The urge to capture this moment comes on strong. An itch at the base of my neck that spreads through my body, making my fingers twitch and my feet move. I don’t want to make a sound for fear I’ll disturb her, but I can’t help myself. I pad to the kitchen and find a brown shopping bag and a pen sitting on the island between us. My heart leaps to my throat. I lift the pen, my needy gaze fixed on Wren. My little Bird flying on her words, soaring in front of me.

  The ballpoint glides across the crinkled paper. I cock my head, taking it all in. Messy tendrils fall around the elegant curve of her neck, her hair twisted in a haphazard knot at the crown of her scalp. Light sluices through the blinds, adding a third dimension to the scene before me. She’s a mess, but sitting alone in the dark, the glow from her screen up-lighting her features, and the orange sun kissing the horizon, she’s not just beautiful, she’s a work of art. Exposed and vulnerable.

  Art is more than a picture on a canvas. It comes in many forms. Wren’s an artist in her own right. Her words are her medium. They fly from her fingers in a steady rhythm, pushing my pen to its limit. I fall into the magic spell she’s woven. It holds me hostage. My muse, my love. The only thing real I’ve ever painted, sketched, or drawn.

  She’s the color, the spirit that lives within me.

  She makes it happen.

  Without her, I’m nothing but a blank canvas.

  I don’t know how long we stay like this, but I fall into my work, and by the time I’ve clawed my way back to the surface, ink covers the entire bag, and she’s still going. The light through the windows turns from black to blue. I fall back, retreating to her room, but she lifts her head and catches me before I can make my quick escape.

  “I’m sorry I woke you.” The sound of her voice brings me back. She leans forward, her fingers curling over the edge of the screen as if she’s protecting it.

  “Do you often write at night?”

  Quietly, she clicks the lid down and sets the laptop to the side. “I write whenever I feel inspired,” she whispers, reaching out for me.

  I go to her, stepping between her thighs and resting my palms on her cheeks. I slowly trace the contours of her face with my thumbs. Across her high cheekbones and manicured brows, then circle back to her perfect lips as they part, then close around the pad.

  Reaching up, I pull on the band holding her tresses taut. They spring down, fanning her shoulders as my hands gets lost in the red river kissing her neck. I’m a slave to this woman.

  After years of fantasizing about her being mine, she finally is, but those old voices still whisper in my brain, telling me I’m not enough. I shove them aside, allowing myself to fall into this singular moment.

  “You’re shaking,” she says, letting her fingertips roam across my abdomen before opening her arms. “You’re cold. Come here.”

  “I’m not. I think I’m just happy.”

  A sleepy smile hits her lips. “I’m happy, too.”

  I sweep my arms under her knees and back and lift her off the couch. She melts into my chest, her arms winding around my neck as I carry her back to bed.

  CHAPTER 21

  Wren

  “MORE COFFEE?”

  Armed with decanters, I stroll down the aisle filling empty cups. For now, all my tables seem content. I swallow back the constant ick forcing its way up my throat. For days, I’ve felt like I’m moving through mud. My arms and legs fight to move, and my stomach stays twisted in knots. Whatever I’ve got better pass quickly because I don’t have time to be sick.

  “You feeling okay? You look like straight shit, babe.”

  “Thanks, Al. You really know how to pick a gal up from the doldrums,” I quip, dropping the decanters back on their hot plates and moving toward the kitchen with Allison at my back.

  “I just mean you look so pale. More so than usual.”

  “I’m so tired. I could literally fall asleep right here.”

  She waggles her brows. “Jesse keeping you up at night, huh? Rawr!” she mewls, clawing the air.

  Thoughts of this morning come to mind. Jesse between my legs, his mouth hot and wet against my center as I screamed his name over and over. Warmth pools in my belly and flames my cheeks. I reach up to smother the heat threatening to burn me to ash in the middle of the kitchen. I can’t get enough of that man. It’s becoming a sickness.

  Speaking of sickness . . .

  “Order up!” Marcio shouts, twisting to drop a plate under the heat lamp.

  The stink of fish festers in my nostrils. Saliva pools on my tongue out of nowhere. “Oh, God,” I grumble, clamping my hand over my mouth. My feet move. I blow past Allison and burst through the doors, running to the ladies’ room as fast as they’ll take me. A violent rush hits the toilet water. My fingers sink into my hair, holding it back as I take a deep breath, then blow it out in a fruitless attempt to keep the sick at bay.

  The door creaks open, and Allison’s jovial voice washes over me. “I know Marcio’s salmon is gross, but this is a little dramatic.”

  The mere mention of the fish brings it all back. I lower my head again as another round attempts to spew from my mouth, but there’s nothing left inside me to hurl.

  “Whoa, you okay, doll?”

  “Yeah.” I pick myself up off the floor and kick the handle. The toilet whirs, sucking my vomit into its depths as I splash some water on my face and rinse my mouth. Catching my reflection, I’m shocked at what I see. Dark circles stretch under each green eye, my skin as white as chalk. “Jesus, I do look like shit.”

  “If you’re sick, go home. The rush is over. Linda and I can cover your tables.
”

  “I’ll be okay now.” But no sooner do the words fly from my lips than I find myself kneeling before the porcelain throne again.

  She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the open doorway. “Come to think of it, I remember a few years ago, my sister suddenly got super tired out of the blue. Like, one minute we’d be talking, and the next, she’d be passed out sitting up. It was so weird. Then she started feeling sick. These weird bouts of nausea out of nowhere. Anything could trigger it. We were really worried.”

  I stare at Allison, waiting for a punchline that never comes. “You have a point to this story?”

  The corners of her mouth twist in a knowing grin. “Seven months later, my niece was born.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” I ball a wad of toilet paper and throw it in the toilet.

  “Babe, you just puked three times in thirty seconds.”

  “I’m on birth control. Try again.”

  I force myself off the floor, but my limbs feel too weak to hold me. Allison’s arms support my back. I sag against the counter, sucking sharp breaths through my nose and blowing them out from my mouth as another wave of nausea subsides.

  “Yeah, but the pill is only something like ninety-one percent effective in preventing pregnancy. When was your last period?”

  “The pill fucks with my system. I don’t usually get one.”

  Her gaze scans my face, then dips down, hovering over my stomach before sliding back up. “Well . . . then you wouldn’t mind humoring me.”

  Allison speed walks across the room and throws open the bathroom door. “Stavros! I’m going on my break!” Her shout echoes through the opening before it’s even swung back closed.

  I wait in the bathroom, mulling over the last month of my life. Over the past couple of weeks, Jesse and I have had more sex than Asher and I ever had in months. We’ve christened every room of my condo more than once—and this bathroom twice—but the time doesn’t work out. I can’t be pregnant. It’s just not possible.

  Footsteps thud against the aged tile and get louder as they approach. I curl my fingers under the lip of the counter, staving off another queasy surge as Allison pushes through the door. A white plastic bag sits in her apron. She pulls it out; I watch it unroll as she reaches inside for the little pink box. “Ever taken one of these things before?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “Yeah,” she admits with a devious chuckle. “A few summers back, I had a one-nighter with a guy at Lilith Fair. He was so hot. Getting pregnant would totally have been worth it.” She tears open the end of the box and pulls out the skinny white strip. “Just pee on the end. It’s not rocket science.”

  “This is so dumb,” I grumble, snatching it from her outstretched fingers.

  “Two pink lines means pregnant,” she says through the closed door of the stall as I hover over the toilet. “Do you need some water or something?”

  “I can’t do this if you’re talking to me.”

  “Oh, sorry!”

  I look down as I do my business on the spongy edge of the test strip. How mortifying. Taking a pregnancy test in a diner while my friend waits outside the door. Pulling up my panties, I flush the toilet and snap the clear cap on the soiled end before exiting the stall. “Happy?” I chuck it on the counter and turn away to I wash my hands, but the sharp gasp that rattles inside Allison turns my blood cold.

  She moves behind me, her fingers lightly grasping my arm. “Babe,” she says in a hushed voice. “Two lines.”

  Goose bumps dot my flesh. It’s like that moment in Poltergeist when Carol Anne announces, “They’re here!” in that creepy singsong voice of hers. Except I’d take evil spirits over this right now.

  “What? It can’t be!” I turn and seize the test out of her quivering hands. Two bright pink lines fill the porthole where, just a few seconds ago, one sat lonely. “Fuck,” I whisper, my gaze glued to those lines as if they’re the only thing I can see. My entire life flashes before my eyes. How did this happen?

  A smile replaces Allison’s deer-in-headlights look. She opens her arms and pulls me in for a hug. “You’re gonna be a mom!”

  I struggle from her grip and fall against the wall. “This isn’t good news.”

  “It’s not ideal, true.”

  “What am I gonna tell Jesse?”

  “Tell him you’ll be calling him daddy outside the bedroom from now on.” She curls her hands into fists and bumps them together at the pinkies.

  “No . . . you don’t get it. I’ve only been sleeping with Jesse for a couple of weeks.” Asher. Just thinking his name makes the bile rise again, but I force it down. This can’t be happening. This can’t be my life. I’m a fucking afterschool special, except without the celebrity walk-on. I’m a headline on Maury Povich. Twenty-two and pregnant . . . with my ex-boyfriend’s baby.

  Allison’s eyes darken. “Oh, my God,” she whispers, stepping backward as if I’m a virus she’s afraid to catch. “Well, that complicates shit, doesn’t it?”

  I swat her arm and rake my hands through my hair. “Why did you make me take that test? I’m seriously fucked here.”

  She steps back, holding her hands in surrender. “Taking the test didn’t make you pregnant. You did that shit on your own. Well . . . I guess not completely on your own.”

  “You’re not funny.” My eyes narrow to razor-thin slits. It’s not Allison’s fault—I know this—but I need to freak out, and she’s the only one here. “What am I gonna do now?”

  “You’re gonna go home and tell Jesse.”

  I stare down at the ground between us, our sensible shoes growing bleary. “What do I even say?”

  “Be honest and forthright. Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

  When I close my eyes against the tears, all I see is Jesse’s face. His gorgeous smile twisting into something hateful, something ugly. “Maybe he’ll walk out the door and never look back.”

  “That’s a risk you’re gonna have to take, babe.”

  Her words hang in the air between us. I’ve never been one to take a risk, always choosing the easy way out. All the different scenarios roll through my head on a nonstop loop. I can’t run from this. Not this time. “You can cover my tables?”

  “Yeah, of course,” she answers with a rushed nod, but I’ve already turned away, reaching in my apron for my cell phone.

  With quivering fingers, I punch in the numbers and bring the phone to my ear. Every ring closer to Jesse feels like a needle twisting in my heart until he answers, and the full-sized gash leaves me bleeding on the floor. “Hey, baby. What’s up?”

  “Hey.” I swallow hard, pulling back the emotion bubbling inside. Doing this on the phone is the coward’s way out. I deserve to see the pity trolling his face when I tell him in person. “What time are you done working today?”

  “Soon. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I just need to see you. Can you come over after work?”

  “Sure, baby. You want me to grab dinner?”

  His sweet sentiment pushes me to the edge. He’s so good to me, and I’m about to break to his heart. “No. Just come over.”

  “See ya then, Bird.”

  My arm falls at my side like dead weight as he disconnects our call. I turn to Allison to recoup the tiniest amount of strength, but it’s no use. Jesse walked away from me once, and now I’ll give him no choice but to do it again.

  CHAPTER 22

  Jesse

  THE GOOFY SMILE hasn’t left my face since her sweet voice came over the wire. She needs to see me. That single phrase lit me up like a Christmas tree. Here I am, an hour later, still grinning like a fool as I finish my shower and exit the bathroom.

  “What the hell’s got you so happy?” my mother croaks from the kitchen. Vodka glugs from the plastic jug in her hand as she fills her glass. She sticks a cigarette between her nothing-lips, and turning completely, she settles into the corner of the cabinets.

  “Can’t a guy be happy?”

  Smoke snakes
around her head. She closes one eye, taking a drag before pulling it away with two spindly fingers. “No. You’ve been moping around this house like your cat died ever since you got here.”

  “He’s been reincarnated,” I quip, plopping into a chair. The old wood groans under my weight as I bend down to grab my laces.

  The ice clinks when she brings her glass to her mouth. “Who is she?”

  “Why do you assume there’s a she?”

  “Been around enough men in my lifetime to know there’s always a girl.”

  Her suspicious gaze burns into me, but I don’t take the bait. Instead, I finish tying my boots and stand, meandering toward the back door. “Don’t drink too much,” I say, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be out late.”

  The stench of booze and cigarettes wafts from her lips as they stretch over what’s left of her yellow teeth. “Be careful. Make sure she doesn’t go fallin’ in love.”

  I pull my brows together. “Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

  A humorless laugh blows through her nose along with a white plume of smoke. “Not for her.”

  Ouch.

  The invisible line between happy drunk and heartless bitch sits at her toes. I can see it warping her expression before my eyes as she steps across it with another swig. “Don’t give me that wounded puppy look. I’m just tellin’ it like it is. Don’t stick around too long, and for God’s sake, wear a rubber. Last thing this world needs are more useless Dylans running around.”

  I blanch at her callous words. “Thanks, Ma. I appreciate your support.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean nothin’ by it.” She slices the air with her skeletal hand. “You’re a good boy. The genes run deep, though.”

  “Right,” I grumble, reaching for the knob.

  “Love is fleeting, son!” she calls after me as I traipse through the grass.

  Do yourself a favor and just pass out, I think as I jump in my truck and back out of the drive. Not even my mother’s backhanded bullshit dulls my shine. Not a minute went by today when Wren wasn’t on my mind, and it’s not all sex either. To be fair, it’s a big chunk of it, but it’s more than that. Her skin, her smile . . . God, the way she smells. Everything about her drives me wild, and I can’t seem to get to her fast enough.