by Gage Grayson
Broken Engagement
A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance
Gage Grayson
Carter Blake
Third Base Press
Contents
Also By Third Base Press
Author’s Note
Table of Contents Instructions
1. Macy
2. Aaron
3. Macy
4. Aaron
5. Macy
6. Aaron
7. Macy
8. Aaron
9. Macy
10. Aaron
11. Macy
12. Aaron
13. Macy
14. Aaron
15. Macy
16. Aaron
17. Macy
18. Aaron
19. Macy
20. Aaron
21. Macy
22. Aaron
23. Macy
24. Aaron
25. Macy
26. Aaron
27. Macy
28. Aaron
29. Macy
30. Aaron
31. Macy
32. Aaron
33. Macy
34. Aaron
35. Macy
36. Aaron
37. Macy
38. Aaron
39. Macy
40. Aaron
Lucky Neighbor
Inside Job
Hawaii Big-O
Brooklyn Big-O
Mad Love
Broken Engagement
By Gage Grayson & Carter Blake
Copyright 2018 by Third Base Press
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Also By Third Base Press
Aiden Forbes
Inside Job
Mad Love
Gage Grayson
Hawaii Big-O
Brooklyn Big-O
Lucky Neighbor
To JP
Author’s Note
Hey my lovely and amazing readers!
I have a confession to make:
While I love going to the movies, I hate my local multiplex. And I’m not even sure why.
I guess it just lacks the glamor, the majesty, the mythic larger-than-life feel of an old-school movie palace.
Maybe that’s a lot to ask of a multiplex, but that idea helped inspire this book.
What I wanted to do with this story was capture just a little bit of that long-lost glamor in a modern day tale of spring break in the Caribbean.
I knew that if I wanted some of that cinematic magic, I couldn’t go it alone. Like a great film, this would need to be collaborative.
Carter Blake is Canadian, which mean’s he’s awesome no matter what. But he also happens to be an amazing romance author, and I lucked out when he agreed to collaborate with me on this tale of a fake spring break marriage on the island of St. Maarten.
So, find a comfortable spot with the tropical drink of your choice. Let’s go on spring break together—and maybe to the movies after, if you’re feeling it—with Broken Engagement.
All my love,
Gage
Table of Contents Instructions
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Gage Grayson
Carter Blake
1
Macy
For once, my mind’s going miraculously and blissfully blank as my eyes feast on the turquoise expanse below me. Minutes before I noticed the amazing view of the sea, I was wondering when this flight would be over.
But now, I’m almost disappointed by the announcement that we’re about to land.
Part of me wants to ding for a flight attendant and ask them to relay a request to the captain to take us for a few more spins before landing. Unfortunately, since I don’t think that would go over well with anyone, I simply sit with my nose pressed to the window.
Even on the plain blue canvas of the water below, I can imagine a range of different cinematic possibilities springing from this amazing view. If it weren’t for the fact I don’t want to miss the stunning scene below me, I would now close my eyes and let my imagination take off.
It always starts that way, with visual inspiration. Soon afterwards, ideas for different shots take form, followed by snippets of story ideas.
The calm, rolling sea beneath us is majestic, almost romantic.
Fuck. Thanks to Hollywood, I have to keep remembering to use the ‘R’ word to describe anything.
Even getting into my mid-20s, with years of grueling film study and student production work behind me, I still get a thrill thinking about the limitless possibilities of filmmaking.
But, there remains some limits I impose on any creative idea I have, and ‘no love stories’ is near the top of the list.
Seriously—fuck that shit. There’s much better territory to explore with the medium.
“Crew, prepare for landing.”
Speaking of which, that announcement sounds like a hacky Hollywood romcom. Prepare for Landing.
The clichés surrounding those movies are one thing, but it’s their stark contrast with real life that really gets to me.
Take my friend Cara, for instance.
One minute she thought she’d found her happily ever after and was preparing the wedding of the century. The next, seemingly out of nowhere, the whole thing had gone up in smoke.
Puff.
No rising from the ashes from a broken heart, no perfect prince to come rescue her from despair. Just...puff.
The end. Now, life begins.
Real life, and it’s not easy. But if you keep trying to escape it into some fantasy, it’ll make things impossible.
More movies reflecting that idea wouldn’t be a bad thing. One of the beauties of storytelling is that everything has its place—happy endings, unhappy realism…
But real doesn’t have to be unhappy, does it? That sounds like it could be part of a thesis, an ending that just is.
Yeah—that still sounds unhappy. I’ll have to think more about this story and come back to that idea later. It would be a drama, obviously, about a brilliant young film student who comes to St. Maarten to scout locations for her thesis project.
No, not for spring break—you didn’t think this story was about me, did you?
Anyway, our plucky and effortlessly beautiful heroine lands at Princess Juliana Airport and sets off to make history.
On her own.
Yes, I’m warming to the idea. And no, she’s not going to find someone to make her complete or some other nonsense. I don’t know what that would be, yet, but that doesn’t mean I need to do the same thing that’s been done a million fucking times before.
In movies, or in life.
By the time I notice that the sea has suddenly vanished from my view, we’re already touching down on the runway. It’s like we went through some sort of portal—the runway must be on the shore, practically.
I take a deep breath and vow not t
o wait too long before hitting the beach. Although right now, what I’m most looking forward to is getting to my room—suite, actually—and taking a long shower and maybe a nap.
Once the plane comes to a stop, I wait in my seat until everyone else has cleared the aisle. I never understood the mad rush to get off the damn plane—there’s one exit, and everybody pushing through the cabin isn’t going to get anyone out any quicker.
After most of the passengers have disembarked, I stand up, casually grab my luggage from the overhead bin and stroll easily down the open aisle.
Not rushing can work. Ten minutes later, I’ve already breezed through customs, and I’m ready to catch the bus to the resort.
And to my luxury resort suite. Which I’ll have to myself.
It’s not something I would’ve chosen for myself, but the opportunity was there, and I’m giving it a try. I’ve backpacked through Europe, sleeping in hostel rooms with ten other people. At this point, I’m okay with leaving that part of my life behind.
Outside the terminal, a thoroughly tan man is holding up a sign that says ‘Belmont Resort’ with one hand while directing guests to a small, white jitney bus with the other.
Looks like I’m right on time. A handful of other people and I pile in and we take off.
It doesn’t feel that luxurious, but the scenery is nice, and the air conditioning works, and the ride is fast.
Less than ten minutes later, I walk into the grand entrance of the Belmont Resort. I gasp as I stare at the opulence oozing from the place. Gold-trimmed and oversized glass front doors, amazing tall palm trees, and surreally handsome doormen greet me just a few steps from the tiny bus.
Everyone seems so friendly, and it doesn’t feel fake.
I seriously fucking owe Cara. I’m not used to this whole luxury vacation thing, but this one came just in time.
My schedule at grad school has gone from rigorous to insane, to perpetual and unending. Not to mention taking PA gigs on any indie production in the city that’ll have me, as well as helping to carry lighting kits and buy coffee for all my friends’ student projects.
Living the fucking dream, right? Speaking of dreaminess, I’m able to float right up to the front desk and the pretty, smiling desk clerk behind it.
“I’m checking into the Honeymoon Suite,” I say without prompting.
Did I mention I’m staying by myself in the fucking Honeymoon Suite?
“You must be Ms. Evans. I’m sorry to say the Honeymoon Suite isn’t quite ready yet.”
It all feels so surreal. I just stare vacantly and smile back.
“Okay,” I mumble, not quite sure what to do.
“We can send a text to your mobile when the suite is ready.”
I nod—what choice do I have?
“I can recommend our bar with water views for you, Madam. Enjoy a drink and your suite will be ready in no time.”
“Thank you.”
It’s a bit early, but I’m on vacation. I’m not an undergrad anymore, but I suppose I’m on spring fucking break.
That’s how it feels like as I walk out into the bright sun and securing a seat at the lively outdoor bar.
“So, what can I get a beautiful young lady such as yourself, at this our island paradise?”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
The bartender holds up his hands in pretend shock.
“Oh no, only to those who are truly beautiful. Everyone gets their first drink on the house, though.”
“What do you recommend?” I tilt my head to the side and look at him.
He studies me for a moment, as if he’s studying a painting.
“I think you’re a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it.”
How did he know?
“Therefore, I think you might enjoy a Bold Greek.”
Okay, then.
“I’m game,” I reply and watch the preparation of this mysterious cocktail.
This bartender intrigues me, but most people always do, to some extent.
In almost a quarter century on this blue-ass marble, I’ve learned that everyone has a story to tell. You almost never have to dig too deep to find it, either.
“Voila.”
John, as his gold nametag says, places a Hurricane glass on the bar in front of me. The drink is inky black, with a couple ice cubes floating towards the surface.
Carefully lifting the glass, I detect a familiar scent that I can’t quite place.
“Any hints?” I ask.
“You try and tell me.”
John watches me gingerly take a sip.
Holy shit.
I close my eyes and revel in the wondrous taste.
“Coffee, and...pure magic, is it? Or licorice?” I put the glass back down.
“You like it?”
“I love it.”
“Ouzo, fennel syrup, coffee syrup, and voila, you have your Bold Greek.”
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
My head turns to my left. I hadn’t noticed someone joining me at the bar.
Let me rephrase this, I hadn’t noticed an exceptionally, almost ridiculously gorgeous man sits down next me at the bar.
“Hey,” he smiles. “Can I buy you another?”
Arrogant prick.
Why do men assume they have to buy a woman a drink? Do we all have helpless tattooed on our forehead or something?
“I’m fine with this one, thank you.”
Part of me wants to pick up my drink and leave now, but the other is actually getting a kick out of ogling this newcomer, even with his smug expression.
He knows he’s eye candy, he probably benefits from his stupid good looks, and there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the candy for a moment.
John quickly prepares the drink and disappears.
“Here’s to beautiful women.”
The eye candy dude picks up his glass and holds it out for a toast.
“Why? Because only women you think are beautiful are worth toasting?”
I can’t help it.
“Okay, let me try again.” He’s not put off easily. “Here’s to the female species. Beautiful creatures, all of them.”
“Which men like you only want to fuck,” I deadpan, leaving my glass where it is.
There’s a kind of suppressed snicker from behind the bar, and I can see John’s shoulders heave a little.
“Nothing wrong with a little carnal pleasure is there?”
Eye candy dude’s thick black eyebrows furrow a little. His chocolate eyes tease me.
Boy, this one is something else.
“I guess not if you’re after that sort of thing,” I reply nonchalantly and take another sip from my drink. “Are you assuming I would be? With you?”
He laughs and sips his Bold Greek.
“Sounds like you’re the one making assumptions. Are you after that sort of thing? With me?”
“Why would I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I could blow your mind and show you what real pleasure is all about.”
I shake my head.
“So how about it,” he persists. “Should we meet up later for...”
“A quickie?” I finish for him and roll my eyes. “I’m not sure if I can squeeze it in. You know, I’ve got quite a full schedule. It’s not like you’re the only man or woman on the resort you know.”
Maybe that rebuke is strong enough.
“Well, why don’t you check your schedule and get back to me?”
Part of me wants to slap him in the face and the other wants to laugh. Did he seriously think I’d just go and have a quick fuck and be done with it?
I’m spared a further reply when my awaited text arrives from the resort.
“Thanks for the cocktail,” I call to John and get up from my seat, taking my drink with me. I may as well enjoy the rest of it in the comfort of my own room.
Honeymoon Suite, I mean.
“You’ll get back to me then?” the stranger calls after me as I
walk away.
I don’t bother to turn around or reply—with any luck I won’t see him again for the rest of my stay, or ever.
2
Aaron
How fucking lucky am I?
Not only do I not have to be best man at the wedding, I benefit from the whole debacle with time away in this luxurious resort in the fucking Caribbean.
Wherever I look, I see possibilities.
And, right now, this week is looking very promising.
Nothing beats a good holiday fling.
Let’s face it—anyone who goes away to a luxury resort on their own isn’t looking for a permanent relationship. On the contrary, they’re looking for something quick, without strings attached. And I’m going to be just their man.
At the end of the day, relationships, commitment, and all that crap is highly overrated to put it fucking mildly. Give me a good fling any day.
