My Gift To You
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
My Gift To You
Tracie Delaney
Contents
Newsletter Sign Up
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Afterword
Newsletter Sign Up
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 Tracie Delaney
Edited by Neila Forssberg - Red Adept Editing
Cover design by Lee Ching of Under Cover Designs
(www.undercoverdesigns.net)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in uniform or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter One
Today was a very good day—because Livvy realized she didn’t want to die.
As the startling thought took hold, a long-forgotten feeling settled in her chest. She searched her memories for the last time she felt this way, but every time the far reaches of her mind touched it, the reason vanished.
Then it came to her. Contentment. She was content. But as quickly as she recognized the miraculous feeling, it was replaced by feelings of guilt. Was this the beginning of the end? Would her memories of Mark and Daniel start to float away like driftwood on the tide, becoming smaller and smaller until they disappeared completely?
A tightening sensation clamped around her heart. Her mouth dried up, and she absentmindedly pinched the skin at the base of her throat. She couldn’t allow that to happen. They were a part of her—the best part. She could not, would not, let them simply fade from her memories.
She shoved her sunglasses on top of her head and reached into her bag. Her fingers closed around her journal, and she lifted out the worn, brown leather book and opened it towards the back.
She read through page after page, checking out the numbers in the top right margins—lots of twos, threes, and a couple of fours. She had to flip through several sheets of paper before she found a seven. She checked the date and saw that it was three months ago.
Despite her panic, change was coming. Today was definitely an eight, or maybe a nine. But was she really ready to move on with her life? Could she leave the nightmare of what had happened two years ago, allow herself to live, and maybe, one day, be happy again?
She pressed the pen to the paper. Carefully she drew 8/9 followed by today’s date. Her therapist thought that it was a good idea to score her moods, to help her identify when to reach for guidance so things didn’t get out of hand.
She raked the tip of her forefinger over the faint pinkish lines on her left wrist. For some reason, the scars on that wrist were healing faster than the ones on her right. In fact, one or two had turned silvery white, a sure sign that her skin was healing even if her heart still had some serious catching up to do.
“Hey, beautiful. Usual?”
Livvy dropped her sunglasses back in place and smiled at the barman. “You read my mind, Sam.”
Two minutes later, a virgin berry cocktail was set down in front of her, condensation dripping down the sides of the glass. Livvy sipped her drink through a straw as she watched the skillful Californian surfers ride the crest of the waves. Their long, sun-bleached hair flowed behind them as they weaved their way to shore before heading back out into the Pacific Ocean once more.
She bent her head and began writing, the nib of the pen making scratching noises on the paper as she recorded her road to recovery. Well, maybe it was too early to use the word recovery, but at least she no longer walked around like a zombie—a beating heart without a soul.
A shadow fell across the page, and someone cleared his throat. She glanced up to stare into the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. They sparkled in the sunlight, glimmering shards of emerald buried in a face so handsome that it couldn’t be real. Except it was, and so was he.
“Is this seat taken?” He spoke with a drawl, and although she didn’t quite have American accents down pat yet, she would guess that he was from somewhere in the southern states—Texas, maybe.
“Um, no. Help yourself.” She waved her hand at the chair but couldn’t help glancing down the long bar at eight other empty chairs.
He smirked. “Yeah, you’d think I would, right? But as you’re sittin’ in my chair, the best I can do is park my ass next door.”
Livvy inwardly groaned. Great. A cocky egomaniac—just what I don’t need. She narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw. “Your chair? Sorry, I must have missed your name on it when I sat down.”
“Maybe you didn’t look hard enough, darlin’,” he murmured, staring at her with an intensity and overfamiliarity that set her teeth on edge.
She resisted the urge to stand up and look at the bloody seat in case his name actually was on it. Instead she gave a nonchalant shrug. “You can sit there”—she pointed at the seat beside her—“or in any of these other empty chairs.” Hopefully he’ll choose the latter.
His eyes twinkled with mischief. “I could just remove you.”
Livvy’s heart stutter
ed. The thought of having another man’s hands on her, even in a completely nonsexual way, made her hyperventilate. “Just try it,” she muttered, turning her back to him. She needed this guy to get the message. She wasn’t interested in conversation—or banter.
She buried her head in her journal, and he… well, he chuckled. Then the chair next to hers scraped along the floor. Damn it. He was going to sit there. Livvy sensed his eyes on her, and her body responded in a way that someone who looked like he did was most likely well accustomed to. Her pulse increased, a slight flush crept over her chest and worked its way up her neck, and her skin was heated not from the sun but from him. She stared at the blank page, willing her pen to move and write any old thing, but it stubbornly refused to make a single mark.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Gabe Mitchell. Good to see you, man.” Sam leaned over the bar, and the two men shook hands. “Usual?”
“Yeah.”
Livvy furtively watched Gabe as he dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. Tanned hands gave way to strong, muscled forearms. Livvy’s stomach fluttered in appreciation, accompanied by a tightness across her chest that she recognized as guilt. She rubbed her forehead as a headache began to form behind her eyes.
After Sam set a beer in front of him and swiped the money, Gabe picked up the glass and took a long drink then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
With his thirst quenched, his attention once again turned to Livvy. “So, darlin’, you know my name. What’s yours?”
Livvy put away her journal and drained the last of her drink before pushing her glass across the bar. Keeping her gaze as steady as she could, she looked Gabe straight in the eye. “Number one, I am not your darling,” she said in her best clipped English. “Number two, I have no intention of telling you my name, as what good would it do when we are never going to see each other again? And number three, I’m leaving now, so you can have your precious seat back.”
She scrambled down from the high-backed chair with what she hoped was a modicum of grace, threw some money on the bar, and with her shoulders set back, she stalked towards her car. She had no idea why he’d irked her so much, but in a way, she reveled in the anger. It was good to feel again, even if her therapist would probably tell her to focus on more positive emotions.
She climbed into her car and drove out of the parking lot. As she reached the road, she couldn’t resist glancing back towards Sam’s. She expected to see him enjoying his beer and the ocean view. Instead, she found him staring at her, his eyes piercing, his lips curved upward into a small smile.
At his scrutiny, heat rushed into her face, and her heartbeat kicked into overdrive. She quickly turned away from his stare and hit the gas pedal. Only once she’d put some distance between herself and the bar did her breathing return to normal.
But the anxiousness churning in her gut, mingled with a long-forgotten tingle of excitement that began in her toes and slowly crept upward, was far from normal. She could sense change was in the air. Had it arrived with Gabe Mitchell?
Chapter Two
Gabe sipped his beer, his gaze following the Chevy until it turned left at the end of the road and disappeared from view. That woman might have been uptight, like a lot of English women were in his opinion, but there was something more to her, something inherently sad in her eyes. He recognized the flat, empty stare because he saw it in his own gaze every morning. She’d suffered, and by the looks of things, she still was. The scars on her wrists hadn’t passed him by, either.
“Hey, Sam.” He invited over the barman. Not much happened around here without Sam knowing about it.
“Another?”
“Yeah, and some information.”
Sam grinned. “Intriguing, isn’t she?”
“You could say that. What do you know about her?”
“Not much. She’s been coming here every Tuesday for about six months, but she’s always alone. She buys the same drink, orders the same meal—apart from today, thanks to you scaring her off—and writes in her journal. She’s polite but standoffish. You know, the sort that screams ‘stay away,’ and you can’t help but draw closer.”
“What’s her name?”
“Olivia Hayes.”
Gabe stared off into the distance as Sam poured a fresh beer. What’s your story, Olivia Hayes?
He was jolted from his daydreaming when Sam put the fresh glass in front of him. “I worry about her.”
Gabe frowned. “Why?”
“Because if the poor girl has caught your attention, she doesn’t stand a chance.” Sam fluttered his fingers. “Like a moth to a flame, she’s gonna get burned.”
Gabe flipped Sam the bird, and the bartender barked with laughter as he walked away to serve a waiting customer.
Gabe’s thoughts turned once more to Olivia. He usually found vulnerable, damaged women a turnoff, preferring someone he could spar with rather than having to watch every word that came out of his mouth. But she wore her sadness like a cloak, and Gabe had an urge to free her from the weight of it. And who knew? That might mean he could throw off his own demons.
He took his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and flicked through the contacts list until he found his publicist’s number. There couldn’t be too many English women called Olivia Hayes living close to Huntington Beach.
“Alex,” he said as soon as his call was answered. “I need a favor.”
Alex groaned. “What story do I need to quash this time?”
“I see my reputation precedes me. No story, at least not yet. I need you to find someone for me.”
“Shall I instruct your lawyer to prepare a defense against a restraining order at the same time?”
Gabe chuckled. “Since when has my attention ever been unrequited? Give me some credit.”
“Okay, what info do you have?”
“Her name’s Olivia Hayes. She’s mid to late twenties. English. I saw her in the Huntington Beach area so that might be where she’s living. I need an address.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. Give me twenty-four hours.”
“You’ve got twelve.”
Alex sighed loudly. “Fine. I’ll call you later.”
Gabe hung up and finished his beer. He tossed some money on the bar and said goodbye to Sam. Pulling his baseball cap down low and hiding his eyes behind a pair of aviators, he set off for home, his mind swirling with images of Olivia Hayes.
After a restless night’s sleep, caused by intrusive images of the handsome stranger who’d ticked her off so much the previous day, Livvy decided to go for a run. She needed to do something to calm the agitated feeling making her stomach churn and her skin prickle. She dressed in athletic gear and pulled on a pair of well-worn sneakers. As she passed the fridge, she took out a cold bottle of water.
After locking the apartment door behind her, she jogged down the stairs and onto the street. The temperature was already well into the eighties. Despite that, she set off at a fast pace, desperate to quiet the unwelcome voices in her head.
Ninety minutes later, she returned to her apartment block, sweaty and out of breath. But at least the pit of anxiety gnawing at her insides had receded, and her body and mind were exhausted too. Maybe now she would be able to relax.
She stepped out of the elevator and trudged along the corridor towards her apartment. As she turned the corner, her eyes widened in astonishment. She paused, wondering if she should turn around and run away before he spotted her. Too late. His eyes lifted and met hers, and he flashed her a brilliant smile.
Goddammit. Gabe Mitchell.
Livvy stood absolutely still, holding her breath, unable to move. What the hell was he doing there? And more importantly, how the hell did he know where she lived?
Gabe’s tall, muscular frame was casually leaning against her door, his feet crossed at the ankles. He seemed unable to contain his amusement, his lips twitching upward as he gave her the once-over.
Livvy resisted the urge to tidy her hair or swipe at the rivers of
sweat running down her face. She cleared her throat and tried to find her voice. “How…”
He pushed himself away from the door. “It’s not as hard as you think, Olivia,” he said, edging closer.
Shit. He knew her name and where she lived? What else did he know? Was he some kind of stalker? As he reached her, he held out his right hand, palm up. Livvy frowned, still frozen to the spot, and looked at him questioningly.
“Give me your key,” he said. “You look like you’re going to drop at any minute. You should be careful running in this heat.”
"I’m not giving you the key to my apartment. You could be a murderer, a rapist, anything.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the action causing her eyes to slip to the long column of his tanned throat. She swallowed, and her tongue briefly swept over her lips.
“You’re perfectly safe, I promise you.”
Livvy averted her gaze from the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke—because she didn’t like the thoughts that popped into her head—and planted her hands on her hips. “That’s exactly what a murderer would say.”
He laughed again. “I’m one of the good guys. Promise. And considering I was asking Sam about you yesterday, I’d guess that if any harm were to come to you, I’d be suspect number one.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why were you asking Sam about me?”
He reached out his hand once more. “Come on. Give me your key. We need to get you a drink before you pass out.”