by Anne Jolin
Two hours later, I’m showered and dressed in a pair of tights and one of Jayden’s hoodies. Then he carries me out to the car, promising that it won’t matter how I look where we’re going.
We drive for five minutes before he turns off the road, climbing slightly up the mountain for another five. We pass a sign that says Steele Construction, and I wonder if we’re visiting one of Jackson’s jobs for him.
Not my idea of a surprise.
I’m exhausted, but the idea of something wonderful happening on such an awful day has hope thrusting me forward in my seat.
The trees finally break and a quaint log house comes in to view. The roof is done in two peaks, a smaller one in front and a larger one in the back. The face of the house is a display of black and grey slate rock, a stark contrast to the warmth of the logs. A porch runs wide along the front of the house and wraps around on both sides. Flanked to the right is a two-car garage, the design mirroring a smaller version of the house.
And in the center of it all is a purple door.
“It’s beautiful,” I sigh. “Who are we visiting?”
Once he’s pulled the truck up to the front steps, he turns the ignition off. “You’ll see.” Then he strides around the hood before helping me out of my seat and setting me down on the paved ground.
“Did Jackson build this?” I ask in wonder as we climb the front steps to the porch.
“He did.” Jayden grins, unlocking the front door.
I move to walk inside, but he steps in front of me, scooping me up into his arms. “I can walk,” I protest, terribly afraid that we’re back to my being a fragile bird again when he’s the one who got shot.
“No, you can’t.” He nips at my lower lip. “It’s customary for the man to carry the woman over the threshold of their new house.”
I’m about to make fun of him when the gravity of what he said sinks into my heart. “It’s our house?” I look up at him, my eyes full of surprise.
“Yeah, sugar.” He smiles, knocking on the open door. “You didn’t think I’d allow just anyone to paint their front door the color of your eyes, did you?”
My heart swells with joy.
Our house.
“It’s amazing, Jayden.”
He carries me through the front door before kissing me softly. “Close your eyes, Pey.”
I do as he asks, closing them tight, and I feel him start to climb stairs. He sets me down on the edge of what feels like a bed.
“Can I open?” I ask, the excitement killing me. I hardly expected two surprises.
“Open,” he says in the distance somewhere.
Happy tears fall without restraint down my cheeks at the wonder before me. I’m seated on the edge of king-sized bed in what I believe to be a master bedroom, and what surrounds me is more than I can bear.
On every surface of the room are vases stuffed with all kinds of purple flowers. In varying shapes and sizes across the floor are glass bowls and more vases filled with every kind of candy I could possibly think of that comes in purple, and tall white candles stand between them all.
Kneeling on one knee in the middle of it all is my King.
“I don’t know if it’s poor etiquette to do this on a day like today, but I don’t give a fuck.” He smiles, and I laugh, loving the rough edges of him. “Even surrounded by all of this, you’re still the sweetest thing in the room, sugar, and you saved me. You took a dead man’s heart and you brought it back to life. You’re unlike any love I’ve ever known. I thought I’d had my chance at love already, but I was wrong. Nothing compares to the way my soul begs to be in the light of yours. Nothing compares to the way I feel around you.”
I stand, desperate to be closer to him, tears spilling onto the floor of our room.
“I want to see you walk towards me in a white dress. I want to hold your hand when we welcome our children into the world. And I want to wake up every morning next to you. So I just have one last thing I’d like to say, and it might not be traditional, but neither are we.”
He pulls out a square cushion diamond that is surrounded by smaller, violet-colored ones, and looks up at me, before playing my own words back to me.
“Peyton Callaghan, can I keep you?”
“Yes,” I sob, barely allowing him to slip the ring on my finger before I throw my arms around his neck.
“That was always the plan, sugar.”
Two Weeks Later
“SUGAR, ARE ALL these boxes ready to go?” Jayden calls out from our old bedroom.
“Yes, except the Tupperware one!” I holler back.
We’ve been packing up our portion of the house all weekend with the help of our friends, and it seems like it’s taking forever. You never think you have that much stuff until you have to box it all up, I guess.
It wasn’t hard to get our ducks in a row. Jackson bought Jayden out of his half of the house, saying he said that he liked it despite it being too much space for him and was happy to stay. Other than selling some of my old furniture in storage, there wasn’t much else to do.
“How many books do you have, Pey? Jesus,” Colt grunts, coming up the stairs.
Looking him over, my heart breaks a little. He’s been doing okay. I see the sadness he tries to cover so desperately in his eyes, but I’ve managed to convince him to see someone about what happened. How well it’s working? I don’t know, but I am not giving up on him, come hell or high water.
“Earth to the future Mrs. King,” Hannah teases, bouncing Addison on her hip. “I need to know what of the kitchen stuff belongs to you guys so we can finish boxing it up.”
“Oh yeah! Of course!” I’m following after her when the doorbell rings.
“Can someone get that?” Jayden yells down the hallway again, where I can hear him, Jackson, Jami, Braxton, and Greyson arguing about the easiest way to move his four-poster bed.
“Men,” Lennon scoffs, leaning her hip against the kitchen doorjamb.
Rolling my eyes, I holler back, “I’ll get it!”
“How many men does it take to move a bed anyway?” Beth shakes her head before stealing an adorable Addison from her sister’s hands.
Bouncing down the stairs, I move some flattened cardboard out of the way before pulling the front door open. I look around, not seeing anything at first until I hear a small cough. Glancing down, I see a little boy, roughly six years old, standing in front of me.
“Hi.” I smile down at him. “Can I help you?”
He shifts from one foot to the other, adjusting the backpack over his shoulders. “I’m here to see my dad.”
“I think you might have the wrong house, sweetheart,” I coo.
He shakes his head shyly at me before thrusting something out in his little hand.
Kneeling down in front of him, I take the business card and turn it over in my hands.
It can’t be.
I flip the card over again and see that the address to the house has been handwritten on the back
He looks at me expectantly, and the familiarity in his features is undeniable.
“What’s your daddy’s name?” I pray that I’m wrong.
“Jackson Steele.”
THE END.
Waiting Game—Banks
Work Song—Hozier
Jealous—Labrinth
Ghost—Ella Henderson
Like I’m Gonna Lose You (feat. John Legend)—Meghan Trainor
Boys Like You (feat. Fossling)—360
Even When I’m Sleeping—Leonardo’s Bride
Lollipop—Framing Hanley
I’m The One Who Wants To Be With You—Mr Big
A Sunday Kind of Love—Etta James
Beneath Your Beautiful—Labrinth (feat. Emeli Sande)
Guilty Filthy Soul—AWOLNATION
Latch (feat. Sam Smith)—Disclosure
SOS—Fozzy
Thinking Out Loud—Ed Sheeran
Last Kiss—Pearl Jam
Steal My Girl—One Direction
Keep On Loving
You—REO Speedwagon
I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing—Aerosmith
To my sweet and amazing bombshell beta readers: Nikki Mccrae, Elizabeth Thiele, Wendy Colby, Melissa Gill, Midian Sosa, Tracey-lee Mylchreest, Maggie Lugo, Marie Garner, Aurora Rose Reynolds, Ashley Jasper, Larni Phipps, Lori Christensen, and Kristi Webster. You are all exquisite, encouraging, and beautiful women. I am blessed and grateful to have you in my life. I value your opinions greatly and appreciate your honesty. A million times thank you!
The biggest, most GIGANTIC thank-you to my editor and great friend, Mickey Reed. You are truly one of my life’s blessings. You’re patience with this book and your unwavering support for me is something I am beyond grateful for. I believe that everything happens for a reason, and meeting you was absolutely something I needed in my life. I love you and thank you!
For my sugar, Elizabeth, the best personal assistant a girl could ask for. Thank you so darn much! You have supported, loved, and nurtured the process of Jayden’s book since I first began writing. He is as much a part of you as he is me. I’m a very lucky girl to work alongside you, but more than that, I’m so thankful to have you as a friend. Love you, sugar!
A special thank-you to my brilliant formatter Stacey Blake from Champagne Formats. You are a creative genius! The artistic flare you bring to the pages is stunning, and not only that, but you are wicked fast at it. I look forward to the day we can share a big ol’ glass of wine together.
For Nikki, you’ve healed me in ways I can’t possible begin to thank you for and always had faith in me, even if I lacked faith in myself. I love you, ya big wanker!
Thank you to the talented Scott Hoover and Micah Truitt for providing the perfect photo for the cover of this book! I can guarantee there will be some drool over this book because of you.
To my Meli, a.k.a. Melissa Gill at MG Book Covers, thank you for another stunning cover. I cannot thank you enough for putting up with my particular brand of crazy when it comes to the designing of these covers. You really are a star! I’m thrilled and honored to have you as a part of both my personal and professional lives.
Thank you to Ellie from Love N Books for proofreading this book! I love your face and I’m so glad we finally got to work together on a project.
Thank you to Lydia Quintana, my Book B from HEA Bookshelf. You really go above and beyond. It doesn’t matter what the situation calls for—you’ve got my back! Whether that be translating for me in Spanish, dealing with my space cadet creative ways, or simply being the efficient goddess you are, I am so lucky to have you! Here’s to you, babe, and some much-needed real-time hugs in Portland this September!
For my angels, the best street team a girl could ask for, thank you for everything: the man candy posts, the pimping, the teasers, and all the love you’ve shown me.
For all the readers, these books are for you, so thank you for reading. I love you all more than you could possibly know.
To my friends and family, my life is richer and more beautiful because you’re in it. Thank you for everything.
Hey y’all,
I was born and raised in Ladner, a small farm town just outside Vancouver, Canada. I grew up riding horses, shooting guns, and driving in trucks.
I never expected to be an author. A massage therapist? Yes. Take over the family construction company? Yes. But an author? No. Writing was something that snuck up on me and rooted itself into my life. It was beautiful to discover that love, and I’m truly grateful to say I’ve found my passion.
Since I’ve always been a creative person, it feels amazing to harness all of that energy and use it to tell a story I love. I enjoy incorporating bits of my real life into the stories I write. What parts are true? Hah. I’ll never tell—what would be the fun in that?
If I could leave y’all with one thing, it’s that life’s far too short to not live it out loud. Drown in your passions, hold on tight to the things that inspire you, and chase your dreams relentlessly. I can promise you without a doubt that you won’t regret it. I know I don’t.
Mad love,
Anne Jolin
xx
Y’all can follow me on,
Website – www.annejolin.com
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/authorannejolin
Twitter - @authorannejolin
Instagram - @annejolin
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8388273.Anne_Jolin
Xo.
“I love badly.
That is, too little or too
much. I throw myself over
an unsuitable cliff, only to
reel back in horror from
a simple view out the window.”
- Jeanette Winterson
Prologue
“Charleston? Are you listening?”
I drag my gaze off two co-eds who are sucking face on the campus lawn and bring my attention to the woman in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize hollowly.
She scribbles something down on her pad before looking up at me sympathetically. “I asked if you’ve slept at all since our last session.”
“A little,” I lie.
Dr. Colby continues to stare knowingly, and it doesn’t take long for me to cave.
“No, I haven’t slept much, I guess.”
“Have you been taking the pills I gave you?”
Shaking my head, I retrieve the container from my purse and then hold it out to her. “I won’t use them. You might as well take them back.”
“Charleston, you’re depressed. You need sleep, and the pills will help with that,” she urges.
“I won’t use drugs as a vice or as some pathetic coping mechanism for my childish broken heart.”
There is frustration in her eyes as she pulls her reading glasses off, laying them over her note pad. “For starters, they are not illegal street drugs, Charleston. They are prescribed sleeping medication for a clinically diagnosed depression. I know you’re scared about what happened to your bro—”
Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I bite back tears. “I’m not here because of Henry.” I wince as his name leaves my lips.
Dr. Colby sees the quiver in my lip—she sees everything. I’m entirely transparent to the woman with the well-earned PhD framed on the pale-pink wall.
“Henry had a severe cocaine addiction coupled with alcoholism for nearly a third of his young life,” she explains.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe in a slow, unsteady breath through my nose, blowing it out dramatically through my mouth. I’ve cried so much this year, and each time, I’m certain I’ll have no more tears left to give. But when the shadow of suffering climbs into my soul and each of its brutally sharp talons grip my heart, the wetness never fails to stain my pillow. I guess that’s the funny thing about pain. It has a consistency in the doling out of surprises that make your knees buckle and your chest ache.
“His death was tragic, but you are not your brother. Sharing his blood in no way means you share his weakness for addiction or that you long for the same demons.”
Nodding, I flip the bottle over in my hands. I have no irrational, all-consuming lust towards drugs—or even alcohol for that matter. To be honest, I think the luster or shine they mirrored was long gone before I’d even hit high school. The memories that crept into the daylight at even the mere thought of them were enough to extinguish any curiosity I had thought to develop. No, I may not be a drug addict or an alcoholic, but even I am not ignorant to my addictive personality. I’m either black or white, zero or a hundred. I feel either entirely too much or nothing at all. No facet of who I am enables the unclear. My personality harbors no middle ground. I don’t know what grey is; I never did.
“Do you understand the difference, Charleston?” Dr. Colby asks, placing her violet-colored glasses back onto the bridge of her nose.
“Yes, I understand,” I mimic, carefully resting the bottle on the glass coffee table in front of me. “I still won’t use these.”
/> “Very well.” She nods. “Are you ready to talk about him?”
There it is. The elephant in the room. The topic that makes me want to bolt from my seat and take off like a bat out of hell. Him. The reason I began seeing Dr. Colby nearly six months into my freshman year of college. The reason that, despite the untimely death of my brother, I continue to seek counselling once a week.
“I drove past his old house yesterday,” I say on a whisper, letting my gaze drift back out the window.
“How did that make you feel?”
After wrestling with the emotions consistently at war inside me, I lose. I’m unable to wrap my head around them for what seems like the umpteenth time.
“I wonder if every emotionally pathetic girl has to seek counselling for a broken heart,” I laugh without humor.
“Charleston,” she warns, “we’ve discussed this. It might feel like a broken heart . . .”
It does. It feels like my hearts been shattered into sharp pieces that are cutting up the person I used to be from the inside out.
“ . . . but it is more than that. What you’ve suffered is a severe abandonment trauma. Did you feel the flooding sensation again?”
The couple from earlier are laughing outside the window now. He has his hands fisted in her coat lapels as she brushes her fingers through his hair. They are happy and they are fucking idiots.
“Charleston?”
I look over at her and nod. “Yes. I did.”
“And how did that make you feel this time?” she presses.
As I curl my hands into fists, I feel my nails digging into the fleshy part of my palm. “Like I always do.”
“Angry?”
My jaw has followed suit with the rest of my body, clenching tightly while all I do is nod. Dr. Colby says that it’s common to come out of the flooding sensation with anger as a result of my confusion and lack of closure, but to be honest, I prefer it. The sadness that so often works its way into my bones cripples me, but the anger . . . I can manage that or even channel it. But not grief. No, grief demands to be felt and leaves no survivors in its wake. Grief is what left me sobbing on the cold bathroom floor for days until Henry found me. For all of his demons, Henry was simply an angel with no halo and one wing in the fire.
