Love, Laughter and Happily Ever After: A Short Story Collection

by Daisy Prescott

  “Morning,” he whispered into my hair.

  “Mmmorning,” I mumbled. “I’m hoping you can walk this morning. I’m not sure I can get out of bed to make coffee. Or do any of the things.”

  He chuckled.

  “Listen, Mr. Smug.” I rolled over to face him.

  “Yes, Ms. Satisfied?” He reached for my hip, wrapping his hand around the curve.

  “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “About?” His forehead wrinkled, but his focus remained on his hand, now caressing my skin.

  “I’m serious about the not being able to walk.”

  He grinned at me. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Not at all. Although, I have to admit, I’m not sure I could handle anything this morning.”

  I moved my hand toward the juncture of his legs.

  He grabbed it before I could make contact with him. He kissed my palm. “Men get sore, too.”

  “Really?” I blinked at him.

  “Yes, really. Can I confess something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Last night was incredible.”

  “It was.”

  “I’m not finished.” He tapped my nose. “But honestly? I’m not sure I ever want to repeat it.”

  Relief settled over me. “Thank God.”

  “You okay with just regular, boring, old sex with me?”

  I could hear the undercurrent of insecurity beneath his question.

  “I’m more than okay.”

  He exhaled and gently kissed me.

  “Although, maybe every once and a while wouldn’t be bad. Maybe a half dose?”

  “If it makes you scream my name like you did in the living room, how could I say no? But maybe they should sell those pills along with packets of lube.”

  “Or gallon jugs.”

  “That would make picking up the prescription more than a little awkward.”

  Warmth spread across my cheeks imagining Gil standing in line at the drug store holding a gallon jug of lube. Maybe it would have a pump dispenser for convenience. “We could stick with oysters.”

  “Speaking of food, I’m starved,” he said.

  “Me, too.” I stretched and groaned. “Donuts?”

  “Stay in bed, I’ll get them.” He kissed me again and got up. His back cracked when he stretched, causing us both to laugh at our forty-something bodies recovering from a night of twenty-something sex. It would take days for us to recover from last night’s escapades.

  Chapter 4

  Maggie

  After a quick shower, I made my way downstairs to the kitchen for ibuprofen and water. Selah’s gift bag still sat on the counter. We had forgotten to open her real gift. With mixed feelings about another sex related present, I slowly peeled off the black and white striped wrapping paper.

  A silver-framed Polaroid sat nestled amongst black tissue inside the box. My breath hitched. Seven smiling faces, arms thrown over shoulders, the sun creating a golden shadow across the crowns of our heads, our youth had been captured and frozen forever. Or as long as Polaroids lasted.

  Jo’s blonde hair glowed in the bright light. Ben focused his eyes on her and not the camera. Selah and Quinn wore nearly identical plaid shirts over cut-off jeans and matching combat boots. In the middle stood Gil with his arm casually tossed over my shoulder, his hand resting on Lizzy’s head. My head was tossed back and my eyes were squeezed closed with laughter. A look of pure amusement danced in Gil’s eyes. He must have said something funny just as the picture was snapped.

  Barely legible, “these are the days” was written in Selah’s distinct cursive on the border. The ink had faded over the subsequent decades into a pool of smudged blue.

  I raised the frame closer to examine the picture. My finger traced over Lizzy’s face through the glass. A soft sigh escaped as a small wave of loss lapped at my heart.

  When I glanced up, Gil stood in the doorway watching me. “What did she give us?”

  He set the bag of donuts on the counter. I could smell the still warm maple bacon bar.

  I turned the frame to face him.

  “Where did she ever find this?” He took the picture from my hands and smiled. “Geez, look at us. We look like the cast of Singles.”

  “Or the cast of Singles looked like us.” I sipped from the large latte he’d brought me.

  “Probably more apt.”

  “Your hair was so long.” I pointed out where his hair hit his shoulders.

  “Maybe I should grow it out again. Be that professor who wears a pony tail and has a beanbag in my office.”

  “Maybe not.” I shook my head and frowned.

  “You haven’t changed.” He lowered his voice.

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Not the parts of you that count.” He tapped the glass, his eyes filled with love. “That’s the girl who stole my heart.”

  “She didn’t know she had it.” I leaned into his shoulder.

  “Silly girl.”

  “That silly girl became the woman who gave me her heart.”

  “Smart woman.” Our eyes locked and I knew what that girl in the picture hadn’t. My heart would be safe with this man.

  TAKE FOR GRANTED

  A MODERN LOVE STORY SHORT

  Introduction

  Written as part of the “snow” themed LOL Anthology, I wanted to give Ben and Jo a sexy story to prove married couples can have still have fun together years after their HEA. When I wrote the sexy bartender Jo flirts with at the hotel bar, I had zero idea readers would fall for him and demand he get his own book. Who knew a sexy accent and a man bun would be so enticing!

  Jo and Ben Grant are spending a week in Aspen.

  Without their three kids.

  It’ll be bliss.

  Heaven.

  Finally, they’ll have time alone to reconnect with each other. Jo wants spice things up to get them out of their marriage rut. When she plans a wild evening out, will Ben embrace the crazy?

  Readers first met Ben and Jo in We Were Here and Geoducks Are for Lovers.

  This short is the first appearance of Stan from Next to You.

  Prologue

  Vail 2011: Ear infection and altitude sickness

  Whistler 2012: Sinus infection

  Park City 2013: Bronchitis

  Darien 2014: Flu

  Aspen 2015: Lingering cough since the holidays

  I’m cursed.

  Every year we plan a family ski trip over winter break in February, and every single year I get sick. Every, single damn year. Instead of schwooping down the slopes or going out to eat, I sleep in the condo and get familiar with on-call doctors, local Urgent Care facilities, and pharmacies.

  Need a good pharmacy in Vail?

  Doctor with long hours in Park City?

  I’m your girl.

  This year is going to be different.

  All three kids are going to Florida with my parents.

  That means it will only be Ben and I. In Aspen. Together. Alone.

  No condo with multiple bedrooms and a kitchen. Every mom on “vacation” knows there’s some expectation of cooking something if there’s a kitchen. Condos also come with laundry rooms. Cooking and doing laundry are not a vacation. Vacation means relaxation and escape. Not washing mounds of dirty underwear.

  Did I mention I’m the mother of three teenagers?

  No kids means we’ll be in a hotel room, a suite, with housekeeping, and room service, and turn down service, and nothing for me to do.

  In other words, heaven.

  Ben has a couple meetings scheduled during the trip. Meetings that will take place on the mountain or in the gondola while they pretend to ski. Other than the meetings and a client dinner, we have no plans. No schedule.

  No kids. No schedule. No chores.

  A week of bliss.

  I am not going to get sick.

  I’ve been chugging chalky Vitamin C powder and swallowing extra vitamins and zinc for the past two
months to ward off germs and evil viruses.

  Flu shot, Vitamin B12 shot, wheatgrass shots… I’d done all that I could in preparation for this trip.

  I will not get sick.

  I will not get sick.

  Chapter 1

  My view out the window tips from sky to earth. My stomach lurches when the plane banks a sharp turn over the rocky, snow dusted peaks of the Rockies on the short flight from Denver to Aspen.

  “Doesn’t this make you think of that movie Alive?” I ask Ben.

  He’s reading the Wall Street Journal like he’s sitting at his desk at work, completely undisturbed by the fact that we are careening over jagged mountains at a high speed.

  “The nineties one about the soccer players who crashed in the Andes?” he asks into his paper.

  “Yes, that’s the one.” I gently clench his wrist as the plane bounces on an updraft.

  “You’re morbid. Wasn’t Ethan Hawke in that? Did he survive?” His eyes flick to my face.

  “I’m not morbid. If you put down the paper for a second and looked outside, you’d agree.” I push down the paper with my other hand. “And of course Ethan survived. I couldn’t watch his movies for years without thinking ‘cannibal’ in my head every time I saw him.”

  “Right, I remember that. You had a hard time deciphering reality from fiction and acting back then.” He ducks his head and leans across my seat to see the view. “Yep, exactly like the Andes.”

  “Life rule number one: don’t fly over the Andes in a small plane in the winter. Do you think the Rockies should be added to that?”

  “Really?” He leans back and shakes out his paper before folding it in half and then half again. “That’s still life rule number one? Not save the children and animals in a house fire? Or honor you marriage vows?” His wedding ring catches the sunlight through the window as he holds up his hand.

  “Those are givens, no rule needed.” I lift his wrist and kiss the platinum band.

  “We could always make the three hour drive back to Denver next weekend. Avoid any chance of me turning into Ethan Hawke.” He kisses my cheek.

  I frown and turn to kiss his lips. “You’ve aged much better.”

  His laugh makes his small paunch jiggle. It’s not really fair to call it a paunch, but it wasn’t there in his thirties, and definitely not in his twenties. Other than a few gray hairs at his temples and a slightly higher forehead, he’s still a damn handsome man. Maybe even the “d” word: distinguished.

  “Good to know.” He returns to his paper.

  The flight attendant walks through the small cabin, reminding us to return our seats to their upright position and stow our blah, blah blah. I notice her hand pauses on Ben’s seatback a little longer than the others. Her “Mr. Grant” comes out like a purr.

  Hello, I’m sitting right next to him and he’s wearing a ring.

  I should be used to this. Younger women see men like my husband as catches. Established, wealthy, successful men like Ben have an aura of confidence women find appealing. Wives and family be damned.

  Good luck, sister. I snort.

  Ben casts me a sidelong look and hands his paper to the lingering stewardess. I roll my eyes and return to my window.

  After few more bounces, sways and turns, the plane finds the narrow strip of flat ground that is the Aspen airport. I think about kissing the tarmac when we walk down the stairs until the cold late afternoon wind hits me. “Brr, it’s cold” I shiver and wrap my down parka tightly around myself.

  “Sure you wouldn’t rather be in Florida where it’s warm?” Ben shouts over the noise from the jet and the wind.

  “And miss out on the hot toddies, hot tubs and hot men? No way!”

  He laughs, knowing there’s no way I’d ever get in a public hot tub. Not even at a five star hotel.

  Our driver looks like he moved here in the seventies and never left. Part hippie, part skier, he’s wearing an old school ski sweater with deep blue snowflakes on a cream background. The car has a faint scent of cannabis beneath the cheery pine scent from the tree air-freshener hanging from the rearview mirror

  Ben meets my eyes and gestures like he’s smoking. “Doobie,” he whispers as if the pantomime and scent weren’t enough for me to figure out the connection.

  “You like the Doobie brothers?” Darren, the driver, smiles at us in the rearview mirror. “Me too.”

  I have to look out the window to avoid bursting into giggles.

  Luckily it’s a short drive to The Little Nell Hotel, our home for the week. Located at the base of Ajax and the gondolas, The Nell is an Aspen institution. Our suite has a four-poster bed and a separate living area, both with incredible views of the mountain, currently tinged indigo with the setting sun. A fire glows in the fireplace, giving the effortlessly chic room a cozy feeling.

  I eye the bed and all sorts of salacious thoughts run through my head about putting the posts to good use. I’ve read too many books. Ben’s no dominant. Other than the occasional spank or slap, he’d probably think I’m crazy if I suggested anything kinky.

  Sighing, I walk into the enormous bathroom and set my cosmetics bag on the counter. The light is flattering, giving a glow to my blond highlights and hiding my faint crows’ feet. I wiggle my eyebrows. The Botox is beginning to wear off, but my forehead is still smooth.

  I don’t look forty-something. Mid-thirties tops. I resist the urge to examine my face closer, knowing I’ll still be closer to fifty than thirty no matter how youthful my skin looks.

  The sound of Bloomberg TV carries in from the bedroom. I lean back to see Ben flopped on the bed, remote in his hand, business chatter flowing from the flat screen. We could be at home.

  “We have a dinner reservation at eight. I’m going to take a shower,” I call over to him.

  “Great.” He picks up his phone and texts something.

  Great. I sweep my shoulder length hair into a bun and turn on the enormous shower.

  “Plenty of room for two in the shower,” I shout.

  When there’s no response, I peek out of the bathroom. Ben’s on his phone and holds up his finger for silence.

  You can take the man away from the office, but these days, you can’t take the office away from the man.

  It’s Friday evening and I’m going to make the most of it. Maybe I’ll be able to lure him out dancing later. If not tonight, I have a plan for tomorrow night that should end with us screwing each other’s brains out like we used to do in college.

  Dried, moisturized, and made-up, I pull my hair out of its bun, letting the blond waves fall around my shoulders in a perfect tousled mess for dinner tonight.

  From the faint sound of his voice, Ben’s moved his call to the living room, and closed the door to the bedroom.

  I unpack and hang our clothes in the closet, and put things in the drawers. Tonight’s outfit is a slim pair of dark jeans and a black cashmere tunic. It’s lightly snowing out and I debate heels or boots. Heels win because I doubt we’ll leave the hotel.

  Ben finally ends his call and declares he’s going to take a shower. His hand trails over my shoulder and down to the slight curve of my hip as he passes. The gesture is habitual, but sends a current through my body.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers despite it being the two of us.

  I smile and thank him, but he’s already in the bathroom.

  I sit on the bed and flip through channels, but nothing catches my attention. I’m in Aspen. There must be more interesting things to do than watch reruns on Bravo.

  Over the noise of the shower, I shout, “I’m going downstairs. I’ll meet you in the bar.”

  He says he’ll meet me there. At least I think that’s what he says as the steam shower begins to fog.

  Chapter 2

  Downstairs the aprés ski crowd is buzzing, swarming the cozy living room style lounge where a fire roars in the large stone fireplace. I find a seat at the end of the long bar in the restaurant. Like our suite, it’s beyond chic wit
h traditional and modern styles mixed together. Deep blues and light grays highlight the narrow space. The lighting is soft and everyone looks like they walked out of a fashion magazine. Faux and real fur accent both women and men, diamonds glitter, and casual looking ski clothes probably cost a fortune.

  While waiting for the bartender’s attention, I spin my three-carat engagement ring, an upgrade from the classic one-carat Ben proposed with after business school.

  Of course, the bartender is beautiful, too. He’s either a snowboarder or model. Probably both. He has a neatly trimmed beard and, according to Ella, a man bun. Leave it to the thirteen year old to know more about fashion and trends than her mom.

  Man bun or not, he’s gorgeous with his dark hair and pale skin. And I am staring. To occupy myself while I wait, I chomp on a handful of buttery Spanish marcona almonds from the small dish on the bar.

  I study the cocktail list until a deep baritone asks, “Can I get you something?”

  My eyes meet with clear blue. He has to be a model. “Um…” I pause, every name for every alcoholic concoction leaving my head. “I’ll have…” I stare at the fuzzy words in front of me.

  “What do you like? I’ll make you something special. Vodka? Bourbon? Tequila? Gin?”

  I frown at gin. Gin and I broke up many years ago, and we will never ever, ever get back together.

  “Vodka.” I meet his intense eyes and smile.

  “Are you a sweet or salty girl?” He leans on his forearm in front of me.

  I know he’s asking about my drink preferences, but his flirting with patrons skill is impressive.

  “Sweet.” It comes out as a husky, secret-sharing whisper.

  “Citrus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like a little spice?”

  I nod. The muscles of his forearms where he’s rolled up the cuffs of his shirt distract me from actual speech.