The Rebound

by Winter Renshaw

  Almost everyone has a question tonight, including me.

  “Hi, Ayla, I’m Deb from Alexandria,” the first woman says, clutching the mic with both hands and smiling big as a small spotlight illuminates her narrow face. “I’ve read your book four times so far, and I was just wondering if you could tell us when we can expect your follow up?”

  “Hi, Deb! May seventeenth,” Ayla says.

  The woman passes the mic to the lady beside her.

  “I’m Candace from Parkersburg, West Virginia,” the second woman says. I’m not sure why they’re all feeling the need to introduce themselves, but if this is the precedent, this Q and A session is going to take for fucking ever tonight. “I was wondering if you could tell us what your second book is about?”

  Ayla smiles. “Of course! It’s a love story for one, much like Hard Hearted. And in a broader sense, it explores the themes of fate and how everything is connected. It’s about not getting what you want, but getting what you need, and also acceptance and forgiveness.”

  The room is quiet.

  “Basically, it’s about a girl who meets a guy under false pretenses,” she adds, looking down at her podium. “And she falls in love with him, almost overnight. But he finds out who she is, and he’s really angry with her. They have to figure out how to move through the hurt and the betrayal and the pain because there’s still that undeniably powerful undercurrent of love that isn’t going away no matter how hard each of them try.”

  The worker takes the mic and moves to a different part of the room, handing it to a white-haired woman in a hot pink sweater.

  “Ayla, I’m wondering if you can tell me why you made Stassi so unlikeable in Hard Hearted?” she asks. “You’re a great writer, but I couldn’t get past her attitude. Loved James though. He was perfect.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry you didn’t like Stassi,” Ayla says. “I wanted her to be sassy and spunky, and maybe I went a little overboard with her personality. I know sometimes she was super blunt and didn’t really filter her opinions. Maybe you’ll like Ariana better? In Cold Hearted? She’s a bit softer. Big heart. Very emotional. Probably too emotional…”

  A fourth person takes the mic. “Are they going to make Hard Hearted into a movie?”

  Ayla smiles. “I don’t know. I hope so. I guess the right people need to see it? It’s only a few months old, so who knows. Anything can happen.”

  The worker scans the dimly lit room and eyes a woman a couple spots to my left with her hand wagging in the air as she bounces on her toes.

  “Yes, Ayla, hi,” she says, breathless and smiling. “I’m Nicole from Baltimore, Maryland, and I was wondering if you’re single? Because you would be perfect for my little brother!”

  The crowd laughs and Ayla blushes.

  “I am single,” she says.

  “Perfect! I’ll give you his number after this,” Nicole says.

  My chest squeezes, I can’t take this anymore.

  My hand flies into the air and I make direct eye contact with the shop employee, motioning for her to come my way.

  The second the mic is in my hand, my heart thuds and everything around me goes black except for her. The spotlight moves to me, and I feel its subtle heat.

  “Hi, Ayla,” I say, my stare piercing across the room. “Rhett. From Philadelphia.”

  She’s frozen, eyes fastened on mine and face white as a ghost.

  “In your book, Cold Hearted, which I was fortunate enough to read in advance,” I say, feeling the collective weight of the jealous stares around me. “I was wondering if you could tell us how much of your book was inspired by real life.”

  Her eyes flash and then narrow. She thinks it’s a trick question.

  “I used to think some of it was,” she says after careful consideration. “But I can confidently say that it’s purely a work of fiction. You’d be hard pressed to find a real life version of either of my characters.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “Because they felt so real to me. It felt like I knew them. Personally.”

  She flushes and glances away, fidgeting.

  “Maybe a small part of Reed is based on someone I knew a long time ago,” she says with a sigh. “But Reed and this guy, they’re nothing alike. Night and day.”

  “Another question, if I may,” I say when the employee tries to take the mic back. “Are you still in contact with this man? The one who inspired the character in your book?”

  Her gaze narrows. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “In Cold Hearted, Reed tells Ariana he loves her constantly, every chance he gets. I was wondering if Reed—the real Reed—ever told you he loved you?” I ask.

  She doesn’t blink, she only stares straight ahead. The room is silent until she clears her throat.

  “Never,” she says. “We never got to that point. I told him. Many times. He never said it back.”

  “Is it possible,” I ask, “that Reed was in a bad place at the time? That maybe he loved you, but he didn’t know how to say it because it meant giving up control of the one thing in his life he could protect—his ice-cold heart?”

  “Anything’s possible.” Ayla tucks her dark waves behind one ear.

  “Have you spoken to him recently? Maybe he’s ready to tell you? Maybe he wants to apologize for being such an asshole? Maybe he’s ready to finally go deep with you.”

  She tucks her chin against her chest.

  “I love you, Ayla,” I say as she glances up. “I’m sorry. I messed up.”

  All eyes are on me now. The woman in front of me is dabbing at her happy tears with a tissue and the one to my left is glaring like I’m some sort of monster.

  “Kiss him!” someone yells from the back of the room, and suddenly everything blurs into the background.

  I’m squeezing between aisles and rows and chairs and women, pushing my way to the front of the room where I climb onto the small stage and storm the podium where the love of my life stands motionless, paralyzed.

  Cupping her cheek in my hand, I slide my fingers along the nape of her neck and guide her mouth to mine.

  The readers whistle and clap and cheer, and I feel Ayla’s lips curve against mine.

  “I love you,” I whisper into her ear. “It’s only going to be you for me.”

  “I love you too.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Ayla

  “Why’d you change your number?” Rhett asks as we slip into my hotel room after my final book signing. His hands circle my waist, and he kisses my neck.

  “I needed to move on,” I say. “I was exhausted from running in circles with you.”

  He frowns, lifting his eyes to mine. “You really think, for one second, that you’re capable of moving on from this?”

  I sigh. “No. But I was determined to try.”

  His hands snake up my sides, traveling beneath the hem of my shirt until he cups my breasts.

  “No more running,” Rhett says.

  “No more running.”

  He kisses me again, his lips pressed against mine until he lifts my shirt above my head and we stumble into bed.

  Rhett doesn’t ravish me. He doesn’t tear at my clothes, though I suspect we’ll get to that soon enough. He drinks me in, as if he’s content just to be with me.

  “You know, after everything, and despite the fact that I’m wildly in love with you,” I say, “I still feel like I hardly know you.”

  He smirks. “Likewise.”

  “I don’t even know your parents’ names.”

  “Barb and Chet. You want to meet them sometime?”

  My mouth pulls up at one side, my stomach filling with butterflies. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Locke had a kid,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He has a daughter named Joa. She’s almost one.” Rhett’s face lights when he mentions his niece. “He’s doing the single dad thing.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know, right?”

  “You like being
an uncle?” I ask.

  “Love it,” he says. “In a way, Joa’s kind of brought my family closer together.”

  “Babies do that,” I say. “You like babies?”

  His eyes flash. “Are you asking if I like babies or if I want babies?”

  I playfully pat his chest. He sees right through me. “Both.”

  “Yes,” he says. “I like babies. And I want babies—with you.”

  “Can I be honest with you?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m still kind of on the fence about having kids,” I say. “I like them, don’t get me wrong. But I just haven’t decided what I want to do yet. That said, if I picture myself having kids? I can totally see you in the picture. That’s how I know I love you. I’ve never felt that way with anyone else.”

  Rhett rolls over on top of me, sliding his arms beneath my shoulders. “We’ve got plenty of time to decide. But until then, we’re probably going to have to practice. A lot.”

  “You think?” I chuckle, feeling the outline of his hardened cock against my fabric-covered mound.

  His mouth presses into a tender spot just below my left ear, and my body softens.

  “I’m so glad you came back.” I sigh, staring up at the ceiling as he travels south.

  His hands work the waistband of my leggings, fingers slipping beneath the elastic as he tugs them down and yanks them off me. I reach for his jeans, unfastening them at the fly and pushing them farther down his sides.

  “I love you so fucking much, Ayla,” he breathes into my ear, grinding his hips against mine.

  Rhett moves to my side, pressing his body against my backside and pulling my leg over his. A moment later, he guides the head of his cock into me, from behind, and slides his fingers up and down my slit as he pumps into me.

  Our bodies mold to one another, rocking and thrusting and grinding as his thumb circles my clit and his free hand slides beneath my side, pulling me closer.

  “I’m never going to let you go again,” he says.

  “Good. Because I’ll never let you,” I say.

  We’re bathed in peace, blanketed in contentment.

  He is mine.

  I am his.

  No more, no less.

  Epilogue

  Ayla

  One Year Later…

  “Are you nervous?” Rhett asks me as I set the table.

  “Nervous for what, Mr. Carson?” I love calling him that because it usually gets him to call me Mrs. Carson in return, and I’m obsessed with my new name. Ayla Caldwell still graces my book covers, but legally, I’m his. I’m Mrs. Rhett Carson.

  “Our dinner guests, Mrs. Carson,” he says with a wink. I smile. “These two haven’t seen each other since our wedding, and we know how well that went.”

  I laugh. “I wish they’d just screw and get it over with. One of these days they’re going to see how absolutely perfect they are for each other.”

  “I doubt Bostyn wants a guy with baggage.”

  “Joa is not baggage. She’s a gift with purchase.”

  I place the last fork next to the last plate and grab Joa’s high chair from the pantry. We watch her every chance we get, giving Locke a break because we can always tell when he needs it.

  The doorbell rings and our German Shepherd puppy, Gruber, barks and runs toward the door. We’re not quite ready to start a family, so we decided to start with a dog. So far so good. We take turns letting him out in the middle of the night when he whines, and we’re constantly making sure he’s clean and fed and played with.

  I’m pretty confident we’re going to rock the whole parenting thing someday.

  The timer on the oven chimes, so I check on the chicken Piccata and Rhett gets the door. A second later, I hear Bostyn’s sing-song voice and the loud click of her heels across the brick-tiled foyer.

  We moved to a nice house in a Philly suburb surrounded by a privacy fence and dozens of antique oaks, soaring evergreens, and weeping willows. The house reminds me of a small-scale castle, cozy and historic with stone galore. There’s a small pool in the back yard that gets plenty of use when it’s warm, a little writing cottage that’s free from pesky little distractions like the Internet, and a sexy husband who wants to jump my bones when he hasn’t got anything better to do.

  “Hey, girl,” Bostyn gives me a hug from behind as I finish placing the dish on the stovetop.

  “Bostyn!” I spin, giving her a warm hug. She still lives in the city these days, and I still don’t see her nearly enough.

  “Smells good,” she says, peering over my shoulder.

  Rhett carries her overnight bag upstairs. She’s staying in one of the guestrooms tonight, across the hall from Locke and Joa.

  The entrance to the garage swings open a moment later. Joa toddles in first, followed by Locke with an armful of luggage and blankets and a stuffed elephant tucked under his left arm.

  “Come in, come in,” I say.

  “Hey, guys,” he says, gaze moving to Bostyn.

  “What’s up?” she says, though you could cut the tension with a knife.

  To say they can’t stand each other would be an understatement. The few short times these two have been in each other’s company have been a fire and ice extravaganza. I’m hoping that tonight, with Joa present, they’ll keep their insult hurling to a minimum.

  When Rhett returns, he gives his brother a side hug. By the time we’re all settled and gathered around the table, Locke’s rambling on about his newest app.

  “So, yeah,” he says. “This one lets you rate your dates. Kind of like how you can rate your Uber driver?”

  Bostyn makes a face. “That’s disgusting.”

  “No, it’s not. Wouldn’t you want to know if you were about to go on a date with some guy who ghosted the girl before you?” he asks.

  “Yeah, but still. It’s unethical. What if people lie about you?” she asks.

  “The reviews aren’t anonymous. If you want to leave a review, you have to post your photo and real name, which has to be verified.” He slices his chicken and places a few bites on Joa’s plate.

  “Then nobody will leave any reviews,” Bostyn says.

  “You’re not understanding. This could be a very good thing. People helping people find love,” he says. “Maybe you go on a date with someone who’s not your type but you know he’d be perfect for someone else. You could say you enjoyed your time together, but he’s not the one. Would be perfect for someone who appreciates the outdoors. An adrenaline junkie. A Steelers enthusiast. Whatever.”

  Bostyn reaches for her wine. “I don’t know. Some people are jerks.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “True. Anyway, it’s worth a shot. Have to innovate to stay ahead.”

  “Locke just sold his fifth app recently,” I chime in.

  “Oh, yeah?” Bostyn glances across the table at him. “Good for you. Another dating app?”

  “Nope. Parenting app,” he says.

  Her gaze softens. She so wants to keep hating on him, but I see her resolve weakening by the second. He’s really come a long way, and I hope someday she can give him another chance. Two people who fight like cats and dogs have got to be dynamite in bed.

  And she needs that. She needs dynamite. Her last few boyfriends we nicknamed Bashful, Grumpy, and Dopey for obvious reasons.

  For a dating advice columnist, she has the worst taste in men. I wish she’d just hand it over to me because I’m fairly confident I know how to pick them, as evidenced by the crème de la crème of husbands sitting across from me right now looking like he’s two seconds from carrying me upstairs and having his way with me despite the fact that we have company.

  He always looks at me like that, and I hope he always does.

  Locke tends to Joa, and I catch Bostyn watching, though I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I’ll definitely ask her later.

  We finish dinner, clean up, and head outside to sit by the fire pit. Joa runs up to Bostyn, her arms outstretched, and Bostyn hesitates
at first, as if she isn’t sure if it’s okay to pick her up.

  Joa climbs up Bostyn’s legs, then turns around, settling in her lap. We laugh.

  “Looks like you made a new friend,” Locke says to Bostyn. “She doesn’t usually like people she doesn’t know.”

  Joa yawns, leaning back and reaching her hand up Bostyn’s arm until her fingers wrap around a long blonde tendril. Within minutes she’s out, and I see something softer in Bostyn’s eyes. A tenderness that wasn’t there before.

  “How can she be yours, Locke?” Bostyn teases. “She’s so sweet. Should I carry her up to her bed?”

  “Her crib is in the first guest room at the top of the stairs,” Rhett says.

  Bostyn rises, Locke accompanies them, and we watch like hawks.

  The second they’re gone, I toss Rhett a look.

  “It’s happening,” I say, slicking my hands together like an evil genius.

  Rhett smirks. “It’s not like you did anything. That was all Joa.”

  “True,” I say.

  When they come back, it’s quiet save for the pop and crackle of the burning logs in the pit.

  “So,” I say, because I have to fill the awkward silence with something. “You two ever think about maybe going on a date sometime?”

  Locke and Bostyn exchange looks, each of them protesting, their excuses layered on top of one another.

  “Come on. You’re killing us here!” I say. “You two would be amazing together.”

  “I could never date a girl who thinks she wrote the book on relationships all because she got her own radio show,” Locke says.

  “Um. It’s a Sirius XM radio show,” Bostyn says. “And it’s kind of a big deal. I don’t think they’d slap a five-year, seven-figure contract in my lap if they didn’t think I knew a thing or two about dating.”

  “Bostyn, when you fly to LA to do your show once a week, do they make you check your ego at the gate or can you stow it in the overhead bins with your carryon?” Locke asks.