Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Across the table, Luke Avery poured a glass of wine for Lanie. “She’s a wonderful nurse,” he said. “She saved my wife and our unborn son. Of course, he’s born now — born and raising hell.”

  “How old is he?” P.J. asked. “Sonya and I have a two-year-old grandson who raises a certain amount of hell himself.”

  “Do you?” Mrs. Hockey said. “We have a two-year-old!”

  Pretty soon they were all swapping kid stories and passing around pictures.

  Grateful, Bailey settled back into her food.

  “So you’re a life saver?” Jackson said in a low voice.

  “Luke exaggerates,” she said. “Lanie was in a coma. I had a hunch that all she needed to bring her out was to hear his voice. I just encouraged him. That’s all. It was nothing.”

  He smiled and squeezed her arm. “I believe you could be good for what ails a man.”

  I used to be. Not in a long time.

  “Jacky! It’s time!” Missy Bragg materialized out of nowhere.

  Jackson shook his head and rose. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. My cousin summons.” He tossed his napkin on his chair and turned to Bailey. “I’ll be back soon.”

  As Missy hustled him away, Bailey turned to look at the stage — just in time to see the wall of windows become a showcase for what seemed like a thousand tongues of fiery lightening. Oh no. There were audible gasps all over the room until the deafening thunder drowned them out.

  Why had she not known this was coming? All the breath left her body, like it always did when it stormed.

  “Oh, pretty!” Mrs. Hockey said.

  “I love storms,” Lanie said, “so long as there’s no tornado.”

  Idiots, idiots, all! Couldn’t they see? The windows … the trees …

  Bailey jumped to her feet. She had to get out of there. Didn’t these people know what could happen? Didn’t they know that they could be sleeping one second and the next, a tree could come crashing through and trap them, kill them? She looked around for the nearest exit. It was so far away. There might not be time. Under the table was best. She’d have to crawl and that would mean hiking her dress up …

  She grasped two handfuls of her skirt, but before she pulled it up, everyone at the table looked at her and Luke rose, “Bailey, honey? Are you okay?”

  No! She wasn’t okay, and they wouldn’t be either. She had to tell them! Tell everyone.

  But then strong arms encircled her. “Shh,” he whispered in her ear, like he used to, like he had so many times over those two years so long ago. “I’ve got you. I’ll get you to a place with no windows.”

  Marc began to lead her away. “She’s fine,” he said quietly to the table. “She has an issue with storms. I know how to take care of her.”

  And he did know, had always known. She closed her eyes tight and let him take charge. Oddly, the room exploded in applause.

  “Are they clapping for you?” she whispered. “For rescuing me?”

  “For Conway Twitty,” Marc said. “He just took the stage. They don’t even know you need rescuing.”

  As soon as they were out of the ballroom, another clap of thunder shook the world, and her knees buckled. But she didn’t open her eyes again; she didn’t have to. Marc swung her into his arms and ran, rattling doors as he went until he found one that was unlocked.

  He set her on her feet and took her in his arms. “You’re okay,” he said in that calm, sweet voice that she had forgotten. “You can look when you’re ready but you don’t have to. We’re in a storage room of some kind. There are no windows. The walls are thick. There are some shelves with tablecloths and stuff, ice buckets, extra chairs. Stuff like that. I’m just going to sit down on one of those chairs now.” He pulled her into his lap and cradled her face against his neck. He smelled like soap and salt. “There, now. That’s good. We’ll stay here all night if we have to. You don’t have to leave until you’re ready. We never have to leave. I believe I see a box of those crackers like they give out with salad. We can eat that. We can pee in an ice bucket.”

  In spite of her fear, Bailey laughed a little. She had forgotten how he had always made her laugh to distract her when she was afraid.

  She lifted her face and opened her eyes. “You left Miss Texas out there to be killed by a storm.”

  “She’s a survivor. You didn’t show any signs of wanting to save Chet Atkins either.”

  “I don’t really know him,” Bailey admitted. “Missy asked me to come with him tonight because Miss Mississippi got sick.”

  Marc nodded. “He could have had Miss Texas and let me have you.”

  Her breathing gradually returned to normal, and she began to feel silly — like she always did when she felt safe again.

  “That storm isn’t going to kill anyone, is it?” she said.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Uncle Tiptoe says I ought to consider getting some therapy since it’s never going to stop storming.”

  Marc shrugged and gave her a half smile. “Could be. That or move to outer space.”

  “I’m surprised you remembered how I am about storms.”

  He let out a sad little laugh, and his beautiful mouth curved down. “It wasn’t a matter of remembering, because I never forgot. I haven’t heard one clap of thunder or seen one bolt of lightening in eight years that I didn’t think of you and worry that you were afraid with no one to hold you.” He settled into a smile then. “And that would set me to worrying that there was someone to hold you, which was even worse.”

  Could it be? All those hours she’d watched him play ball, she had assumed he never thought about her. “I always trusted you to keep me safe when it stormed.”

  He nodded. “But not to keep loving you while I played ball and you finished school, not to stay away from other women. You didn’t trust me for that.” None of the anger from this afternoon remained. He just seemed resigned and, somehow, that was worse.

  “No.” She climbed out of his lap. “I trusted you with my life but not my heart.” She paused. “I should have.”

  He stood up and slumped against a set of shelves. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me this afternoon, when you asked if I really wanted to get married or if I just wanted to make you feel secure. I told you I didn’t know and it didn’t matter. That was a lie. I know we were young, but I wanted to marry you so much. If it hadn’t been so selfish, I would have asked you to quit school to go with me right then. I wanted you there to watch me every time I played ball. I wanted you to wave at me when I took the field. Most of all, I wanted you there every night when I laid down to sleep.” His voice dropped to husky. “I never stopped wanting it.”

  She took a step closer to him. “Even when you had a fiancé?”

  He shook his head. “Especially then.” He tore his eyes away from hers as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “I used to wonder if you ever watched me play. I’d pretend you did. I guess I can’t pretend that anymore.”

  “I did,” she whispered.

  “What?” He looked up in surprise. “But you didn’t even know how I got my nickname.”

  “I knew. I’ve watched every game ever broadcast.” It was her turn to look at the floor. “I sometimes went. Not the first two years, but after. Always when you were in Atlanta. I drove down to Tampa a few times.” She stopped and took a deep breath. Might as well tell it all. “And once a year I saved enough money to fly to New York for a three- or four-game series. Of course, I was always in the nosebleed section.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You were there — at Yankee Stadium — and I didn’t know?”

  “Yes. Every year I’d swear I wasn’t going the next, but I always did.”

  He was quiet for a few beats. “How did I play when you were there?”

  She laughed. J
ust the question a cocky athlete would ask. “Good. Mostly. You had the odd crappy game here and there, but mostly good. Great even.”

  “Any chance you were at that Mets game year before last when I — ”

  “No,” she said. “But I saw it on television. I know what you did. You were fabulous.”

  “Well, I don’t know about fabulous.” He made a show of looking at the ceiling then met her eyes and grinned. “It was just one of those days when it all came together.”

  “Marc.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “Today, you asked if I was relieved about what happened and I said I didn’t know. That wasn’t really true. I did know. I was not relieved on any level. I was devastated. But I wasn’t surprised. And I’m ashamed of that. You did nothing to earn that. I should have heard you out.”

  He nodded. “I made mistakes, too. I was caught up in my own world. I should’ve been more sensitive to your needs. I knew you felt left out and left behind. I was just so sure of us that I didn’t take the time to give you the assurance you needed.”

  “We were very young,” she said. And with a shaky hand she raised a finger to the corner of his mouth because she couldn’t bear not to touch it anymore. He covered her hand with his and brought her palm to his lips.

  But he didn’t stop there. He drew her arms around his neck and gathered her to him before — at last — bringing his mouth to hers. And it felt just as beautiful as it looked. Just as she remembered. They kissed for a good long time, tasting, savoring, celebrating.

  At least Bailey thought they were celebrating. But what if they were saying goodbye? She had to know. She drew back and rested her forehead against his lips.

  “What happens now?” she asked. “Where do we go from here?”

  He drew back and bit his bottom lip. “I have something.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a little beat-up leather box. “I might be crazy. I might be blowing it like we blew it eight years ago, but I guess I’ll know in a second.” He opened the box and held it out to her.

  It couldn’t be. But it was. Three perfect diamonds set in a row on a gold band. More ring than a twenty-year-old ought to have been able to afford.

  “That’s my ring.”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “And you carry it around.” Then her stomach sunk. “Please don’t tell me that’s the ring you always use and you just carry it around in case you run into your next soon-to-be-ex fiancé.”

  “Oh, please,” he scoffed. “I’ve never gotten another single ring back. You’re the only one who ever returned hers.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “Besides, I would never have given this ring to anyone else.”

  “Then I don’t understand … ”

  He shrugged. “At first, right after you sent it back, I carried it because I was so mad at you. If I began to feel hurt, I’d take it out, look at it, and get mad all over again. It’s hard to feel hurt when you’re mad. After a time, it became habit. I just picked it up every day with my keys and loose change.”

  Bailey nodded. “I understand.” And she did. For a very long time she had worked hard to keep her anger alive to keep from feeling the deep pain of loss, though she hadn’t had a talisman to help her. She’d had to rely on her memories and imagination.

  Marc continued, “Then, there was the superstition. You know how baseball players are. Even on the field, I wore it around my neck on a chain and called it a good luck charm.”

  That image filled Bailey’s heart with sweet warmth that flowed through her and bloomed on her face in a smile. “No one made fun of you for that?”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Oh, no. No, ma’am. Nobody makes fun of anyone else’s mojo, not in The House that Ruth Built.” Then the humor went out of his face and his eyes went wide. “But I don’t think that’s why I really kept it.” He slipped the ring from the velvet box.

  “You don’t?” Bailey whispered, her heart beating faster in anticipation. She had only worn that ring a few months, but she had longed for it — and him — for eight years.

  “I think I always have it with me because I’ve never stopped hoping for the chance to put it back on your finger.” He gave her a questioning look and held the ring up, toward her. “So … is there a chance?”

  That’s when the tears came.

  “Aw, Bailey. I’m no good with tears. Am I rushing things? ‘Cause I gotta say I don’t think we have time to wait for another random golf tournament. Before I get too old to play, I’d like to look up there in that family section and see you with my boy — or girl — wearing a miniature of my uniform.”

  She cried some more and held out her hand. He kissed the spot where the ring would rest then slipped it on.

  “I made the mistake of not asking you to go with me before. You could’ve finished school in New York just like you can work there now. I can’t play baseball here, and I can’t be away from you. I’ve never been any good at it.” He looked at her imploringly. “Is there any chance you would do that? I know your work is important, and Manhattan has the best hospitals. We can work that out, if you’ll just come. I won’t play ball forever. When I’m done, we’ll move wherever you want. Here. The moon. If you want to be a nurse in a third-world country, I’m there. But for now … just … please come with me.”

  Bailey didn’t hesitate. “I need to give two weeks notice but yes. Yes, I’ll come.” She grinned at him, mischief in her eyes. “And maybe I won’t look for a new job until after October. That is, if you can afford to feed me until then.”

  He laughed with joy and pulled her into his arms. “I might be able to at least keep you in Ramen noodles until then. But why October?”

  “I want to be free to watch you win the World Series.”

  He shook his head with uncertainty. “Well, let’s get to the playoffs first.”

  “We will. And that family section? It’s not in the nosebleed section, is it? Because that could be a deal breaker,” she teased.

  Marc grinned. “Nowhere near. But I’m done talking about baseball, honey.”

  “Oh really? Well, whatever will we talk about then?”

  He leaned in, lips close to her ear, his voice low enough to be practically considered a growl. “Unless you want me to peel that dress off you right here among the napkins and extra sugar packets, you might want to come on over to the Merritt Inn where my room is.”

  As she let him lead her out into the hall, Bailey didn’t even stop to wonder if it was still storming outside.

  • • •

  As Marc and Bailey ran laughing and kissing down the hall toward the exit, they never saw the two people who stepped out of the shadows.

  “Looks like she’s going home,” Tiptoe Watkins said.

  “I didn’t know she was from New York,” Missy Bragg said.

  “She is now. You’re from where you belong,” Tiptoe said. “I owe you for getting him down here.”

  “Piece of cake,” Missy said, winking even as she waved a hand dismissively. “But if you mean that, you can come help me out. It’s going to take some finesse to get Miss Texas into the seat beside my cousin without some kind of scene.”

  “Ah, we can do it. You handle him; I’ll handle her,” Tiptoe said.

  “Ha,” Missy said. “I’m not worried about them. They’re easy. It’s that — that Ginger, that watchdog of Jacky’s — I’m worried about. She does not like a change unless she’s the one making it.”

  Tiptoe laughed. “Don’t you worry about Miss Ginger. I’ll handle her. And don’t you worry about anything else. You helped make a little magic today, Melissa Jackson Bragg. And daytime magic just gets better as the night wears on. That’s always the way of it.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Missy said. And though she would have denied it, she had to blink a tear away. She linked her arm with Tiptoe’s. “What do you say yo
u and I swing by the bar first for a little toast? To having a good plan, to knowing where you belong, and to making a little magic.”

  The older man grinned. “Well, I’ll drink to that.”

  About the Author

  Stephanie Jones and Jean Hovey form the writing team of Alicia Hunter Pace.

  Stephanie teaches third grade and wishes for a bigger bookstore in her small town. She likes civil war history, and people who follow the rules. She is happy to provide a list of said rules to anyone who needs them.

  Jean is a former public librarian who lives with her husband in a hundred-year-old house that always wants something from her. She likes to cook but has discovered the joy of Mrs. Paul’s fish fillets since becoming a writer.

  Being cradle-to-grave avid fans of Alabama Crimson Tide football, Stephanie and Jean are doubly elated to be part of the Crimson Romance family.

  Learn more about them at: http://aliciahunterpace.com/

  Follow them on twitter at: https://twitter.com/AliciaPace

  Want more Alicia Hunter Pace? Be sure to check the end of this book for a sneak peek from another Crimson Romance by this author!

  THE REAL THING

  Susann Oriel

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2014 by Susann Oriel.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-8554-7

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8554-8

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-8555-5

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8555-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.