His Kiss (Summer in New York Book 2)

by Jolyse Barnett

  His Kiss

  A Summer in New York Romance

  Jolyse Barnett

  His Kiss

  Copyright © 2015 Jolyse Barnett

  Kindle Edition

  The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-942240-93-8

  To my husband, Timothy, and children, Amanda & Andrew

  Because of you, I believe in love at first sight

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Christmas Light

  The Summer in New York Series

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  What an honor to revisit my fictional Adirondack village of Starling, New York! I’ve adored Jeremy since his appearance in Jade and Ben’s romance (A Light in the Window retitled as Christmas Light) and am thrilled to share his journey to happily-ever-after with Elizabeth. My deepest thanks to Jane Porter of Tule Publishing for extending the invitation.

  To my incredible editor, Sinclair Sawney, for glimpsing the gem within the first draft and for her insights that allowed me to take this story to a whole new level. Kudos also to Lee Hyat for the beautiful cover art, to Monti Shalosky for her proofreading prowess, and to Lindsey Stover and Meghan Farrell for all their hard work behind the scenes.

  To my dear friends, Jeannie Moon, Patty Blount, and Jennifer Gracen, I’m grateful to be on this ride with you. Thanks also to my writing buddies in RWA, CTRWA, and LIRW, with extra hugs to Patty Blount, Maggie Van Well, Elena Parish, Nika Rhone, Meara Platt, Leslie Ann Bard, and Heidi Ulrich.

  Huge thanks to my friend and colleague, Alison Butler, for being the inspiration behind the brooch, and to all my romance reading friends and family I connect with either in cyberspace or in person. I treasure your kind words and hope you enjoy reading His Kiss as much as I loved writing it.

  To my missing piece, Timothy, thank you for asking me, “What’s the worst that can happen?” and to Amanda for answering all my pesky language questions in spite of a busy med school schedule. Last but certainly not least, to Andrew, for your endless patience about letting Mom write “just one more minute.” You three are my heart.

  Dear Reader,

  My characters’ struggles with addiction can happen to anyone—regardless of race, ethnicity, or socio-economic status. The good news is that if you or someone in your life is suffering from the effects of addiction or its aftermath, there’s hope for recovery.

  Alcoholics Anonymous, one of many alcohol addiction treatment choices, is an internationally available program and the one Jeremy chose to assist him on his path to sobriety. The website for Alcoholics Anonymous is www.aa.org.

  My character, Elizabeth, was fortunate she could afford treatment to combat her form of anorexia nervosa. Project HEAL: Help to Eat, Accept And Live, a not-for-profit organization that provides scholarship funding for people with this chronic condition who cannot afford treatment, states that up to 90% of the men and women in the United States with eating disorders don’t receive treatment. The 10% who do often have it cut short due to lack of funding. Treatment for anorexia can be life-saving. According to the National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders, this chronic health condition is “the most common cause of death (up to 12 times higher than any other condition) among young women ages 15 to 24.” For more information, you may visit www.anad.org. To learn about treatment scholarships or to give your support, go to www.­theprojectheal.­org.

  As scary as statistics can be, I believe in the power of positive thinking, enjoying each day, and not being afraid to ask for help. Wishing you and your loved ones health and happiness.

  Kindly,

  Jolyse

  Visit her website at JolyseBarnett.com

  Join her mailing list

  Check out her blog

  Follow her on Facebook and Twitter@JolyseBarnett

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Hi, my name is Jeremy. I’m twenty-nine and I’m an alcoholic.

  Jeremy wiped a hand across his chin on the way out of his sister’s wedding reception. Might as well have the label pinned to his chest like a scarlet letter. Once a drunk, always a drunk. Even though he hadn’t had a drop of the stuff in thirty-nine months, six days, and—he checked his watch—fourteen hours, he was always on alert to avoid the slippery descent into his personal hell. He knew the stats and he wasn’t about to lose all he’d worked so hard to regain.

  Trust.

  Respect.

  A life worth living.

  Winding his way through La Bella Vita, Sagamore’s elegant Italian restaurant adjacent to the reception space, Jeremy nodded at quiet couples enjoying late night dinners while Sinatra crooned in the background. He headed into the short red-carpeted hallway and was rounding the corner toward the reception desk when a woman’s giggle stopped him in his tracks.

  He cursed.

  Unable to breathe, unable to think, he swung his gaze around the foyer to pinpoint the source of the eerie, familiar laugh.

  It rang out again.

  He spun around.

  The elevator. Shaking from the onslaught of memories, he strode toward the gold-paneled elevator.

  Inside were two couples. He got a good look at the men in front—maybe a father and son?—but only a partial view of an older woman he didn’t recognize and nothing of the other, hidden by the broad young man on the far side. The doors slid closed.

  Jeremy clenched his fists and his breath escaped in a frustrated hiss.

  “Do you need something, sir?”

  He glanced up to find a receptionist staring at him wide-eyed, her hand on a desk phone as if prepared to contact resort security.

  “No. I’m good.” He stifled a snort of self-derision.

  Sure, he was fine for a man who wrapped his grief around him like a cloak, shutting everyone out for the past six years. Aside from the girl he’d proposed to, no one knew he’d once been engaged. The fact that she hadn’t shouted it from the top of Starling Mountain should have been his first clue she’d never had any intention of marrying him. She hadn’t even liked his ring enough to keep it, since he’d come across it a few months later in one of the dozens of pawn shops he’d visited on his quest for the stolen brooch.

  But that was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Ashleigh Warrington’s deceit.

  “Are you certain you don’t need anything, sir?” This time the receptionist’s eyes and tone held warm invitation instead of wariness.

  “I’m good.” He glanced at her. She was attractive, but he could tell by the hopeful expression on her face she wanted more than he could o
ffer. He liked his life simple. Sex was simple. Relationships were not.

  “Are you sure?”

  The ding of the elevator returning to the ground floor saved him from having to make further conversation. He had planned to go to his suite and change out of the monkey suit he was wearing before he headed outside for his evening walk, but for some reason he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed fresh air now. If he didn’t, the memories would consume him.

  Stepping away from the elevator, he turned for the exit that led to the lake. He tore at the starched collar to loosen his tie, gulping in the cool, summer night air.

  Ashleigh had been his first love, his first mistake. He’d made many missteps since then, but he’d also begun to succeed. He wrote what he loved and was starting to carve a career out of it, becoming happy and whole again.

  He had almost let her win, destroy his soul. But he had prevailed.

  He followed the walkway splitting the velvet lawn that sloped down to the moonlit lake, guided by garden lights. He veered to the right, away from the dance music and people milling on the deck of the outdoor bar. Feeling the pull of the water, he followed the path to a short stairway leading to the narrow strip of man-made beach instead of continuing along the walkway that looped around the main building. During the day, guests would pack the waterfront, eager to participate in water sports—tubing, parasailing, and swimming—but for now he had the place all to himself.

  It was just what he needed.

  *

  Elizabeth Marie Desmond gazed up at the ebony sky dotted with glittering stars and sighed, tipping her head back on the beach chair where she’d plopped fifteen minutes ago. Her grandparents’ golden anniversary celebration had been incredible, the perfect way to launch another memorable upstate summer filled with fun and family.

  Until the attempted matchmaking had begun.

  She sighed. Donovan Fitzgerald wasn’t a bad guy, but he was like all the others she had dated through high school and while studying at Harvard, eager to impress her and more than a little intimidated by her family’s name. No wonder she’d found it easy to skip the dating scene after grad school and focus solely on her career. She wanted more out of a relationship than merging healthy bank accounts.

  Elizabeth wanted a relationship like her parents had, one filled with romance and excitement and fun. After searching for it the first few years of college, striving to be perfect so she could attract the perfect man, she had almost lost everything.

  She had chosen a wait-and-see attitude ever since, but that hadn’t worked either, considering the big three-o was around the corner and she was still very much single.

  That was how she ended up here, sitting on a secluded beach drinking alone instead of partying with her two younger sisters. She needed to reflect and make a new game plan when it came to her personal life.

  She dug a hole in the sand with her espadrille, lost in her thoughts. She didn’t care for the idea of signing up with an online dating site, even though Claire had pointed out it had worked for a few of her girlfriends, and she didn’t want to meet any of Tory’s new single coworkers. Claire and Tory were right about one thing though. Her life was off-balance. That realization had hit her between the eyes. She couldn’t make the same mistake twice. She’d barely survived her last obsession. She’d spend the summer getting her life back on an even keel, having fun and socializing when she wasn’t working. Maybe it was time to look beyond her usual sphere of men, find someone outside her family’s circle, guys who wouldn’t be influenced or distracted by her family name. Who knew? Maybe she’d get lucky and find someone to love her for her.

  Pebbles crunched nearby.

  Holding her breath, her mind ping-ponging between whether to fight or flee, Elizabeth stared at the corner of the high, stone wall and fingered the rape whistle Tory had thrust in her hand before agreeing to let her come here alone.

  A tall figure appeared, the man’s features illuminated by the brilliant moon.

  Was that surprise on the stranger’s face? Air rushed out of her lungs and she tucked the whistle into her shorts pocket.

  He had stopped and was beginning to turn away, as if he intended to retrace his steps, but then shook his head of longish, blond hair and faced her once more. One hand stuffed casually in a trouser pocket, he indicated the empty beach chair next to hers with the other. “Seat taken?”

  She shook her head, intrigued, watching him from behind the veil of her long brown hair.

  He sat, long legs sprawled in front of him, toes of black dress shoes dipping into the sand. He clasped his hands—no sign of a wedding ring—behind his head and heaved a long sigh. His cologne wafted by on the night air.

  Delicious warmth spread through her fluttery stomach. “Beautiful night.”

  He was quiet beside her, with only the gentle lapping of the waves and distant beat of dance music from the bar to fill the silence.

  She tried again. “What brings you to the Sagamore? I heard there were three celebrations here tonight. I assume you must have been at one of the weddings. Did you have a nice evening?” She glanced at his suit. Armani? Hugo Boss? No.

  He gazed at the open night sky without so much as glancing her way. “I hate small talk.”

  A shiver of awareness ran through her at the deep timbre of his voice. This man was definitely different.

  She took a calming breath. “Highly overrated, although it’s likely a necessary evil.”

  He continued to stare at the twinkling lights overhead. “How’s that?”

  She followed his gaze and breathed in nature’s beauty. “If we don’t do the small talk, get to know people on the surface, how will we ever know whether they interest us enough to enjoy their company at a deeper level?”

  She turned to peer at his profile against the dark background. “I mean, don’t you think it’s kind of odd when a person you’ve just met tells you their life story?”

  He scrubbed a day’s growth of stubble thoughtfully. “I’d much prefer that to meaningless descriptions of the weather or feeling required to ask a relative stranger about their day. Frankly, I don’t care and can’t really do anything about the other person’s emotional state even if I was the empathetic sort. Why not skip it all and get to the meat of it? Time’s too precious to waste on the insignificant.” He paused. “Like when I’m writing, I dive as late into the action as possible then get out as soon as the important part of the exchange is finished.”

  She nodded, absorbing that tidbit of information. So…the stranger was a writer, an artist of words, polar opposite to her, a no-nonsense entrepreneur. “No set up, no slow build-up, or getting to know the characters?”

  “I weave that in through dialogue and description.” He shook his head. “I prefer to immerse the reader in the conflict straight off. It’s the honest thing to do.” He turned to her with a smile that could melt an Adirondack pond in February. “No warming up period necessary.”

  She thrilled at the increasing tug she felt toward the stranger sitting beside her, the unfamiliar tingle up her thighs and the slow, pulsing growing need within her core. This stranger, this man left her feeling anything but uninspired.

  She squeezed her knees together and struggled to focus on their intellectual exchange as opposed to her visceral response. “Maybe that works for fiction, but in the real world I prefer to get to know people gradually, peel back the layers of their personality, their history. I haven’t read much lately because of my business, but perhaps I know your work?”

  He scanned her from head to toe. “I doubt it.” His tone was sincere, his mouth turning upward into a suggestive smile. “You don’t look like a pre-teen to me.” He shifted toward her in his beach chair and locked eyes. “What do you do that keeps you so busy you can’t enjoy a good book?”

  She tilted her head at him and smiled, pleased when she heard his quick intake of breath. Finally. He’d noticed her. “I believe your question may qualify as small talk, but since you shared that you’re
a writer, I suppose it’s only fair to tell you what I do.” She maintained eye contact as she sipped her wine, the black currant notes dancing along her taste buds and ending with a pleasant tannin finish. She’d bet her new store he tasted even better. “I own an online athletic retail shop.”

  He drank her in with soulful, blue eyes and leaned forward. “I’d ask you its name but I don’t shop online or surf the internet much, takes away too much energy from my creativity.” His gaze fell to her mouth. “Although…I’d love to sap some of my energy with you.”

  His invitation hung between them as she took a final, languid sip. His voice was sexy, deep and throaty with that upstate drawl so familiar to her from a lifetime of summers spent in the Adirondacks. He wore a white dress shirt under that black jacket and tie. Brooks Brothers? No. That wasn’t right either. Her breath caught at the back of her throat as the haze that had covered the moon for the past few moments passed, allowing the moon’s pale light to further reveal his features. His straight, blondish hair touched his starched collar and diamond studs glinted in each ear. He reminded her of her favorite Aussie country rocker, only a dozen or more years younger. She imagined, like the singer and guitarist, this local boy had tats.

  She’d never talked to a bad boy. The man lounging next to her might be wearing a suit and tie, but it only accentuated his wildness. She took a shaky breath. Maybe he was the perfect guy for a night like tonight—an anonymous stranger—who didn’t need to know her name. She wanted to kiss him so badly she could taste it. He was everything free and masculine and tender and kind all rolled into one. How she knew that she couldn’t verbalize, but she shivered with awareness again, contemplating just how good it could be between them.

  The sensible part of her was shocked at her train of thoughts. She knew nothing of the man’s background or his aspirations. But the independent, vibrant woman within her was cheering. Life was for the living, and she was alive. So what was she waiting for?