Lucky Neighbor: A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance

by Gage Grayson

  Hard as a rock—so far so good.

  With as much confidence as I can muster, I wrap my fingers around the handlebars and push the bike toward the front of the house. As I’m walking, I’m pushing self-doubt away as much as I can.

  That’s even harder than it sounds.

  In the end, I decide there’s only one thing to do. With a deep inward breath, I swing my leg over the saddle and come down on the seat as I exhale. Then I hang on tight and start to pedal.

  The temptation to close my eyes is strong, but I know I can’t be that fucking stupid.

  Not again.

  After about fifty pedals, give or take a few, I realize what everyone says about bike riding is true.

  You never forget how to do it.

  Confidently, I pedal into town.

  This is nice. It’s scenic, there’s a pleasant breeze, and it’s calmer and quieter than anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of where I live. I could get used to this.

  That’s another thing about being single. I can just make decisions on the spur of the moment. There’s no one to consult, to ask, and to consider.

  It’s not bad at all.

  I’ll go as far to say that I like it.

  If I were still married or with anyone right now, I wouldn’t be in Ireland. And I certainly wouldn’t be cycling through the countryside.

  The village center, with its cobblestone streets and little shops, is nearly as lovely as the natural scenery.

  When I get to the store, I leave my bike out the front and meander in.

  The rows are a little narrower—or a lot narrower—than what I’m used to, so much so that I promptly knock several items off the display shelves in aisle one.

  Nervously, I look around.

  No security guard or foul-tempered store attendant comes to tell me off. No one pays any attention to my mishap, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  And there’s another plus to this single life. My DH ex would have yelled at me for my clumsiness as if I was all of five years old. He wouldn’t have cared about us being in a public space.

  He never hesitated to humiliate me. Not once.

  With slightly shaky hands, I pick up the cans of soup and tins of beans and beetroot and put them back where they came from.

  It’s good to be alone.

  It’s certainly fucking better than staying in an unhappy marriage. Coming fresh from one of those myself, I can already say that with certainty.

  Even if I stay single for—

  No purpose in thinking about that shit right now. Not with shopping to do and a major contract to fulfill at some point.

  With order restored, I turn my attention to the crumpled-up shopping list and grab a basket.

  Being on my own, I only need a basket for my shopping. There’s no need to wrestle through the aisles with a stubborn shopping cart.

  How many times have I grabbed the one and only shopping cart in the universe of shopping carts with sticky wheels that won’t steer properly?

  And how many times had the dickhead ex rolled his eyes at me and called me useless?

  It takes me hardly any time at all to grab the few essentials on my list. Then I decide I could use a little more fuel for the hard work ahead.

  In the sweets aisle, I spend a little longer than in any of the others, taking my time to make the right decision.

  Something sweet, rich, and covered in chocolate is always welcome in my home. And now that it’s just me, I can buy whatever chocolate I want. I can buy several different kinds.

  Because I like them all and there’s no one at home going to bitch about buying the wrong fucking chocolate.

  As if there actually is the wrong kind of chocolate.

  After paying, I step outside and take a deep breath of the country air.

  Yes.

  Life is grand.

  So I’m enjoying being single, which is good. The way I see it, I’m going to be single for a long time to come. There’s no prospect of me wanting to enter another relationship any time soon, if ever.

  Babies? I shrug.

  It’s time to accept not all women are going to have children. I may be one of those who were not meant to have a baby.

  That realization, something I’ve never considered before, has me wobble on the bike just a little.

  Okay, so no happy family for me.

  I guess that’s okay. I can live with that. As long as I can go on and illustrate and do whatever else I’m going to do with my life.

  Heavy raindrops land on my arms, hands, and face. Quickly, the occasional raindrop turns to heavy rain.

  It’s difficult to see, and the front wheel is wobbling.

  Try as I might, I can’t regain control of the bike. Despite my feet working and pedaling, the bike has a mind of its own, and I find myself propelled forward over the handlebar.

  Flying through the air, I do my best to brace for the fall.

  And I land in a puddle with a thud.

  Ouch. That hurt.

  Scrambling to my hands and knees, I notice I’ve crashed right outside the pub.

  Great.

  Maybe I should’ve just fucking driven after all.

  Chapter 9

  Killian

  With a flick of the wrist, I tip the amber colored liquid down my throat.

  For a brief second, I close my eyes and revel in the balanced mix of smoky, nutty, and slightly oaky flavors dancing across my tongue and down my throat before those flavors are replaced by a raging fire.

  After the initial burning sensation fades, I’m left with an after taste of melancholy.

  It’s always the same. I guess every high is followed by a low.

  After a high tide comes the low tide and so on. I get it.

  But I want more.

  Those highs should…

  My thoughts trail off. Some idiot has put money into the pubs old-fashioned jukebox, and now, I’ve got to listen to that blasted song Galway Girl and feel my heart rip open all over again.

  Why oh why does this pub still own one of those antique machines, and why has it got such a modern fucking song?

  “Another one, make this one neat,” I growl at the barman, staring at the few ice cubes left in the glass.

  Fucking drink—it messes with my head, and yet I can’t be without it. Like a woman, it possesses a man and makes demands of him.

  Of course, that’s exactly why I haven’t got a woman in my life.

  I don’t need the trouble or the nagging. I’m not even talking about women in particular. I’m talking about committing to someone, committing your life to some relationship that’s sure to be full of unhappiness and strife for all fucking parties involved before just fucking ending, leaving nothing but sadness it its wake.

  It’s bad enough having Ida around. Now, there’s a strong-headed female if ever I’ve known one, able to lecture without uttering a word. With her, it’s all in the eyes.

  Her big, brown sorrowful eyes—boy, can they look at me accusingly.

  I pick up my second whiskey and stare at it. My hand twirls the glass, and I watch the tawny, tinted liquid swish to the top and come down again.

  Lost in my own thoughts, I barely notice the rain pelting down against the window. Someone making some comment about the fierce storm inspired me to glance towards the window briefly, but I give up before bothering to really look outside.

  There’s some dim awareness that I should be concerned about the rain, but by now, my mind’s a bit hazy, and I’m struggling to string a proper thought together. At least, one that makes sense.

  But the nagging feeling of the rain being a problem won’t go away.

  I continue to stare at the grey world outside and watch the puddles grow quickly. It’ll be a wet ride home if the rain doesn’t ease off.

  Home. Ride.

  Bingo.

  Fuck. How could I have been so fucking stupid?

  Poor Ida is tied up around the back. She won’t be impressed. She hates being left out in the r
ain. At home, she’s got her own stable.

  Just as I’m about to jump off my stool to see to my horse, my eyes get glued to something else.

  No. No. No.

  Now my brain’s screaming at me.

  It can’t be. Not again. Doesn’t that girl ever stay out of trouble?

  Outside the pub in the pouring rain, one Rebecca Doyle cycles past. Only, she’s not cycling past the pub.

  Horrified, I watch the drama unfold in slow motion. At first, her front wheel starts to wobble. Next, her legs increase their pedaling, and her arms seem to struggle to steady the handlebars.

  But all of her efforts are in vain.

  In slow motion, she leaves the seat of the bike and flies through the air, over the handlebars and lands face first on the ground. The bike simply collapses onto its side behind her.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Killian,” someone calls, stopping me when I’m already on my feet and halfway out the door.

  “Hey, Killian,” I turn around, trying to locate the anonymous voice amongst the usual din of the local.

  “Your horse is in the stable.”

  Hallelujah and thank you to whoever was kind enough to look after my animal today.

  “Thank you,” I call to the kind stranger.

  I fly down the stairs, two at a time. They’re slippery, and a couple of times, I feel as if I myself might lose my footing. But I reach the bottom of the steps in one piece.

  It takes me less than five strides to reach Rebecca.

  The rain assaults me, and instantly I sober up.

  As I get closer, I see Rebecca pick herself up off the ground and look around. Our eyes meet, and I can see her grimace.

  Okay, so I’m not her knight in shining armor, but I’m here to help.

  “You okay?”

  I’m barely able to get those words out since I’m breathing so hard now. I haven’t done this much fucking exercise in years. What’s more is the alcohol’s been pumped around my blood twice as fast as normal, and I’m feeling a little giddy.

  Actually, truth be told, I think I might spew any tick of the clock.

  “Fine, thank you,” Rebecca replies and tucks her wet hair behind her ears.

  “Erhm…”

  I’m suddenly scared to keep talking. Her eyes are spewing forth angry flames, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m quaking in my boots.

  “What do you want?” she says, turning and limping back toward her bike before I can answer. I watch her pick it up and examine it for any damage. From what I can tell, it’s still rideable.

  “I thought you might want a lift home.”

  Rebecca furrows her brow and wrinkles her nose. It looks fucking gorgeous, and I resist the temptation to lean in and kiss those wrinkles away.

  In fact, I want to just take her in my arms and hold her and tell her everything will be alright. But she’s not exactly giving off any friendly vibes.

  “Get a lift with you. In a car. After you’ve been drinking?”

  The way she put that doesn’t thrill me.

  “Not exactly,” I stutter, shoving my hands into my pockets.

  “Really? Not exactly? So, what else did you have in mind? You’re going to piggy back me on my bike?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I was going to offer you a ride home on my horse.”

  Rebecca bursts out laughing. It’s one of those wholehearted belly laughs, one that eventually has you doubling over or peeing your pants or all of the above.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She wipes what might be tears from her eyes, or what might just be rain; it’s hard to tell. “Like I believe you’ve got a horse.”

  Now I’ve had a gut full.

  “You wait here, and I get Ida.”

  Without another word, I walk to the back of the pub and retrieve my horse. The minute I grab her reins, she nudges me, and I can tell what she’s trying to say.

  You’ve been hitting the sauce again, haven’t you? Haven’t I warned you about the drink?

  I roll my eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I might’ve had one or two drinks.”

  As I lead her out of her stable, I can hear her snort. And I know exactly what it means.

  I’m not stupid. I know you’ve had more than one or two drinks. More like you’ve had fifty drinks.

  “No need to get smart with me, Missy,” I hiss at the horse. “If you keep this up, I might end up selling you to the knackery.”

  Two snorts. As if.

  We come around the back of the pub and walk out onto the road. Rebecca is exactly where I’ve left her. As she sees me and Ida, her eyes widen in disbelief.

  “Wow” is all she says until she collects herself. “You really do have a horse. What’s her name?”

  “Ida,” I grumble.

  I don’t like the way Ida is looking at Rebecca. I know that look. It’s a look that says I like this person—maybe better than I like you, ya lush.

  “So, you’re going to get on?” I ask and fold my arms.

  Rebecca smiles. “Is the Pope catholic? Of course I’m going to get on. I mean, a horseback ride in the fucking rain? If I were to turn down that opportunity, I shouldn’t have bothered coming to Ireland in the first place.”

  With Rebecca safe in the saddle, I get on behind her. Since Rebecca is smaller, it’s safer to have her in front of me.

  “Sorry,” I mumble as I wrap one arm around her and take the reins with the other.

  She says nothing.

  “Let’s go, girl,” I say to Ida and give her side a gentle nudge with my foot.

  Obediently, she starts walking.

  Rebecca’s quiet as a mouse as Ida carries us toward our homes. I can’t look into her eyes to gauge her mood, but her silence tells me there’s something bothering her.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” I venture after a while and wait for what may be a less than charmed or patient response.

  But it doesn’t come.

  She says nothing, and I’m wondering if she actually heard me. I’m about to repeat my question when she replies.

  “Thinking about the big D,” she starts, and my brain is working overtime.

  What the fuck is the big D?

  Is it death? Did someone die? Who was it?

  “Hmmm.”

  I leave it at that—I don’t want to ask what the big D is and make complete dick of myself.

  “I’m just going through a divorce. It’s fucking awful.”

  Holy shit. I had no fucking idea.

  Instead of replying verbally, I just press my body closer into hers.

  Chapter 10

  Rebecca

  The water pools at my feet as I fumble around the mahogany linen press for a towel. For some reason, the light won’t switch on in the hallway, and I make a mental note to contact the rental place about it in the morning.

  Finally, my fingers find something soft and fluffy, and I pull it out. It’s a dark blue towel, just what I need around my long hair to dry off some of this Ireland countryside rain. Before venturing out, I dry the rest of myself the best I can, so Killian isn’t sitting out there alone for an eternity.

  When I return to the kitchen, I find Killian sitting at the table. He’s waiting as patiently as a monk at that retreat near San Bernardino. There’s a comfortable silence as I walk in the room, and I don’t break it.

  With one flick of my fingers, I turn on the electric kettle before rummaging in the cupboard for mugs. We could both use some hot tea after our total drenching—courtesy of one horse named Ida. At the time, riding through the heavy rain, I have to say I barely noticed the water.

  It was…exhilarating.

  I’m putting all that down to the horse, though. It had nothing to do with having Killian so close behind me.

  “How do you have it?”

  Killian stares at me. There’s a tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth as he clearly mulls over my question. Before he can put whatever silly response he’s thinking of into
words, I nip it in the bud.

  “How do you have your tea, Killian? I’m talking about tea.”

  He pouts. “Spoilsport.”

  He really is something else. It was that light-hearted approach to everything with his smile that drew me toward him at the writers’ conference all those years ago.

  At the writers’ conference, ironically, I had trouble putting how I felt into words. It’s strange how it’s obvious to me years later. I mean, it’s not like I’m drawn to him now the way I was back then.

  Those were more innocent and much more naïve times; I couldn’t imagine letting myself get carried away like that now.

  The whistling of the kettle draws me out of my daydreaming.

  Silently, I pour the tea.

  When I give him his mug, our fingers touch briefly. Tiny electric currents shoot through me. I pull back.

  Those were different times. No need to revisit them.

  Although, reminiscing wouldn’t hurt.

  “How long ago was it?”

  He looks at me quizzically. “How long ago was what?”

  I roll my eyes. “You know, the conference. How long ago was the writers’ conference?”

  Killian shrugs. “No fucking idea, really. I mean, I’m bound to have killed some brain cells since then, probably destroyed a nice chunk of my long-term memory. So, sorry, no can help you there.”

  Seriously? A grimace sneaks up on me.

  “Next, you’ll be telling me you don’t remember anything about the conference.”

  The words are out before I can stop them.

  What am I doing? I already said I didn’t want to relive any of this shit.

  And why do I care so much?

  “Please, Rebecca, I’m not that bad. The keynote speaker was some pompous literary professor with a massive ego and a small dick, blowing enough hot and meaningless air in his speech to cover all of Ireland. And he didn’t have one published novel under his belt.”

  All I can do is stare at him. What do I even say?

  “Not bad, eh? Of course, I recall some of the other speakers, but he was the one that stood out, don’t you think?”