Lucky Neighbor: A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance

by Gage Grayson

  My gaze cascades to the cupboard of hidden Jameson.

  I’ve beaten my writer’s block—kicked it in the arse—and I deserve to be rewarded.

  I wade through my paper mountains—destroying what would have been the Matterhorn—and grab the bottle of Jameson that I hid from myself.

  “I am going to enjoy this. I have fucking earned this.”

  After properly hyping myself up, I pour out a generous glass. For a rich, soothing moment, I let the glorious aroma fill my nose.

  My mouth begins to water in anticipation of feeling that barrel char, oak, and plummy fruit flavor fill my taste buds once more.

  I return to my desk and set the glass down. It’s not time to drink any of it yet.

  I wait. The anticipation of it is part of what makes it so great. I just want it near so that I can toast to myself and my fucking brilliance.

  An entire night—and fucking day—was spent working away at this book. And now I get to read it and be in awe at how magnificent the fruits of my labor turned out to be.

  Only I’m wrong again—something that has been happening more since Rebecca hit me with her American-made behemoth of a vehicle.

  I skim listlessly through the pages, looking for any glimmer of hope.

  No luck.

  “This is all fucking pish.”

  Well, this is fucking frustrating. What an infuriating waste of fucking time that turned out to be.

  I dump the stack of papers onto the floor, adding to the Swiss Paper Alps.

  The glass of Jameson is mocking me with its presence.

  Once more, it’s turned into that ex who taunts you at every turn.

  My chair falls backwards as I stand and start towards the bedroom.

  “Fuck this shite. I’m going to the damn pub.”

  Chapter 23

  Rebecca

  Grrr.

  Those lines look…terrible. I put the pencil down and glance at my sketches.

  What is wrong with me today? How many hours have I been sitting here drawing one useless sketch after another?

  Too many, that’s for sure.

  Randomly, I pick up another piece. This one looks a bit like an angry monster about to devour a vegetable that looks remarkably like Killian.

  The eyes are especially reminiscent of him. Even without color, I’d somehow captured that essence all too well.

  Before I can delve deeper into the resemblance, I rip it into as many tiny little pieces as I can in a few frustrated seconds.

  Garbage. The entire morning—the entire day—has been a waste.

  Nothing is useable.

  I sigh and scatter the pages across my desk.

  This one looks like an evil alien on a mission of apocalyptic destruction.

  Even I shiver looking at this creature.

  What has happened to my imagination? It looks like it’s had a brush with the dark side. Come to think of it, my drawings look like they’re pushing the boundaries of the dark side far enough to make Darth Vader blush under his helmet.

  My contract allows for quite a bit of creative freedom but not this much. Not for a children’s book.

  I sigh again.

  What should I do?

  I could keep going until I get something right or I could accept an entire wasted day and go back to it later.

  Neither option seem attractive.

  I chew on the bottom of my pencil, a habit I thought I’d broken years ago.

  My inner voice, the responsible one, reminds me of the deadline.

  It’s not like it’s tomorrow, but if I don’t stay on top of things, then it’ll really be tomorrow sooner than I realize.

  One minute you think you’ve got plenty of time, the next you’re doing all-nighters because you’ve spent too much time doing nothing.

  Rapidly, my pencil moves across the page again.

  I convert the blank space into something I can’t recognize.

  I was going for a literal food fight of sorts, processed food versus fruits and vegetables, going along with the book’s theme of natural versus artificial.

  It doesn’t work when the carrots look like evil gnomes.

  Instead of a likeable banana, I’ve created a monster with no arms or legs and a bent body.

  Perhaps a horror movie producer would be interested if I let them have it? If only I had some connections in that world. Looks like all these will end up in recycling.

  Or in the fireplace.

  Sketching kid’s drawings is clearly not going to work today. After a day of these attempts turning out so disturbingly, I don’t know if my future lies in that arena, either.

  After I pack up my pencils and paper, I prowl around the house. I’m not exactly sure what’s distressing me, but my universe is clearly out of sync.

  I mean, usually I don’t get artist’s block, not for this damned long.

  How long have I been on this little retreat? I’ve smashed through a few personal records of unproductivity and useless, discarded ideas and sketches.

  Is it really Killian who’s doing this to me?

  My first impulse is to blame that whole situation. The divorce is over, and the Killian thing is all that’s been currently happening in my life.

  I try and dismiss the notion. I mean, it’s not like we were an item or anything. He could have called in on me today, but it’s not like he’d have a reason to.

  And maybe this is the start of the trouble. Maybe I was expecting him to call, and now that he hasn’t, I’m out of sorts.

  Only one thing to do.

  I grab my keys and handbag and walk out the door.

  On my last two attempts to get in and out of town safely, I had failed miserably—it’s time to try one last time. After all, third time’s the charm.

  I swear if something happens to me today, walking in and out of town, I’ll think either the place is possessed or has it in for me.

  With the late afternoon sun dipping its rays for a final farewell, there’s enough warmth left in the day for me not to take a jacket.

  I try and focus on looking at the scenery.

  Breathing in the fresh air and looking at my surroundings often work wonders to get me creative and improve my drawing.

  Nature is such a wonderful classroom. There are so many things she can teach us.

  Remarkable colors are an ongoing lesson in aesthetics I never want to stop learning.

  The fascinating differences between the way everything looks here compared to what I’m used to will never leave me bored.

  The landscape, the vegetation, even the implication of the unseen...

  Behind each rock and tree, I imagine an entire little world of special creatures only those of a certain temperament can see.

  The minute I leave my creaky, rusty gate behind, I feel my mood lighten already. I knew I wasn’t in the best mood in the cottage, but I start to realize just how grim things were getting in there.

  Going for a walk was obviously the right thing to do. As I stroll along the road, I take deep inhalations of the clean spring air.

  I pass quaint little cottages and magnificent gardens. Even the garden sheds are interesting and charming.

  There are fields with farm animals and crops, and already I’m getting a sense of how to draw some of those creatures I attempted this morning.

  With renewed spirits, I pull out my small sketchpad I always carry and make some preliminary sketches.

  Not bad.

  Even though I’m walking, I’ve got quite a steady hand.

  Now I’ve got a laughing carrot waving back at me from the page. Much better.

  There’s a chance this carrot won’t even give people nightmares.

  A car horn beeping at me makes me realize I’ve drifted onto the road. I lift my hand in an apologetic gesture and keep walking.

  Perhaps I better continue with the sketches back at the cottage.

  Later.

  After what seems like five minutes—but is probably a lot longer—I find
myself outside the pub again. It seems as if this place holds some magic over me.

  Just the other day, I crashed right outside the pub of all places.

  Seeing as I’ve already arrived, I might as well go in and have a drink. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

  For a few more minutes, I rationalize my actions. It’s not unusual for someone wandering on their own, like myself, to go into a pub for a drink, right?

  Eventually, I decide that if I don’t go in, I’ll be growing roots out here and attract unwanted attention.

  And if there’s one thing I want to avoid, it’s unwanted attention.

  I push the door open and hesitate. I’m not good with these things. What if someone was to challenge me being here? It’s a totally silly thought, but it’s one I can’t push aside.

  But, alas, no one is paying me any attention.

  Slowly, I enter and walk toward the back of the bar. There’s one stool, and I sit on it.

  It feels strange. I’m not exactly a pub kind of lady, and this one is totally foreign to me. Okay, so it is literally foreign, but that’s not what I mean.

  So far, no one has paid me any attention. No one has uttered a greeting, and the bar man is doing his very best to ignore me.

  The pub is busy, but I would have thought someone would at least nod in my direction or something.

  I take a few deep breaths and try to signal the bartender with a subtle hand wave so as not to seem rude.

  There’s so much noise I can hardly hear myself think. My eyes scan the area—he’s not here.

  There’s a couple playing billiards on the solitary pool table by the restrooms.

  When they, an attractive and unmistakably Irish-looking young couple, embrace and start kissing, I try to look away.

  They don’t seem to care they’re in public. Usually, I’d be unsettled by this, but for a moment I can’t look away.

  By now the bloke’s—that means guy, right?

  Anyway, the bloke’s hands are on her ass, and she has hers around his neck. Pool sticks fall on the ground. No one besides myself seems to be paying them any attention.

  I look away and try and signal the barman again. But he’s at the other end.

  Like a school girl, I lift my hand. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. But nothing happens.

  My eyes find the couple again. By now he’s pushed her against one of the walls, and she has her legs wrapped around his waist.

  Is his zipper open and is he actually...?

  No. Now, it’s definitely time to look away.

  Since my current seating position gives me an unobstructed view of their display—and because I’m not getting a drink right now—I merely opt for a change in location.

  Frustration wells up in me as I storm the bar. Now, I’m practically in the bartender’s face, and the prick still ignores me.

  “What does a girl have to do to order coffee around here?” I yell and wait.

  If this doesn’t produce a result, I don’t know what will.

  Chapter 24

  Killian

  “So, Cara turns around and looks me straight in the eye. And she says, ‘But William, that’s not my horse.’ And so I look at the horse, and then I look at her and I’m all ‘Are you sure, lass?’”

  I laugh—a deep one that rumbles from my stomach—at William and his story. His laugh is loud and drowns out that of his woman’s and my own.

  William O’Connor has been one of my best friends since I was a small boy. He’s a good man with a big heart. He’s not overly bright, but it’s part of his charm.

  He’s tall—nearly six and a half feet—and built like an old Irish castle. He’s got shaggy dark hair and a thick beard that he keeps trimmed for his lady.

  His hands are rough and calloused from years of hard manual labor on his family’s farm. His skin is tan and almost leathery from those same years.

  His lady, Cara, is the exact opposite. She’s, maybe, a hundred and sixty centimeters tall, around five foot two, at most.

  Her hair—black as a raven’s—is almost as long as Rebecca’s. While William’s blue eyes always seem to be locked in this permanent squint, Cara’s eyes are as big as a doe’s and just as dark.

  And unlike her man, Cara is as sharp as they come. She’s a school teacher in town and a favorite of all the children.

  As different from each other as they are, the two of them are disgustingly fucking perfect together. It’s so nauseating at times that it feels like I’ve just inhaled a bucket of sulfur.

  They’re also, perhaps, two of the only people I can genuinely call ‘friends’.

  I would add Guinness and Bushmills to that list, but I’ve been told that they don’t count.

  “Cara, how do you put up with it? I mean, the man is as dumb as a roasted lamb.”

  Cara looks up at William—who looks at her with a beaming smile—then looks at me.

  “You know, Killian, I don’t have a fucking clue,” she declares with a perfect deadpan tone.

  The three of us share another laugh and knock back the shots of whiskey on the table before us.

  It’s been a nice treat to get out and spend some time with the pair. Everything this week has just been utter shite.

  I’d been hit by a car. I’ve got writer’s block that could work as a dam for the River Shannon.

  And then there’s the person who hit me with the car...Rebecca.

  I keep trying not to think about her. But it’s fucking difficult.

  Especially when it feels like I can hear her voice.

  Hold up a second.

  Just over William’s large shoulder, I see a red-head. I can’t see the woman’s face, and there’s a sea of people between us.

  No, that seriously cannot be her.

  She raises a hand and yells for the bartender.

  Oh, fuck me, it is her.

  Suddenly, there’s a gap in the sea that opens as if Moses himself had created it.

  That’s when I see Rebecca’s face.

  She looks annoyed as she tries to get Charlie’s attention again.

  Poor old bloke is likely up to his ears with orders.

  The pub is absolutely filled to the brim tonight. Charlie’s brought in a couple live bands from Dublin to perform in the evening. And we, Irish, love our live pub music.

  Then, Rebecca looks through the crowd…at me.

  I’m positive she’s seen me sitting here. I’m looking right at her.

  Fuck, I’m even leaning partly out of the booth to get a glimpse of her.

  But I get nothing in return.

  No smile.

  No nod.

  No acknowledgment of my existence at all.

  I sit back up in my booth and look down at the half empty glass of Guinness before me.

  Slowly, my fingers slide around the base of the glass, and I draw it up to my lips.

  I can’t—or don’t—understand why Rebecca would look at me and just outright ignore me.

  Well, actually I can perfectly understand why, but it seems rather cold for her to do.

  But then again, she did leave me without a word back at that conference. She came into my life and sent my mind about like a ship at sea.

  Then, she left without so much as a word...and then hits me with her truck years after.

  Maybe this isn’t all that out of character for her after all.

  “What’s wrong, boyo? You look like you’ve seen a banshee,” William says.

  He turns the top half of his massive frame to look over at the bar.

  I take another drink of my Guinness.

  “Oh, boy. That’s her, isn’t it? I can see why you like her,” William continues when he turns back around.

  “Killian, she probably didn’t even see you. This place is jammers tonight,” Cara says with softness and valid logic.

  “Didn’t see him? Look at this man’s face.” William reaches across the table to pinch my cheek.

  I smack his head away and give him a look as he
smiles at me.

  “He’s Ireland’s pretty boy. Fuck Colin Farrell and Cillian Murphy and that Fifty Shades wanker.”

  “What about Pierce Brosnan?” Cara interjects with a raised eyebrow.

  “As pretty as Killian is, he’s certainly no Pierce Brosnan. That man is a masterpiece.”

  Leave it to William to make me chuckle when it’s the last thing in the world I want to do.

  “Look, guys, can we just please talk about something else? I don’t want to sit here and get into it with you about Rebecca.”

  No talk of Rebecca.

  As much as Cara is probably right about Rebecca not seeing me, I think it may just be best to give her some space.

  If she wants to see me, then she can come on by of her own accord.

  “Alright, then. How’s your new book coming?” Cara asks with a smug grin on her face.

  William snickers at Cara’s question and takes a drink of his Guinness to silence himself.

  “It’s coming,” I lie. “I’ve nearly got my first draft done. It’s good. Might even outsell Midnight Son.”

  “Bull,” William declares as he slams his empty glass down on the table. “Utter shite.”

  “What is?”

  I feign insult, but William sees through it.

  The man may not be book smart, but he can read people like a preacher reads the Bible.

  “You’ve not gotten a single fucking word, have you?”

  He’s right, of course. I haven’t. I’ve been struggling day after day to get word to paper.

  And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to break through this block in my brain.

  “I have so,” I continue to lie anyway—I’m in too deep.

  “If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to claim it could outsell Midnight Son, you dirty wanker.”

  Well, fuck. He’s got me by the balls on this one.

  “Alright, fine. I’ve got nothing. I try to get something down and nothing comes out that makes any fucking sense at all.”

  “You’re probably just overthinking everything, Killian. Why don’t you just go grab Ida and take off for a couple days in the country?”