Last Time We Kissed_A Second Chance Romance

by Nicole Snow

  I know how to act in public at his corporate events in Seattle and throughout the U.P. It scared me at first, but I learned to adapt. Every dinner feels more natural, and my smile is real every time I lift my glass for a toast.

  Thankfully, amid all the changes, some things stay the same.

  In Split Harbor, I'm still just Kara. Not Mrs. Caspian, married to a celebrity. I'm the girl who serves up the best coffee and cherry pie on this slice of Superior shore.

  “What'll it be tonight?” I ask. I love that he lets me cook for him, even though we could easily hire a caterer for every meal.

  “How about that new Mediterranean recipe you've been wanting to try? We haven't had lamb since Easter.” He smiles, taking our baby boy from my arms. Joseph bounces up and down until he cracks a smile and giggles. “We're as rich as most Greek billionaires. Might as well eat like them, too.”

  I pour him a glass of wine and get to work. He chills on the couch with our little boy, relaxing for ten minutes, before he puts our baby in the play pen and joins me at the counter.

  He's humming along with the radio while we chop vegetables. It takes me a few minutes to recognize the song, but when I do, I'm joining him.

  It's a miracle I can hum anything through my smile, which couldn't possibly get any wider.

  It's Stairway to Heaven. The Zeppelin tune that always used to play over the radio in daddy's garage, the same song I remember hearing the day I fell face down in the oil slick, tumbling into the love of my life.

  It's taken years to reach this love, this happiness. Time for thousands of songs, just as many tears, and two marriage proposals. Sometimes, like now, it hits me all at once in a giant wave that makes my head spin.

  I have to focus, moving the knife on the cutting board, flashing him a smile when I get up to grab something from the refrigerator. His rich blue eyes remind me there's one thing embedded in my mind and in my heart.

  I'd marry him again.

  I'd do it a thousand times over.

  Through tears, through grins, through countless winding years, I love my Ryan. Loved him when he was just the orphan kid working in my father's garage, and when he came home a billionaire, going from heartbreaker to hero before my eyes. I'll love him when he's seventy, everything on his face going silver and pale except those gorgeous blue eyes.

  Every day I have on this earth, I'm his alone. I'll still be smiling, wiping away tears, next year when I'm holding our next born or renewing our vows.

  Second chances are real. Every hour since embracing mine, I'm reminded how lucky I am.

  Fiancé on Paper Extended Preview

  Fiancé on Paper: A Billionaire Fake Marriage Romance

  By Nicole Snow

  Extended Preview. Get the full book here!

  I: Look Who's Back

  Something in his makeup made him an utter bastard, but I owed him my life.

  It's my heart I refused to give up without a fight. If only I'd known from the very start Calvin Randolph never backs down.

  Not in love. Not in business. Not in any corner of his battered existence.

  I'll never understand it.

  Maybe he's missing the gene that stops a normal man from sinking his hands into the earth and ripping it to messy, screaming shreds until he gets his way.

  Perhaps defeat just never made sense in his head.

  Or possibly it's because this was just meant to be. There's a natural mischief in every heart that loves bringing together what's complicated, dangerous, and totally incompatible in a blinding impact.

  Oh, but I still wish I'd known, before our blind collision became love.

  We would have prevented so much suffering.

  I'm in no mood to pull a jet black envelope out of my mailbox. Not after an exhausting day dealing with corporate legalese and a language barrier that's like a migraine prescription. Especially when said legalese is a hodge-podge of English and Mandarin bullet points outlining bewildering trade concepts that make me want to pop aspirin like Junior Mints.

  But the coal colored envelope isn't what ends me. It's a single word, the one and only scrawled on the front in bright pink, without so much as a return address or a stamp to accompany it.

  DOLL.

  No one's called me that in years. Seven, to be precise.

  I have to steady myself against the mailbox when my heartbeat goes into my ears. For a second I'm afraid I'll faint.

  It's incredible how the only man who'd ever call me a name I haven't heard since high school still has a freakish ability to reduce me to a knee-shaking, cement lunged mess so many years later.

  My fingernail slides across the seal, digs in, and splits it open. I tear gingerly, like I'm expecting a snake or a tarantula to jump out. There isn't enough room for creepy crawlies, I suppose, though I wonder about the hard lump in the corner, rubbing it against my palm.

  The constant noise in the hall of my cramped Beijing flat has faded from a roar to a whisper. It's hard to focus on the slim white note I pluck out when I'm trying to remember how to breathe. There's no mistaking the handwriting.

  They're his words. I'd recognize them anywhere, even after so long.

  Blunt, mysterious, and taunting as ever. He keeps it short and sweet – assuming there's anything sweet about reaching down inside me, and yanking out a dozen painful memories at once.

  It's been too long.

  You still owe me that favor, doll, and I'm cashing in.

  Marry me.

  -Cal

  “Marry me?” I read it again, shaking my head.

  If this is a joke, it isn't funny. And I already know it isn't. Cal wouldn't break a seven year silence for a stupid laugh. It's serious, and it's a brand new kind of terrifying.

  My eyes trace his three insane sentences four times before my knees give out.

  I go down hard, banging my legs on the scuffed tile, dropping the envelope. The object anchored in the corner bounces out with a clatter as loud as a crashing symbol, leaving a haunting echo in my ears.

  I look down and mentally start planning my goodbyes. It's a gold ring with a huge rock in the middle, set into a flourish designed to mimic a small rose. I don't need to try it on to know it's probably my size.

  I flip the note over in my hands before I lose it. There's a number scrawled on the backside in the same firm, demanding script. CALL ME, says the two words next to it in bold, as if it's the most natural thing in the world to ask for a mail order bride in less than ten words.

  As if it hasn't stopped my heart several times over.

  I can't believe he's back.

  I can't believe he's found me here, on the other side of the Earth, and decided to drag me back to the hell we both left behind.

  I really, really can't believe what he's asking me to do.

  But it's my fault, isn't it? I'm the one who said I'd do anything, if he ever needed it.

  Without him, I wouldn't have my dream career working trade contracts in China for a prestigious Seattle company. I'd be lucky serving tables with the criminal stain on my record if he hadn't stepped in, and saved me when it seemed hopeless.

  There's a lot I don't know.

  Like why he's gone emergency bride hunting, for one. Or what he's been doing since the last dark day I saw him, crying while they hauled him off in handcuffs. I don't even know what kind of devils are in the details if I actually agree to this madness – and it's not like I have a choice.

  Small town guilt will gnaw at my soul forever if I turn him down.

  Oh, but he'll catch up with me again soon, and let me know exactly what new hell awaits. That much, I'm certain.

  It won't be long before I'm face-to-face again with the sharp blue eyes that used to make my blood run hot. Twisted up in knots like a gullible seventeen year old with a bad crush and a blind spot for bad people before I know what's hit me. And yes, revisiting every horrible thing that happened at Maynard Academy in ways I haven't since my therapist discharged me with flying colors.

 
; He's right about one thing, the only thing that matters in any of this: I owe him. Big time.

  All the unknowns in the world are worthless stacked up against this simple truth.

  So I'll wait, I'll shrivel up inside, and I'll chew on the same nagging question some more.

  Jesus, Cal. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

  Seven Years Ago

  The beautiful boy with the constant entourage ignored me until my seventh day at the new school.

  How my parents thought I'd ever fit into this place, I don't know. They just saw the school's shiny academic track record and absorbed its prestige from Seattle socialites several leagues higher than we'd ever be. A fast track scholarship I won in an essay contest sealed the deal. My old English teacher in Everett submitted it behind my back when I was ready to throw it in the trash, and the rest is history.

  Who could blame them for leaping at the chance? They want the absolute best for me. I'm ready to make my family proud, even if it means trading a huge piece of my seventeen year old social life for the best education several states over.

  It's not like Maynard Academy has a welcome wagon. The other kids keep their awkward distance since the first day I show up on the seating charts next to them. Almost like they smell the stink of my missing trust fund, or the Mercedes that didn't materialize as soon as I got my license.

  I still take the bus. And I'm not sure my parents could ever afford a trust lawyer on their seventy thousand combined income, raising two girls. Their struggle to keep up rent and bills reminds me how lucky I am to get a scholarship to this place.

  Turns out the benefactor behind the money at Sterner Corp shares my love for John Steinbeck.

  Ever since we moved down to south Seattle, uprooting lives and careers just for this special chance, I'm in another world.

  If the black lacquered study desks, the library with the crystal chandeliers and the skylights, or the marble fountain out front hadn't tipped me off the first week, the natural pecking order here certainly does.

  My face is stuck in a German textbook when he comes up to me. He doesn't bother with introductions, just pushes his fingers into my book, and rips it out of my hands.

  “Do you ever speak?” His voice is smooth as ice, a rogue smirk tugging at his lips.

  “Hey!” I stand up, dropping the rest of my small book stack on the floor, arms folded. “I don't know, don't you have any manners?”

  “There's never been much point,” he tells me, sizing me up with his sky blue eyes.

  I hate it, but he isn't wrong. It took all of three days here to notice how everyone hangs on his every word. There are always a couple grinning jocks and puppy-eyed cheerleaders at his shoulder. I think the teachers would love to knock 'Mr. Randolph' down a few marks, if only he didn't keep acing all his tests.

  He's too good a student and too big a dick to be worth the trouble.

  I've seen the summary sheets tacked to the boards. Every time, every class, Calvin Randolph ranks infuriatingly high. I've heard the gossip going around, too. Just because I like to keep my nose buried in my books doesn't mean I'm deaf.

  He's a straight A jerk with money, good looks, and brains behind his predictable God complex.

  “Seen you around, Maddie, and you haven't said shit. That's a first for me, being ignored like I'm not worth your time.” Oh, he also has a filthy mouth, which makes it doubly ridiculous every woman in our class would kill to have it on hers. “I'd love to know why. Everybody, new or old, wants on my good side if they want off Scourge's bad.”

  For such cool, calming eyes, they burn like the sun. My cheeks go red, flustered and hot when I jerk my eyes off his. “I don't know who that is,” I say. “It's only been a week.”

  “Interesting. Thought a girl who goes for the librarian look would be a lot more observant than that.” I stick out my hand, going for my language book, but he jerks it away like I'm a helpless kitten. His smirk blooms into a cruel smile. “It's okay if you're a slow learner, doll. I'd have my eyes glued to this boring crap all the time too if I didn't have a photographic memory.”

  He's so full of it he's overflowing.

  “Give it back,” I snap, looking around to see if there are any teachers walking by. I'm not sure I'd have the courage to ask them to step in. This school isn't any different from an ordinary high school when it comes to attitudes, despite the family income level. Nobody wants to be the class runt who goes crying for help, and suffers the outcast consequences.

  “Cal, I'm not playing around. I need to get to class.”

  The second to last bell of the day sounds over the speaker, adding its emphasis to my words. He clucks his tongue once, his strong jaw tightening. “So, you do know my name.”

  “What do you want?” I whine, trying to keep it together. “I don't have time for games.”

  I try to snatch my book again. Too slow. He lifts it higher, far above my head. I'm barely up to the neck attached to his broad, vast shoulders. He towers over me, one more way his body tells me how small I am next to him. Even physiology rubs in his superiority.

  “I want you to crack a damned smile first,” he says, laying a patronizing hand on my shoulder. “Show me something human. I've seen two expressions on your face since the day you showed up, doll. Tell me there's more.”

  “What happens on my face is my business, jerk. Not yours.” By some miracle, he relents, letting my German book swing down with my hand the next time I grab it. I stumble a few steps back toward the bench to collect my mess of things.

  I've got maybe sixty seconds to make it to class before the next bell if I don't want a tardy slip.

  “Jerk? You're adorable.” He steps closer, swallowing me in his shadow. A few of the kids racing down the halls slow, watching the tension unfolding between us. “On second thought, fuck the smile. I'd love to see those lips say something nasty a whole lot more than I'd like them right-side up. Fact that you're blushing at the mere suggestion tells me I'm on the right track, doll.”

  His tone is creeping me out. I stuff a few loose books into my backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and start moving down the hall. Sighing, I decide to waste a few more precious seconds asking him the only question that really interests me.

  “Why do you keep calling me that – 'doll?'”

  “Christ, do I have to explain everything?” His smirk is back, and I decide I don't like it, no matter how much light it adds to his gorgeous face. “Button nose, brown eyes, chestnut hair that looks like it's never seen a real salon. You don't fit the Maynard mold. Must be smart if you made it here in the first place without money, but I can't say I'm impressed. Brains don't matter here. It's my job to make sure you find out how this school works the easy way. You don't want hard.”

  Hard? I have to stop my brain from going into the gutter, especially when he's looking at me like that. I'm also confused. What in God's name is he talking about?

  I don't remember being so insulted, and never by a man who uses his good looks like a concealed weapon. “I'm perfectly capable of figuring it out myself. Thanks very much, ass,” I yell back over my shoulder, moving my feet to put as much distance between us as quickly as I can.

  “Thanks for giving me exactly what I want,” he growls back, hands on his hips, his strong arms bulging at his sides. They look more like they belong to a weight lifter in his twenties than a boy who's just a year older than me.

  The last class of the day, chemistry, is just a blur. It's one of the few I don't share with Cal this semester, thank God.

  He's the lucky one, though. Not me. If I had to sit with his smug, searing blue eyes locked on me for more than another minute, I think I'd rush to find the easiest recipe for a test tube stink bomb that would teach him not to stick his nose where it doesn't belong.

  Okay, so, maybe he's not the biggest dickweed at Maynard after all. It's a couple more weeks before I find out why everyone dreads Scourge. He's gone for my first weeks thanks to a long suspension. Meanwhile, I've aced
my language studies, made a few loose friends, and even settled into a study routine blissfully free from Cal's attention.

  That changes when the human storm blows in.

  There's a commotion in front of our lockers at noon, near lunch, when the kid in the leather jacket rolls in late. He wears mostly black, just like every other coward in a tough guy shell since time began. Chains hang off his sleeves, looking like they were designed for whipping anyone in his path. I don't understand how he gets away with it at first, seeing how it violates every part of the school dress code.

  He's every bad school bully stereotype rolled in a cliché. Shaggy dark hair with a black widow red stripe running through the middle, piercings out the wazoo, and a sour scowl dominating his face that makes Cal's smirk look downright angelic. He also has tattoos peaking out his neckline and crawling along his wrists. Screaming skulls, shooting fire, blood dipped daggers – the scary trifecta for a troubled young man trying his best to look hard.

  I've also wondered why there's never anyone using the locker on my left side. I wrongly concluded it might be a spare.

  Oh, sweet Jesus, if only I'd been so lucky.

  Alex “Scourge” Palkovich Jr. shows me he means business without uttering a word. The boys and girls in front of him who don't clear a path fast enough get pushed out of his way. I get my first shot of panic when he's still ten feet away, after everybody between us slams their lockers shut and scurries across the hall.

  “You.” He points. I freeze in my tracks. “Where the fuck's Hugo? You his new girl, or what?”

  “Hugo?” I don't know that name.

  The psycho has his hands on my shoulders, shaking me like a ragdoll, before I'm able to remember why it sounds so familiar.

  I inherited my locker from another student. There's a worn label stuck inside my locker with that name. Hugo.

  “Don't play dumb with me,” he snarls.