Another Chance at Love (Another Series Book 1)

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Another Chance at Love (Another Series Book 1) Page 3

by Suzanne Sweeney


  The last to crystalize is my vision. This small room is not my suite. Fuckity, fuck, FUCK! This is Cole’s room. And the male voice that just started singing in the shower is his.

  I peel back the covers to confirm my suspicion – I’m completely naked. Crap.

  I don’t know how long he’s been in the shower, so I hurriedly swing my legs out of bed and race around the room. I throw on my dress, which I find lying on the floor, slip on my shoes, grab my bag, and head straight out the door without looking back, sans underwear. Fuck it, let him throw them away – I’ve got plenty more back in my hotel room.

  As quickly as my legs will carry me, I weave my way through the hotel and out the back door. A small group is huddled outside enjoying breakfast on the patio and I immediately recognize Evan McGuire and his new bride, Juliette. They all smile kindly and sympathetically.

  I cross the patio and make my way back to the neighboring hotel. I slip inside and step into the elevator, thankful that no one else is in here with me. Unfortunately, the elevator is adorned with a rather sizable mirror that reveals the reason for the sympathetic smiles of the familiar strangers. I’m a hot mess with crazy hair and a wrinkled dress, and I was clearly caught in my own nightmare version of the Walk of Shame.

  How could I let this happen?

  I push the humiliation to the side and head straight for the shower in my hotel room. Out of some unexplained demand for penance and the undeniable need to sober up, I take a frigid punishingly cold shower.

  By nine o’clock, I find the courage and the strength to leave my hotel room and venture downstairs to try and replenish some of the electrolytes I lost last night drinking. I find a small table on the patio under the shade of a large, leafy tree. Armed with sunglasses and an iPad, I settle down to power up for a long day.

  My old friend Lani appears looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “Good morning. It’s nice to see you again.” He fills a glass with ice water and leaves the pitcher on the table. “Will you be joining us for breakfast today?”

  I can’t bear the thought of exposing my eyes to the direct sunlight, so I look up at Lani through shaded lenses and place my order. I am no stranger to hangovers and I know full well what to order and what to avoid.

  “I’d like a glass of coconut water, an herbal tea – peppermint if you have it – wheat toast with honey, and a banana. Thank you, Lani.”

  He grins and nods. No doubt he’s filled many hangover breakfast orders before. “Certainly. I’ll be back with your order shortly.”

  I have an hour until the book signing begins and I use this time to unwind and center myself. I have to be on top of my game, so I decide to peruse a few of my favorite book blogs to see what’s new in the world of women’s fiction. It might help me make small talk.

  After reading a few reviews, I choose one or two books I’d actually like to read on the flight home and order them on my Kindle just as Lani returns with my breakfast exactly as I’ve ordered it. He smiles sweetly at me as he places the teacup down in front of me. “Peppermint tea. Excellent choice. Best headache cure on the island.”

  “You should know,” I tease. “It’s your fault I have this damned headache.”

  “Well, that certainly was not my intent. But you look like you’re well on the way to a full recovery,” he winks as he walks away leaving me to my therapy.

  A few sips of the hot soothing tea, along with a few bites of the honey toast, and I begin to feel human again. I attempt to push away thoughts of my terribly irresponsible but incredibly unforgettable night with the handsome stranger. In one night, I did things and said things that I have never done before. And in return, I was rewarded with more mind-blowing and earth-shattering orgasms than I had ever known were possible.

  I had always thought sex was enjoyable, pleasurable even. Trent was good in bed and we had what I considered a healthy sex life. But this was something completely off the rails.

  “I know that face. You got laid, didn’t you?”

  I look up to see Gail Walters joining me at my table, helping herself to a piece of my toast. “And this,” she makes a sweeping gesture at my breakfast choices, “is evidence of a fuck and duck if ever I saw one. Rough night?”

  I shrug.

  She pours herself a glass of water. “Come on, the least you can do is give me some details. He was H-O-T, hot, hot, hot. Did he make you forget about Trent the Troll?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you this much – he gave me plenty of inspiration for my next book. Instead of a Happily Ever After, I think I’ll give Suzi a one-night stand that makes her question every decision she’s ever made about relationships and sex.”

  “Wow. That good, huh?”

  A slow grin spreads across my face.

  “Just a few hours ago, you were planning Suzi and Liam’s wedding. Now you have her discovering herself with a new guy. So what’s his name? Are you going to see him again?” Gail asks.

  “One of the great things about a one-night stand is that the person you have it with isn't supposed to be Mr. Right – just Mr. Right Now. The point is to have a little fun. And I think after what I’ve been through, I deserve a little fun. Last night, I got to do things without second guessing myself. Should I? Shouldn’t I? What will he think of me? It didn’t matter. With Cole, there are no expectations, no disappointments, and no chance of a broken heart. I’ll never have to meet his judging parents and friends and suffer from their criticism. It’s just sex. And it was the best sex of my fucking life!”

  Okay, I said that a little too loud, but right now, I don’t give a shit. I don’t know these people and hopefully they don’t know me.

  Unfortunately, I quickly feel judgmental eyes boring a hole in the back of my head. I turn to find an older woman and sheepish looking man staring. They look at me scathingly, then huddle together talking quietly. I feel at once both uncomfortable and troubled.

  “Ignore them,” Gail orders when she notices my mood dampen. Loud enough for my unwanted onlookers to hear, she announces, “I bet neither one of them ever had the kind of sex we’re talking about.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t talk about my intimate sex life, but that was mostly because my partner was someone I was emotionally invested in. It seemed to be a betrayal. This is not that, so I have no qualms telling Gail all the juicy details, starting with our romantic moonlit dance and ending with orgasm number four. Or was it five? At some point, I just stopped counting and blacked out.

  Gail and I make our way to the convention center with plenty of time to spare. I consult the floor map I was given and find my table. I stop dead in my tracks the moment I spot the banner and life-size poster advertising my book covers. I never get used to seeing it – my name larger than life. Well, not my real name. I write using the name Kensington Layne, but my legal name is Kensington Harper.

  I still think Kensington Layne sounds lyrical.

  At first, I used a pen name because I wanted to keep my books a secret from my friends and family. I just wasn’t sure how they would feel about me writing racy romance novels – something my mother still calls smut.

  But things that start for one reason often continue for another. I started using a pen name to maintain my privacy from my friends and family. But now that my books are so well read, I cling to it to protect my privacy from strangers.

  Once a week, I receive a package from Breakaway Publishing containing all the mail they have received on my behalf. The vast majority of fan mail I get is friendly, witty, touching, or funny.

  But unfortunately, it’s not all good. Occasionally, I’ll get a message that makes me cringe. I’m just glad no one knows how to contact me privately, as nothing I own is under the name Kensington Layne. Legally, Kensington Layne doesn’t even exist.

  One man named Paul writes to me at least once a week, lately more, and makes inappropriate comments about how much he likes the way I look. He tells me what he thinks I should wear, what I should drive, and where I should shop.

  He’
s even sends me gifts. Strange, odd gifts. I have received books, poems, and hand-drawn artwork that he’s made for me. Sketches of him dressed as a knight in shining armor holding my hand, and illustrations of me posing naked or him dressed as a super hero.

  I’ve discussed the situation with Gail many times. She tells me to ignore it. So long as I don’t respond, he’ll eventually get bored with me and move on.

  My brother Philip is a police detective. He has a different opinion. He tells me not to ignore them. He wants me to send every single one to him, so I do. This guy, although creepy as hell, says nothing threatening and doesn’t give a return address. The letters are postmarked from all over the country. Philip tells me that there’s nothing he can do to stop it, either.

  I always think about fans like Paul when I go to a scheduled public event like this.

  Just to be safe, Philip insists I use some common sense safety measures. I always insist that my table be against a wall so that no one can come up from behind me; I scan the room and make note of where all the exits are before the event begins; and most importantly, before I even consider accepting an invitation to an event such as this, I get assurances that there will be security present. These things give me a modicum of comfort and security.

  Thankfully, I don’t have time to dwell. A loud booming voice echoing throughout the room begins announcing the number of minutes until they open the doors to let in the fans who have been camped outside since early in the morning. Five minutes, then four, three, two, one!

  The moment the doors open, I am besieged by visitors. A steady stream of solicitors find their way to my table, including a young shirtless man named Anthony bearing a striking resemblance to Captain America who wants to be my next cover model. I’m no fool, so I make sure to get his number and I tuck it away in a safe place.

  The first fan I meet today is named Ashlee. She’s here with her sister Brianna. These girls are bright, enthusiastic, and absolutely love Liam and Suzi’s love story. As I told Gail, both girls are insisting on a big engagement for the star-crossed lovers. They know so many details of “Before I Forget” and “After the Storm” that I can barely keep up.

  Ashlee and Brianna are followed by Ryann, Samantha, Logan, Cameron, Quinn, several Olivias and more Jordans than I can count. There are teenagers in sun dresses, older women pushing book carts, moms with armfuls of their favorite books all dog-eared from over reading ready to be signed, and even a few men just to break up the monotony. Some of them tell me they’ve been waiting in line for hours just to meet me.

  Why would anyone wait in line for hours just to meet me? I still can’t believe it when readers tell me things like that. There’s nothing special about me – I just write books.

  I have a stack of gifts that I give out when I don’t have a chance to chat. I have a collection of pens, bookmarks, and magnets with my favorite quote from “Before I Forget.” I tell my readers to put it on their refrigerator and read it when they’re having a bad day.

  Life can be messy, confusing, and imperfect, and it’s rarely without conflict. It’s how we handle the conflict that determines the direction our life takes.

  Just when I think things can’t possibly get better, two women introduce themselves to me and I immediately recognize their names. René and Amy are two of my most reliable beta readers and I’ve never had a chance to meet them – until today. These women had been complete strangers to me. I put rough copies of barely finished manuscripts into their capable hands and in return, they find every plot hole, problems with continuity, characterization, and believability. I couldn’t do my job without them. So when René and Amy introduce themselves, I jump out from behind my table and wrap my arms around each of them.

  The poor people in line after them wait patiently while we chat for more than a few minutes. Trying to be as considerate as I can, I make plans with the two to meet up for drinks after dinner later tonight and they reluctantly but willingly cut our conversation short so that I can continue to meet and greet as many readers as possible.

  I stop for just a moment and take a deep breath. Thoughts are racing through my head. I want to capture this moment and keep it forever. But I know there’s no way my mind can picture what my heart is feeling. How I wish I could just hit “pause” long enough to take it all in.

  Something I can’t adequately describe bubbles up and interrupts my thoughts. It’s a feeling that I can only describe as queasy. I push the feeling to the side and chalk it up to my hangover.

  I sign a few more books and try to make small talk with the fans, but all I manage are a few one-word responses as I hand them a bookmark and magnet. This uneasy feeling will not subside.

  I decide to trust my instincts. Something isn’t right. I just know it. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. My heart can be blind, my mind can play tricks, but my gut is never wrong.

  I scan the crowd looking. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I’m quite certain I’ll know it when I see it.

  There are over a thousand people here. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack. So many different people of all shapes and sizes, it’s hard to find the one that’s out of place.

  Suddenly, my eyes land upon a man who looks vaguely familiar. The shape of his weak chin, the sunken eyes, the curly hair. It’s the man from the drawings. It’s Paul. He’s here.

  I am frozen to the spot, unable to move or speak, but my thoughts are racing.

  Our eyes meet and he smiles at me maniacally. As if in slow motion, he stalks towards my table. I take in every single detail. The color of his hair, his eyes, his plaid shirt buttoned up to his neck. The overstuffed black backpack he carries strapped to both shoulders.

  Moving alongside him is an older woman who’s eyeing me with a toothy grin. Her frame is slight and she’s wearing clothes that are several sizes too large for her. But what stands out the most is the ridiculous black wig that doesn’t quite fit, her gray hair poking out under the edges.

  All I can think is, holy shit – I’m being stalked by Norman Bates and his mother. And they are circling my booth like sharks.

  Mother Dearest finds an opportunity to break away through the crowd and comes right towards me. I find the power to move and I instinctively back away, but am stopped by the wall behind me. Damn it. If not for this wall, I could turn and run.

  Frantically, I search for something – an exit, a security guard.

  Before I can get anyone’s attention, wiggy woman has gone around my table and is standing next to me. She grabs my hand and begins petting me like a child, muttering, “Don’t be afraid. Paulie would never hurt you. He loves you. You don’t have to be afraid of my son.”

  She stinks to high heaven. It’s a smell I will never forget – cigarettes mixed with alcohol and mothballs. I pull my hand away and all I can manage to say is a weak, “Get away from me!”

  Wiggy woman tilts her head as if she is trying to understand my response.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Paul taking off his backpack and resting it on my table. He reaches inside for something. My heart is pounding. I can’t think straight. I watch as Paul reaches into his backpack and pulls out a strand of pearls, holding them out for me. “Kensington Layne, I want you to wear these. They belong to my beloved mother. I want you to think of me every time you put them around your neck.”

  One of the women in my line thinks quickly and begins jumping up and down, calling and waving for security while I stand there in shock.

  In a drawling nasal voice, Paul whines, “Kensington, tell them. You don’t need security. We’re in love. Tell them, sweetheart.”

  Paul looks over his shoulder and spots security. In a panic, he flees, grabbing his mother and heading out the back door before the guards arrive. Just before exiting the building, he hollers, “They can’t keep us apart!”

  Gail must have heard the commotion and rushes over. My legs are wobbly and I am barely able to walk, but she finds a way to drag me to a nearby room.
>
  The head of security arrives and assures me that Paul and his mother will not be allowed back in. And that with my description, they should be able to identify him and his mother immediately if they return. What he also tells me is that I probably should not return to the book signing today, just to be safe.

  I had no intention of going back there. Not now and not anytime soon.

  Gail asks a few questions about procedure and is told that since neither one made any threatening statements or actions, there is nothing they can do, even if they reappear. I’ve heard that story before, and frankly, I’m sick of hearing it.

  They won’t do a damn thing until somebody is threatened or worse, actually gets hurt. And that somebody just happens to be me.

  Gail has the clarity of thought to ask for an escort back to the hotel, which they are happy to provide. A huge hulking man by the name of Dante appears. He easily tops six-foot-four and his arms are so thick that he could use them to crush walnuts. His skin is as dark as night, but his eyes are bright and his smile is disarming. I feel immediately safe by his side.

  He escorts us to the waiting taxi and climbs into the front seat after ushering Gail and me into the back. Luckily for me, Gail refuses to leave my side, and for once, I am grateful.

  Dante rides with us back to the hotel. He brings us to the lobby and has us sit while he speaks with the concierge. I’m emotionally drained and in no mood to make small talk. Instead, I just watch and listen quietly.

  The concierge motions for another man to join their conversation. He blended in so well that I hadn’t noticed him before, but upon closer inspection, I can clearly see he’s wearing an earpiece. I elbow Gail and motion for her to look. “Security?” I ask.

  “Definitely,” she confirms. They all begin nodding their heads and finally shake hands. Dante must be satisfied with their response to his concerns.

  Dante comes over to explain. “Okay, ladies. The hotel is readying a poolside cabana for your use for the remainder of the day. You will have complete privacy. The entire area is off limits to the general public and you’ll have a poolside concierge keeping a close eye on you. I feel confident leaving you here.”

 

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