Despite the letdown, the girls purchase both books and several magazines with the hope and promise for a sequel to be released sometime soon.
I find myself distracted for the rest of the day. People are still looking for a sequel. Could I? Should I . . . provide them with one?
Ideas come flooding to me like wildfire. I scribble notes furiously on my iPhone, adding constantly to a growing list of ideas, twists, and turns.
Suzi and Liam decide to spend one weekend apart. Their relationship is failing and they both know that something must change if their love is to survive. So Suzi enlists the help of her friends and together they hop on a jet headed for Miami. It’s there that she meets Henry, a struggling playwright who’s looking for inspiration. They both find what they are looking for . . . and much, much more.
Every writer puts a little bit of himself or herself into their books. Perhaps Cole was right, there is a little more of Suzi in me than I originally thought. Finding love in unfamiliar places. Doing things neither one of us would have thought possible. Lives turned upside down.
There’s only one slight problem. This book, no matter how good or great it may be, will never be written. I should stop torturing myself.
I find mundane distractions to keep my mind from wandering. As I unpack today’s shipment of magazines, out of nowhere, the perfect title hits me like a ton of bricks. “Until Tomorrow!” I blurt aloud.
“You really shouldn’t talk to yourself. People are going to start thinking you’re crazy, you know.”
I turn around to find Cait standing there, staring at me with her hands on her hips. “What’s going to happen tomorrow?” she asks.
“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand,” I mumble, redirecting my attention to alphabetizing the magazines. “Did you just get back from Declan’s?”
“Nah – I got home a few hours ago to an empty house. Don’t try to change the subject. Spill. Something’s going to happen and I’d like to know what it is.”
“Honestly, Cait – nothing’s going to happen tomorrow. At least nothing that I know of.”
She examines me closely, no doubt trying to infer whether or not I’m hiding something from her. “Oh, I get it,” she huffs as she turns and heads back to the office. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? What do you like to call it?”
“Mind wandering,” I remind her as I follow her into the office. “And yes, I was at it again.”
Cait sits down at the desk to go through some paperwork while I plop down on one of the empty chairs across from her. “Cait, can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything. Shoot. What’s got you all worked up today? Is it Cole?”
“No, not really,” I tell her honestly. But as I search the recesses of my mind, I can’t help but wonder if being with Cole has reawakened something within me. “I feel like I’m in a good place right now. My small business is doing relatively well . . .”
“No!” she interjects. “Your not-so-small business is doing frigging fantastic.”
“And my personal life isn’t doing too poorly, either.”
“Not too poorly? Is that how you would describe it?”
“No, obviously not. But would you stop interrupting me for one minute and just listen, please?”
“Sorry, go on.”
“Thank you. See, these girls came in today and asked if Kensington Layne has released a sequel to her books yet and it got me thinking. What would happen if I were to actually write another book?”
“Do you mean before or after Philip has a heart attack?” she teases. “Because you know he will.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. And besides, we don’t exactly need the money, do we?”
“No, the business is definitely holding it’s own. We’re doing better than expected and I’m pretty sure at this rate, we’ll be able to keep the doors open all winter and pay ourselves a livable salary.”
This is the second time in one day I find myself talking about money. Cole was talking about spending a lot of money on his parents’ anniversary gift. Sometimes I forget that Cole earns good money. He lives more like a recent college graduate than a professional athlete.
“Okay, change the subject. How much money do you think Cole makes?”
“Interesting question. Let’s find out.” Cait opens up her laptop and clicks a few buttons to wake up the screen.
“No! Don’t. Please. I was just wondering . . . I don’t actually want to know.”
“Yes you do, or you wouldn’t have asked,” Cait corrects me. “It’s a matter of public record. Just like Philip’s salary as a cop and Megan’s salary as a teacher.”
Although I feel guilty as hell, I let Cait work her magic. She clicks and scans the page. “Hmm.” Click and scan. “Huh.” Click and scan. “Ah.” Over and over.
“What?” I demand. “Tell me something, would you, please?”
“I thought you didn’t want to know,” she snarks.
“Shut up and just tell me.”
Cait looks at me and tilts her head to the side as a wide grin spreads across her face. I roll my eyes and ruefully admit, “Yeah, I heard myself there.”
“All right then, moving on. The first thing I found was his salary. Cole Horatio McGuire earns . . .”
“Wait! Cole’s middle name is Horatio?” I am flabbergasted.
“You don’t know his middle name? Girl, you need to stop taking your clothes off and spend more time talking to that boy,” she exasperates. “Listen, as I was saying – Cole Horatio McGuire earns exactly five hundred forty-four thousand dollars a year. He gets paid on a bimonthly schedule for six months out of the year from April through September.” She pauses and clicks some more on the keyboard and then looks up at me. “That means that he gets paid roughly forty-five thousand dollars every two weeks or so. Before taxes, of course.”
“Of course,” I answer sarcastically.
“So what do you think?” Cait asks.
“I think I’m taking that boy shopping for a new truck.”
After a late dinner of pizza and ice cold beer, I call it quits early tonight. Curled up in my bed with my laptop and my cell phone charging nearby, I decide to do a little writing instead of reading. It’s been so long since I’ve let my creative juices flow, the words come pouring out of me as if the flood gates have been opened.
In a little over an hour, I even impress myself when I check to find I have written the first one thousand words in record time. A few thousand more and I’ll have enough to send to Gail Walters. I would love to see the shocked look on her face when she receives it.
Wait.
What am I doing?
This is crazy. I need to get some sleep and think about what I’m doing here. Tomorrow is a new day and it wouldn’t hurt to sleep on it before making a rash decision.
It’s a little after ten and before turning off and shutting down, I check on the live scores from Cole’s game. He’s playing the Rockies and the score is Rockies 4, Red Hawks 1. It’s top of the ninth and the game’s nearly over. Hopefully, in an hour or two Cole will call me on his way home from the game. But until then, I’m just going to close my eyes for a little while as I wait.
It’s pitch black when I open my eyes again. Something must be wrong with the air conditioner, because it’s like an oven in here. I move my legs to kick off the sheets, only to discover that they’re being pinned down by something heavy. And warm.
I reach down and find a pair of long arms wrapped around my waist, holding me tight. Cole is sleeping soundly, his face turned towards me. Clearly, sometime during the night, he had crawled into bed with me.
Sighing, I lift Cole’s arm off of me. He mumbles something in his sleep and starts to reach out for me again. I smile and brush a lock of hair off his forehead, kissing him softly. I glance at his peaceful body, the sheet halfheartedly draped over his physical perfection.
I prop my head on my hand and let my eyes take a leisurely stroll down his hard body. The covers are bunched at his waist, giving
me an excellent view of his abs. He doesn’t have a six-pack. If I’m counting correctly, he has a ten-pack.
I snuggle into him as he sighs contentedly. I try to imagine being with him like this every night. I fall back asleep with a very big smile on my face.
CHAPTER 20
I WAKE WITH A SMILE TO TINY KISSES PEPPERING MY SHOULDER. I think I actually fell asleep with this same smile on my face. I rub my hand over his arm so he knows I’m awake.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Cole says while kissing my neck. It tickles.
When he sits up, the sheets drop, exposing his deliciously bare chest and those incredible arms and very impressive pecs . . . making me wonder for a second if I were still dreaming, waking from a long and lonely fantasy. One way or another, I feel like my entire world is shifting, that wrong is turning right, and the darkness is finally lifting. I have found hope and joy and now, for the first time in a very long while, I truly believe that anything is possible.
“You want some coffee?” he asks.
“Mmm . . . Sounds perfect.”
He reaches over and softly sweeps his hand across my cheek and runs his thumb across my lips. “You want to shower first and then have sex or do you want sex now and then some coffee after a shower?”
“I think I’ve created a monster,” I mock. I could definitely eat him for breakfast.
“I think so, too. That’s okay. You like me anyway.”
My eyes narrow. “Who told you this?”
He peels the sheets back and leans over me, trailing kisses down my neck and only stopping when his lips circle around a nipple and he sucks greedily, making it harden like glass. He finishes off with one swirl of the tongue. “I’m just guessing.”
With a wicked grin, he throws his long limbs off the side of the bed, stands and stretches, leaving me lying there like a live wire, ready to combust. “You don’t play fair,” I grumble.
“Never said I did,” he teases. Slowly, he opens the door and peers down the hallway.
“Is the coast clear?” I ask, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Cole hovers there in nothing but his boxers, standing stock still looking for signs of life from my roommates. “Looks like it. Come on, Houdini – let’s disappear into the shower. We have plans this morning.”
“We do?”
“Yup. Hot coffee and breakfast at TitleWave, then a trip to the mall. We have a baby gift to buy before my game.”
“I thought you were going to make me coffee,” I confess.
“Make you coffee. Buy you coffee. Let’s not quibble over the details.”
My guy is a man on a mission. In less than an hour, we are showered, dressed and on our way to pick up breakfast.
Tuesday morning at nine o’clock and it’s nice and quiet on the boardwalk. The morning rush is over and the afternoon crowds haven’t arrived yet.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, Kenny,” Brie beams as we approach the counter. “Good morning, Cole. I thought that was your truck in front of the house this morning. I’m glad the key worked.”
“The key?” I ask.
“You know, the one hidden under the doormat,” she impatiently explains. “I told Cole about it ages ago. Just in case there was ever an emergency.” She grins at the two of us holding hands like teenagers. “I guess there was an emergency last night.”
I just shake my head. She’s an eternal optimist and hopeless romantic. But I still love her.
“Come see who’s here!” She drags us back to the storage room where the food is kept and standing among the pastries and desserts is Juliette McGuire, Evan’s wife, and our bakery supplier.
“Good morning.” Juliette hops over and gives Cole and me a big hug and kiss. “After you guys left yesterday, Reese got a great idea. We spent a few hours experimenting with some new breakfast sandwich recipes. We thought your place would be the perfect location to try a few out.”
“That’s great,” I tell her. “What did you bring us?” Rush Wholesale Bakery is the best-kept secret at the Jersey Shore. Anything she brings us is sure to be amazing.
“I’ve been asking Juliette if she had anything more on the savory side for breakfast for weeks now,” Brie explains. She looks at Cole. “Mostly because of you,” she adds, firmly jabbing him in the chest with her finger. “I have to find a way to feed your hungry side from time to time if I want you to keep coming back.”
“And I know that good breakfast foods can sell all day long. After making those quiches, it hit me,” Juliette explains.
“What hit you?” Cole asks.
“Frittata,” she answers.
“I have no idea what that is,” he chuckles.
“It’s an Italian crustless quiche. We can make a couple dozen individual serving sized that can be refrigerated and stored until needed. And we came up with two sandwich combinations.” She pulls the sandwiches out of Brie’s convection oven and hands them to us.
“Kenny, I’m giving you a honey-ham and Swiss cheese frittata on a warm, flaky croissant.” I hold it up to my nose and inhale. It smells amazing.
Looking at Cole, she explains, “And you’re getting an applewood bacon, gouda, and parmesan frittata on a fresh baked artisan roll.”
I take an experimental bite and I’m hooked. “Oh, my God! Brie, have you tried these yet?”
“I have. Pretty awesome, right?”
The three of us spend a few minutes talking about storage, heating instructions, and suggested retail price.
Cole hasn’t said a word. I turn to him, hoping to get a man’s perspective, and I find he has not only polished off his sandwich, but he’s shoving the last bite of my sandwich into his mouth, too.
“I guess you like them?” Juliette asks.
“Mm-hmm,” he answers with a mouthful and a grin. “Really good,” he mumbles.
Brie practices heating the sandwiches, making a fresh one for each of us. We gather our meals, order some coffee, and the three of us convene at our table on the boardwalk. Cole adjusts the umbrella, shading us from the bright morning sun and we settle in to enjoy a nice, hot breakfast.
Brie drops off our coffee order and hurriedly returns to update the menu board with our newest offering. I love her enthusiasm.
Juliette pushes her chair back ever so slightly, encouraging the sun to warm her face. “So do you two have any plans for today?” she asks.
I look to Cole to explain. After all, these are his plans, not mine. “Actually, we could use your help. I want to get a present for Emmy and the baby, but I don’t know what they need. Do you have any thoughts?”
Juliette gives us some really great ideas. Cole looks lost through most of it, but I assure him that all of what she suggests is easy to locate and acquire, especially now that I know more about his finances.
We finish breakfast, thank Juliette for the meal and her help, and then climb back into his Mean Green Machine and head towards the mall.
“Hey, Cole – have you given any thought to buying a new truck?” I ask gently. The last thing I want to do is insult his taste in trucks. Some men take that very seriously.
“What? No way! I love Betty.”
Ugly Betty. Yup. That sounds about right.
“I know it’s an old beat up truck and that it’s probably time for me to trade up. But what no one understands is that every one of those miles has made me the man I am. You couldn’t know that my dad and I drove her down to Charlotte. I almost didn’t make the trip, thinking it might be time to quit and find a real job. But here I am. So I’m going to hold on, just a little longer.”
“You’re holding onto her, taking care of her, and I think that’s great. But is she able to take care of you? Because if I’m being honest, that’s all I really care about. I worry about you driving Betty up and down the Parkway alone late at night.”
“You don’t have to worry about us,” Cole tells me, squeezing my thigh. “But it’s good to know that you do.”
I do worry. But I’m sta
rting to become fond of this truck, even if she is Ugly Betty.
We arrive at the mall shortly after they have opened for the day. We navigate our way to Nordstrom’s and easily find their handbag department. A sharply dressed young woman with impeccable makeup and perfectly coiffed hair approaches us almost immediately.
“Hi, I’m Kim. Can I help you find something special today?” She bats her long fake eyelashes at Cole and actually scans him from head to toe. She must like what she sees because I notice her cheeks immediately flush.
“Yes, do you carry any Marc Jacobs diaper bags?” I answer, diverting her attention away from Cole.
“Oh, of course. Right this way.” Kim leads us to a counter where the designer collections are kept locked away safely behind glass. One by one, she shows us each of the three bags they carry. As Kim and I chat away at the dimensions and storage compartments of each bag, Cole says nothing.
Quickly, I eliminate one bag that I just don’t care for. “Babe, which one do you like?” I ask, showing him the two remaining choices.
He examines each, turning them around and upside down. “Um, I don’t see any price tags,” he mutters.
I slip my hand into the smallest compartment and pull out the price tag for one and then the other. One retails for three hundred and the other for three hundred fifty dollars. “How much was the one you put away?” he asks Kim.
“That one was two hundred seventy five dollars,” she answers. “But I forgot to mention that this bag,” she reaches for the most expensive style, “is on sale for forty percent off, but not in black, only in Pearl Blush.”
Relief washes over Cole’s face. “We’ll take it.”
“Wait, I’d like to see it first,” I correct him. “Just to make sure.”
“Fine, but unless there’s something wrong with it, that’s the bag I’m buying.”
Kim excuses herself to retrieve one from the back room while Cole and I wait patiently at the counter. She returns with two versions of the same bag – one in black and one in pearl blush.
The pink bag glimmers and has shimmering silver leather patches and tags. I don’t like it. It looks gaudy and garish. “I don’t know Cole. I’m pretty sure Emmy would much prefer the black bag. Either one is better than this.”
Another Chance at Love (Another Series Book 1) Page 28
