“Audra…” He’d never seen her with that militant light in her eyes and it shook him a little. “Baby—”
“Kane, I’m going to fight for what I want, and what I want is you.”
An uneven breath made its way into his lungs. His thoughts untangled a little, enough for him to realize that every time he’d walked away, every time he’d eased out of a relationship, that no woman had ever fought to hold onto him. He’d been cried over and cursed and cursed at, but not one woman had ever claimed they were going to remain steadfast.
God. God.
Maybe…maybe that’s what he’d needed. What he’d been waiting for. Who he needed to fill that void he’d sensed inside himself.
An angelic-looking, stubborn fighter of a female with a penchant for ghastly murders.
Perhaps he’d kept his relationships shallow because he was afraid of never finding such a one. But here she was.
His Audra. He might be superstitious, but he wasn’t stupid, and giving her up would be just that, stupid.
So he’d hold onto this woman who would amuse, surprise, and satisfy him for a lifetime.
The truth of that took only a moment to sink to the depths of his soul. “Audra,” he whispered, humbled by what she was offering. “Baby…”
Could he really take this chance? I want to be your sunshine and your good luck.
Okay, he wasn’t turning away from that. “Audra—”
“And one more thing,” she said now. “In case you think that ridiculous curse is keeping you from making a commitment to me, I’ve been all over the Internet again and discovered that the number one cure is surprisingly simple.”
He was feeling much more settled now and his lips twitched. “And that is?”
Without a pause, she lifted the full glass at his elbow and upended it over his head. “A purifying water bath.”
He sputtered, ran his hand over his wet face, then reached out and hauled his love onto his lap. “That was dirty.”
“No.” She grinned, then leaned to whisper into his ear. “Dirty comes later.”
He laughed, the sound of it ringing out over the smattering of applause from some of the guests. “I love you. God, so much,” he said, holding her close. “I’ll make you happy.”
Maybe his knuckles grazed the wooden tabletop, but who could blame him?
Then he glanced down the long surface in the direction of her family and Lilly. “But the reality of an us may take some convincing.”
Audra lifted one eyebrow. “You only have to convince me.”
With his mouth on hers, he delivered a kiss he hoped conveyed devotion and gratitude and faithfulness. His head lifted before it could slide into something too lusty for the lookers-on to handle. “Later, baby. But right now…”
Staring into her beautiful face, he felt a niggle of doubt.
And, smart girl, she saw it. “You haven’t forgotten, have you, that you promised to compensate me for that emergency flower-arranging?”
“Yeah.” He smiled a little. “What do you want?”
“An engagement ring.”
His smile widened. The doubts disappeared. She was serious about becoming his wife and it sounded good. Damn good. “We’ll put it on the list.”
“At the top,” she said.
“Where you’ll always be for me,” he replied, then bent his head to kiss her again. Miracle of miracles, Audra loved him.
When they came up for air once again, she beamed at him. “Remember you once told me sometimes you have to settle for the next best thing?”
He touched his forehead to hers. “Yeah.”
“We’re not settling, ever.” She tightened her arms around him. “We’re only going to have the very best thing together.”
Epilogue
The very best, it turned out, at least when it came to matrimony, was a quickie wedding in Las Vegas. “Are you sure, baby?” Kane asked for the hundredth time but she pulled him over the threshold of the chapel without hesitation.
It was a tasteful venue, with fresh flowers and classical music playing in the background. The staff didn’t resemble any dead or living celebrities, but wore gray suits and bright smiles. The guest information binder at The Hathaway at Dragonfly Beach listed all kinds of recommendations for visitors to Santa Barbara and its popular environs and under the “Las Vegas” section, they’d included this particular place to marry along with a variety of hotels, casinos, and eateries.
Audra had convinced him to sneak off without letting anyone know.
The fact was, there was no convincing necessary. Now that he had her, he wanted her in his life in as permanent a way as possible.
Yeah, maybe he’d never seen himself as a husband and father, but with Audra beside him it was a simple thing to see himself as being her husband and the father of her children. Their collective family and friends might still harbor doubts but they’d dispel every one. He was sure of it.
As they approached the front desk, he noted the large photographs on the walls. Recent brides and grooms married on the premises, it seemed, all looking expectant and ecstatic.
Audra noted them too, and her lips curved as she took them in. Then her eyes widened and she clutched his forearm. “Oh my God,” she breathed.
“What?” His brows drew together and he followed her pointing finger.
“Isn’t that a photo of my brother?”
Kane stared. “I’d say so. And his blushing bride—that’s none other than Alec’s sister, my cousin Jojo.”
Audra looked at him, he looked at her, then they both started to laugh. What had happened under their noses at the Heartbreak Hotel?
# # #
Dear Reader:
Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the second book in the Heartbreak Hotel series. Audra and Kane are embarking on a happy future together. Just for fun, you might like to listen to the Justin Timberlake song “Can’t Stop the Feeling!” that constantly runs through Kane’s head.
Intrigued by that photo Audra spotted in the Vegas wedding chapel? What happened at the Heartbreak Hotel that led Jojo Thatcher and Con Montgomery to marriage? Look for MY QUICKIE WEDDING coming soon.
Interested in sharing your thoughts about Audra and Kane’s romance with other readers? I hope you’ll leave a review here and look for more of my books to enjoy.
To not miss out on new Christie Ridgway releases and to get other information about upcoming books and specials, sign up for my my newsletter. You can also follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or visit my website.
I’ve also included here an excerpt of ALMOST WONDERFUL (Almost Book 1) —another one of my sunny, sexy romances.
All the best!
Christie Ridgway
Excerpt – ALMOST WONDERFUL
Almost Book 1
© Copyright 2017 Christie Ridgway
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Chapter One
Two miles of magic.
Trudging through soft sand, Meg Alexander remembered that’s how she’d thought of her childhood Neverland, Southern California’s Crescent Cove. Even after ten years away, she recalled how lucky she’d felt growing up here.
Meg’s great-great-grandfather had purchased the land as a location to make silent movies such as The Courageous Castaways and Sweet Safari, and the tropical vegetation he’d trucked in for authenticity in 1919 continued to thrive at the cove today. The buff-colored bluffs rising up from the beach were made more colorful by the bright green fronds of date palm trees and the salmon and scarlet flowers of bougainvillea that nestled beside the native sagebrush. Closer to shore, floppy-leaved banana plants, chunky Mexican fan palms and colorful hibiscus shrubs surrounded the fifty eclectic cottages, most of which had been built during the 1920s through 1950s.
Each of the beach houses at Crescent Cove was different, their form-following whims now long forgotten. Their paint schemes were as varied as their shapes and sizes, though the colors selected blended well with the landscape of sand, earth and vivid flora. The
single similarity was that in every one, windows peered oceanward.
Meg didn’t dare look in that direction, herself.
Growing up, her mother had told Meg and her little sister, Skye, that merfolk lived in those waters off shore, protecting the cove with their supernatural powers. Growing up, Meg had believed in that, just as she’d believed that sand dollars were the merpeople’s currency and sea glass the discarded pieces from some mysterious merchildren’s board game.
But Meg didn’t believe in magic or mystery anymore.
“Good morning,” an elderly male voice said.
Startled, Meg looked up. “Hey, Rex. Good morning, yourself.” Rex Monroe, ninety-some years young, was the only full-time resident at the cove other than Skye, who had managed the property since their parents’ move to Provence, France. Yesterday, for the first time in a decade, Meg had met up with the nonagenarian as he walked along the sand. Like now, the clouds had been low and damp, the typical gloomy “May Gray” weather conditions. “Getting in your daily constitutional?” she asked.
Rex patted his belly, covered in a flannel shirt tucked into soft chinos. “It’s not just you ladies who have to watch your figures. Are you settling in okay?”
“Oh, sure,” Meg said, waving a hand. It was actually weird being back in her childhood bedroom, ten years after leaving the cove at nineteen, but her sister had been invited to the out-of-town wedding of a former college roommate. How could Meg have refused to step in? Memorial Day weekend was the kick-off of the Crescent Cove summer season. Someone had to be on hand to pass out keys to the bungalows and handle minor crises.
Even if it was a major crisis, in Meg’s mind, to be back here.
“I see you have a satchel of tools,” Rex said, pointing to the canvas bag she carried. “Something need fixing already?”
“Not really. Just trying to keep busy.” Anything to prevent her from thinking of the last summer she’d spent at the cove. “I’m going to scrape the deck railing at Beach House No. 9. I understand that Griffin Lowell has been staying there the last couple of months, but since he’s away for a few days, Skye hired a contractor to take care of the blistering paint while he’s gone.”
Rex gave Meg a piercing look that reminded her he was a former war correspondent, one who’d won a Pulitzer during World War 2. “What? The man Skye hired doesn’t have some sort of electric paint-removing machine?”
“Uh, well…” Meg glanced at the simple metal scraper at the bottom of her bag, sitting beside a few other basic tools and her bottle of water. “You know what they say about idle hands. I thought I’d do the work myself.” An idle mind was even more dangerous, Meg had decided. She had to stay busy to avoid thoughts of that last summer. Of Peter.
Rex nodded as if he understood all she didn’t say aloud. “You come visit me if you’d like some company, all right?”
“Thanks, I will,” Meg said with a bright smile, though she knew she wouldn’t. She didn’t want company. Company might bring up Peter. Company might ask her why she’d run away from her childhood home and never returned. Company might make her admit how much she’d lost, including the happy-go-lucky girl she’d once been.
Meg was too smart to allow that to happen.
“Enjoy your walk, Rex,” she said, and then continued down the beach.
The south end of Crescent Cove was bounded by a sea cliff that pushed into the Pacific. Though the top of it was wide and flat, there were steep trails snaking up its side that led to various outcroppings from which, she remembered, daredevils used to launch ocean jumps. Skye had posted warning signs against the practice, but from the look of those clearly defined routes, it remained an enticement. The last cottage in the cove snuggled next to the bluff, a two-story, brown-shingled building with blue-green trim and a large deck extending over the sand.
A driftwood sign was tacked to the outer railing, words painted in the same color as the trim. Beach House No. 9.
Meg mounted the steps that led from the sand to the surface of the deck. She dropped her bag on the umbrella-topped table and took in the rest of the patio accessories: single chaises, a double lounger, a stack of extra chairs and a barbecue.
Everything looked in order. Though the current resident was gone for a few days, he’d return for the month of June. After that, No. 9 would have different occupants in July and August. Skye had said almost all the cottages were booked up for summer. That was good, because those months were when Crescent Cove paid its way. It would quiet in the fall and the rentals would be mostly vacant throughout the winter and spring.
Meg frowned at the peeling rails. Her sister was right to be annoyed that the paint hadn’t stayed tight to the wood. Maintenance was accomplished in the off-season and a company had been out in February to refurbish, but their efforts hadn’t lasted.
On the plus side, it gave Meg something to do, besides think of—
No one. No one was on her mind.
Yanking a hair tie from her front pocket, she gave another frown at the blistered railing as she bound her mass of caramel-colored hair. Then she consciously relaxed her facial muscles. “Watch it,” she murmured to herself. “You don’t want to groove permanently grumpy lines.”
Then again, she was a twenty-nine-year-old accountant. Grumpy might already be permanent.
Ignoring that unpleasant thought, Meg tackled the task she’d assigned herself, starting at one end of the railing. Paint chips flew until they covered her feet in their rubber thongs and were scattered over her hands and forearms. They drifted onto her jeans and T-shirt, too, almost obscuring the word blazoned across her chest: Meh.
Which kind of summed up how Meg had been feeling about herself and her life.
Meh. Meg. Just one letter off.
Contemplating that made her thirsty again. She’d nearly drained the puny little bottle of water she’d brought. The May Gray was locked in battle with the sun, and though right now gray was winning, it had definitely warmed up. With the last drop in her still-parched throat, Meg decided to dig through her bag for the cove’s master keys, and dash inside No. 9 to refill her water at the kitchen sink.
Since No. 9’s occupant, Griffin Lowell, had summered in this very bungalow as a kid and they’d been friends back in the day, she didn’t think he’d object. Although according to Skye, Griffin barely resembled the devil-may-care boy who had vacationed with his family at the cove. Now a journalist, he’d spent a year embedded with the troops in Afghanistan and had come back to the beach a loner who wanted nothing more than to be left to himself. Meg hoped he’d find what he was looking for here, though her own return to Crescent Cove had yet to bring her peace.
The sliding door leading from the deck to the living room was heavy, so she left it open as she hustled inside, leaving her paint-chipped footwear behind. It only took a moment or two to replenish her bottle and twist on the cap. As she hurried back out, her bare soles slid on the hardwood floor. She felt herself going down and dropped the container to catch her balance on a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. Steady again, she saw the plastic cylinder of water rolling toward the sliding glass door. Rolling toward shoes.
Shoes?
As she looked up, the sun won the war, breaking from behind the clouds. The light dazzled, and made the figure in the doorway a dark silhouette. A male silhouette, with a big, shaggy-haired dog at his side.
Meg’s heart shot high, fueled by pure exhilaration as she recognized the masculine outline. Her fingers tightened on the bookshelf. Peter. Peter!
In one single moment she experienced all the blazing joy of that summer ten years before when she’d met a twenty-two-year old recent college graduate. She’d fallen for him, fallen so deep that there’d been barely a splash, and he’d been equally smitten. The feeling had held all the thrills and enchantment her mother had promised about that thing called love, as happy-ever-after-ish as Meg had fantasized since she was a little girl swooning over the Disney version of The Little Mermaid. Peter Fleming had been her prince.
That summer, she’d thought she’d met her future, and they could have fed the entire world’s energy grid from the unending pool of their mutual bliss.
And here he was! Again! Her heart raced, thrumming against her ribs. Peter…
Did she say it out loud? Because the dark figure shook his head, then stepped into the room. The dog followed, his nails clicking smartly against the floor. “I’m Caleb,” the man said. “Caleb McCall.”
She stared at him blankly, her racing heart braking to a screeching halt, her brief joy subsumed by the grief she’d experienced that summer, too. Her body began to tremble, an aftereffect of shock.
As she watched, the man swooped down for the bottle, then paced toward her, holding it out. “It looks as if you could use this,” he said.
She released the bookshelf to take it from him, her senses still working at recovery. Of course this man wasn’t Peter. Peter had been gone for ten years, drowned by a rogue wave, it was presumed, when he’d gone out kayaking one afternoon at the end of August.
The stranger might look a little like Peter had he lived, though. Same golden tan, same sandy brown hair—though cut short when Peter’s had been long. The man—Caleb, he’d said—was gazing at her with narrowed brown eyes, concern written across his handsome features.
Now that she was breathing again, she felt a little visceral tug in her mid-section. Handsome? He was more than that. The way he held himself radiated a confident sexiness, as if he understood his place in the world and liked it as well as he liked himself.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked. His voice was low, a deep sound that suited him.
“Sure. You just…startled me. I—” Tensing, Meg broke off, suddenly aware she was alone, at the nearly deserted cove, with a man—albeit a good-looking one—whom she’d never before met. Her sister had admonished her to take precautions with her personal safety. The water bottle was a crappy weapon, but she did have her cell phone in her pocket.
Me and Mr. Jones (Heartbreak Hotel Book 2) Page 21
