by Casey Hagen
Hagen Novels, LLC
KENNEBUNK, MAINE
Copyright © 2018 by Casey Hagen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
Hagen Novels, LLC
www.CaseyHagenAuthor.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Tallulah Heartbeat/Casey Hagen. — 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0
For my husband, who puts up with my crap while I pound out all the words. You rock! Their growing attraction seems unstoppable, until the past revisits like a sucker punch ready to take at aim at their happiness and his budding relationship with the boy he’s come to love as his own.
“Maybe it won’t work out…but maybe seeing if it does will be the best adventure ever.”
-UNKNOWN
CHAPTER ONE
ABBY’S CELL VIBRATED, MAKING IT slide on the gleaming wood bar. She set down the fourth sample glass she’d just drained and unlocked her screen.
Nate was called in. I can’t make it. I’ll make it up to you!
Well, crap.
Okay, so Kelly didn’t stand her up maliciously or anything. She couldn’t help it if her husband had been called in to cover a shift. Of course he didn’t turn it down; as an EMT, nothing short of the plague would make him say no to covering a shift. When Nate didn’t cover a shift, people died.
Okay, maybe not quite that dramatic, but still.
Nate’s unwavering commitment to rescuing the world left Kelly stuck at home with their daughter, and Abby sitting at the bar of the Little Laguna, sampling a flight of craft beers alone.
Okay, so the beer part didn’t hurt Abby’s feelings any. How long had it been since she’d allowed herself to splurge on drinks?
Two long freaking years.
“So, which one did you like the best?” the bartender asked. He had said his name, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember the damn thing.
Placenta brain. That’s what they called it. You have a baby and your ability to do quick math, recall or learn new song lyrics, and remember people’s names flew the coop…literally.
“This one.” She pointed to the fifth small glass in the flight of beers she had just tasted.
“Ah, the Lost Coast Scotch Ale. A beer girl after my own heart,” he said with a wink. “You ready for a pint?”
“Hit me with it,” she said with a smile. Screw it. She’d have a beer and make the half-mile walk back to the postage stamp of a bungalow she rented with her sister, Kate, in the middle of Tallulah Cove. It was the closest she’d come to a girls’ night since Ken died on that damn motorcycle he had bought.
That pinch of guilt twisted in her heart again, and her breath caught. No matter how many times her sister told her she needed to let it go, how it wasn’t her fault, and no matter how much Abby told herself the same—she hadn’t let it go. At night, alone in her bed, cold and lonely, with just the thud of her own bruised heartbeat pounding in her ears, guilt kept her company.
He’d wanted it. He’d always wanted a motorcycle, and he worked so hard to support their family, how could she say no?
So she didn’t say no.
And now Ken was dead.
Blake didn’t remember his own father.
She was pretty sure she was doing this girls’ night thing all wrong, especially when dredging up mercilessly ironclad memories only capable of bringing her pain.
Afraid to go home after work and have something interfere with her night out, she killed some time at the library, checking out financial planning books before arriving at the recently remodeled Little Laguna. The place had gone from dive-bar reeking of desperation and just defunct enough to attract criminals and drugs to cutting-edge gastropub in short order. Cain Slater had done his worst, and if the craft beer wasn’t enough to draw you in, the upscale food menu would make…
Her stomach growled just then, because not stopping at home also meant no dinner before heading out. Drinking on an empty stomach? Yeah, she was a victim in the making.
She sighed. Girls’ night with no other girls, drinking on an empty stomach, and—she glanced down at herself—black tank top and drawstring work scrub pants—about the least-sexy clothes she owned other than her Good Luck Care Bear onesie pajamas that had seemed like a great idea to be festive for St. Patrick’s Day, until they’d become her standby pajamas.
Now she rocked the late-night sexy with threadbare once green, but now greenish-gray fabric with a hot fudge stain just over the left nipple.
She winced. There was no hope for her attire, but she could appease the angry, fist-shaking stomach easily enough.
She waved a hand in the air and flagged down what’s-his-name.
“What can I get for you, honey?” he said with a wink.
She choked on a bubble of laughter. “You don’t need to flirt with me, Romeo. I’m a heavy tipper.”
He leaned his forearms on the counter and grinned. His shaggy hair fell over his barely legal, smooth-as-a-baby’s-butt forehead. “Maybe I’m interested in more than the…” his gaze drifted lower, “…tip,” he said with a raised brow.
She snorted into her beer. “I’m an in-debt widow; I live with my sister, and I have a four-year-old son.”
His eyes lost a bit of sparkle as his smile slipped on the son part.
“Total boner-killer, right?”
He had the grace to wince. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”
“Ouch, I’ve gone from a sex object to being ma’amed in about a minute. That hurts. Maybe you can assuage my pain by bringing me…” she glanced down at the menu, “…the hot chili butternut squash soup, French fries with truffle oil, and the honey-drizzled baklava.”
“You want those all at the same time?” he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Yes, please.”
“Coming right up.” He gave her another smile, not nearly as bright this time, and made his way down the bar to wait on other patrons after sliding her order slip through the window.
She took another sip of her beer and glanced around the place. So many people laughing, drinking, eating, mingling on a Wednesday night. It might as well have been a Friday.
Top 40 tunes filled the air from high-quality speakers. Her foot tapped to the latest Bruno Mars song. Her son, Blake, loved this song. At four years old, he had already become one hell of a dancer.
He got it from her, if she did say so herself. She’d been dancing with her boy in her arms since he was an infant.
People around the bar huddled in their clusters, engaged in animated conversation. A few outliers moved about, jumping into a group here or there for a few minutes, and then moving on.
Those outliers? Mostly men.
Glancing about, she caught a man staring at her from the other side of the bar. Not bad, dark hair, thinning just a bit.
Hey, none of us were perfect. Stretch marks party of one right over here.
He had a medium build, white dress shirt, maroon tie. Likely well-employed. He saluted her casually, his gold wedding band winking i
n the glow of the teardrop lights hanging down overhead.
Married.
Of course he was.
Let that be a lesson on why she had no business picking men up in a bar.
He offered her a greasy smile. She had never known what her sister meant by men with greasy smiles until just that moment.
She glanced away, wishing for someone to swoop in and claim the empty spot next to her, especially when, out the corner of her eye, she spotted him pushing off his stool, grabbing his drink, and heading in her direction.
Please, please, please God…it’s my first night out. Have I not suffered enough?
Give her a bubbly blonde with a big mouth and weird fake boobs.
Give her a young surfer with a twenty-four-hour erection she had to keep from humping her leg.
Give her a crusty old fart with more stories than the Bible.
She could handle any or all of those, but the smarmy shit making his way over—no, thank you!
A shadow fell over her, and she winced. Her face scrunched. Cringing, she peeked off to her right and prayed for mercy.
Not greasy guy.
No fake boobs.
No surfer humping her leg.
Not a crusty old fart…exactly.
This guy was…
More.
He hooked a scarred black boot on the footrail of the bar and nodded his head at Baby-Butt-Forehead bartender guy.
Despite her best intentions, regardless of smarmy guy’s perfect lesson as to why picking up men in bars was bad, she ran her gaze over the Levi’s pulled tight over the thigh next to her, up to his narrow hips. For the first time in a long time, a hum of awareness pulsed through her.
A black t-shirt clung to his thick chest and broad shoulders. She wanted to scratch her nails up over those pecs he kept half-hidden by an unbuttoned flannel shirt.
She shook her head and snickered. Hmm, might be time to ease up on the beer until the food arrived.
He glanced down at her and gave her a distracted half-smile before directing his attention back to the bartender.
Well, of course he did; it’s not like she had marched into the Little Laguna that night dressed to impress.
“Ben, haven’t seen you in a while, man.” The bartender shook his hand. “What can I get for you?”
“An Alvarado Double Cone, thanks,” Ben said, dropping a sparse set of keys on the bar next to his cell.
A young woman appeared with a tray. “Your butternut squash soup, truffle fries, and baklava.” She unloaded three plates in front of Abby, and had she not had a good dose of beer easing her self-consciousness she might be mortified by the feast and lack of nutrients before her.
“Thanks,” Abby said.
“Can I get you anything else?”
Abby laughed. “No, I think this is plenty.”
Abby went for dessert first. Hell, it was girls’ night out and her son wasn’t there to see, so she would do exactly what she wanted.
She used her fork to break off the corner of the baklava. The minute it hit her mouth a mix of delicate sweetness, crispness, and a heavy richness melted on her tongue.
Her eyes drifted shut.
She shivered.
Her skin prickled, and she opened her eyes to find Ben’s aquamarine eyes on her, a smirk on his face. At her glance, he went back to his beer.
He had years on him, no doubt. Quite a few more than she, if the deep creases in his cheeks when he smiled or the crinkles around his eyes were any indication. Of course, like most men they only made him more attractive.
George Clooney, Daniel Craig, Pierce Brosnan…need she say more?
This guy looked like Christopher Meloni. A little grayer, but yeah, looking didn’t hurt her feelings at all. As Abby searched Ben’s face, she wondered what it was about his expression that was almost sad. Like a man haunted by…something.
Maybe memories tormented him the way they did her.
For reasons Abby couldn’t explain, she had to know.
Liquid courage fueled her. She set her fork down, grabbed a French fry, and pointed it at him. “I see adventures in those eyes. I can’t explain it...”
She cleared her throat. “Your next beer is on me. Sit with me a while, pick a memory that made you, and tell me every single detail.”
CHAPTER TWO
BEN HAD PARKED HIS ASS next to a dramatic one. He took in the flushed skin of her pretty pale face and her glassy olive-green eyes.
Or a drunk one.
Either way, her clever request had him searching his memory for something he could tell her that didn’t tear open a still-healing vein.
“I have a son, probably your age, that I’ve never met,” he said before draining his beer.
So much for not tearing open that vein. Christ, why did that pop out?
He’d never told anyone. Of course, his family and friends back home knew. Word got around in a small town like Three Rivers, especially when teens give up their baby for adoption.
His family claimed to support him, but his parents always seemed a bit “pinched” when they looked at him. It certainly wasn’t the same look of pride and confidence they gave his younger brother and sister.
Of course, Jordan had become a lawyer, married, had three kids, and made their parents over-the-moon proud. Then his sister had become a stay-at-home mom, provided four grandkids of her own, and homeschooled them, thereby solidifying Ben’s place as the family disappointment.
He could be mad at them, but hell, his actions had caused it.
He flagged down the bartender.
The kid, likely just out of college, reminded him of his long-ago youth, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He leaned across the bar and angled an ear toward him. “Another?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“His next one is on me,” his unlikely companion said.
She reached out a slim, ivory hand to him. “I’m Abby.”
He took her hand in his and ignored the way his sex-deprived body jumped to attention at the feel of her soft, creamy skin brushing against his callused hand.
A beauty. A flawless, girl-next-door beauty who’d look just right in sundresses, strappy sandals, and free-flowing hair.
And way too young for him despite his body’s interest.
“Ben,” he said, clearing his throat and scratching his bristled cheek. “How old are you?”
She threw back her head and laughed. A lock of her auburn hair brushed her cheek.
“Old enough,” she said, slightly breathless. Her cheeks had reddened when she laughed, making her even more appealing.
He took a sip of his beer. “I’m probably old enough to be your father. Jesus,” he muttered.
She bit into a fry and smiled. “I don’t know...”
Her gaze traveled over him, her eyes so intent, he wondered if he should squirm or be flattered.
“When I look at you, I don’t see a father.”
Yeah, well, wasn’t that the truth. He hadn’t been one.
She winked and took a drink of her beer. “At least not my father.”
Someone had to be punking him. He searched the bar and the doorway but didn’t see any of his guys there. He finally had the second branch of Sequoia Homes up and running smoothly, had a solid crew, and everyone could breathe a bit easier. Some of his guys had loosened up, and they would fuck with him for sure.
He wouldn’t put it past a single one of those assholes to convince a girlfriend, friend, or sister to fuck with his head.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asked her, searching her eyes for the telltale, glossy eyes of a woman who had had one too many, those olive irises staring right back, crystal clear.
“More than normal, but I’m relatively confident I could walk in a straight line.” She tilted her head. “Why are you so surprised that you’re hot?”
He blinked and glanced at the crowd around them. “Uh…”
She patted the stool next to her. “Relax, I’m not proposing. Come on. S
it down.”
He dropped onto the stool. “Should I be scared right now?” He looked her up and down. The black tank top stretched across generous breasts, tapered in at her narrow waist, and hugged the flare of her hips where they disappeared into nurse’s scrubs, with—he leaned down and squinted—cartoon teeth giving saucy winks and the word “Smile!” hovering over them.
He raised his head and met her smiling eyes. “Interesting pants.”
She craned her neck and checked out her own ass, giving it a bit of wiggle he’d guarantee she didn’t intend to entice with, but color him drawn in just the same. “Cute, right? I’m a dental hygienist. The kids love them.”
He grinned down at her and stole a fry. “I’m sure they do.”
“Look at you stealing my food. You must be getting comfortable. So, come on, out with it. Tell me about this son of yours,” she said, digging into the fries too.
“And here I was hoping you forgot about that,” he said, his stomach pitching with the ache of regret.
She shook her head and took a drink from her beer. Not one of those girly sips, but a gulp that told him just how much she enjoyed the taste and she intended to taste it with every part of her tongue. “Nope. Not that drunk. Nice try, though.”
He took a drink of his own beer and rolled his lips to suck the foam off his short mustache. “I signed papers to put him up for adoption when I was seventeen,” he said.
Memories flooded him, sharp, as if a day hadn’t gone by. His girlfriend, Megan, handing him his son from her hospital bed. Her face ravaged from crying. His son, so tiny and perfect, sound asleep with his tiny fist curled against his cheek.
A tiny little miracle, his eyes squeezed shut to the misery in that sterile, gray hospital room of the county hospital. He slept soundly despite the raw emotions and shattering hearts in the room.
Ben wanted him. He wanted him so fucking bad. However, more than he wanted him, his seventeen-year-old self was terrified that he would ruin him. How many times had he seen people struggle through raising their kids, working minimum-wage jobs? He didn’t want to be that guy. The one tied to a girl who had been a good time when life was light and carefree, but with the weight of poverty sitting like an anvil on their shoulders turning them on each other and turning them into adversaries full of anger and regret.
