One Night Flame

by Beverly Evans

  Copyright © 2020 by Beverly Evans

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  One Night Flame

  Beverly Evans

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Beverly Evans

  Prologue

  Nadine

  I open the door to my fiancé’s bedroom, and suddenly, all those songs about slashing your cheating boyfriend’s tires really resonate with me.

  I’m not the kind of girl who would slash a man’s tires, but then again, I’ve never caught the man I planned to spend the rest of my life with, in bed with another woman. Who knows what I’ll do? The longer I stare at the scene in front of me, the higher my blood pressure rises.

  My eyes zone in on Grant’s small bare butt, which I’ve never seen in the flesh before. It’s next to some woman’s bare butt on his bed. His arm is thrown across her back in a casual touch that makes all of this so much worse. The sheets are tangled around their legs since it’s warm, even at this early hour.

  Instead of breaking a lamp or flipping over the table, I throw the cute basket of freshly baked muffins I’d brought for him onto the floor and grind them into the carpet with my foot. I make a sound in the back of my throat that’s somewhere between a gasp and a growl, and it finally wakes them up. It takes Grant a second to realize that it’s not the girl next to him who’s made the sound, but when he does, he stirs.

  “Nadine?” He pops his head up, his eyes wide. His straight hair is sticking up all over the place, but he doesn’t adjust it. It’s usually neatly styled. All of him is usually tidy to a fault, which I love about him. I’ve never seen him like this—disheveled and tired, like a real person. Why does it sting so much that some random woman gets to see him like that when I haven’t in the three years we’ve dated?

  “What the hell is going on?” I stammer. What else could I even say? My consciousness feels like it’s floating above my body, surveying the scene. My whole body feels numb.

  “Baby, can we talk about this?” Grant rolls over, not covering his junk in his shock.

  Oh, that’s what his penis looks like? I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or just angry that the first time I’m seeing it isn’t on our wedding night. Maybe both.

  “What the hell is going on?” I repeat, backing out slowly. The woman in his bed is finally awake and realizes that she’s just woken up to a battle zone. She freezes like a deer in headlights. A stupidly beautiful deer who’s even out of Grant’s league.

  Instead of waiting around to get my answer, I turn around and bolt back to my car. I fumble with my keys, trying to jam them into the ignition while also trying to turn off my cheerful music. Somehow, I haven’t started crying yet, but I know it’s coming. I get the car going and speed back to the hotel suite where I’d planned on getting dressed for the wedding.

  A wedding that’s definitely not going to happen.

  I can’t even think about the logistics of cancelling it yet. I jam my key card into the hotel room door and fling it open.

  Finally, I burst into tears. Big, ugly ones that run down my face without me wiping my cheeks. I can’t even stay standing, so I sit down at the desk. I text my bridesmaids and tell them what happened; then, I text my mom. Mom is probably at her bakery, putting the finishing touches on my cake, so she doesn’t answer right away. I can’t even speak right now, so I don’t want to call her.

  I get a text from Tessa, the more outspoken one of my bridal party:

  Listen, don’t get upset when we come to talk to you in a bit, okay?

  I stare at the message blankly. What does she mean by ‘don’t get upset’ when clearly, I’m already miles past upset? What does she know? I ask her and wait.

  My blood runs cold. They must know. They have to know. Why else would they preface their arrival with a message like that? I expected an answer like, ‘WTF’ or ‘We’ll be right over.’

  It’s complicated, and we swear he was going to talk to you, he promised, is her only response.

  It’s a slap in the face.

  How could they?

  I didn’t know I could feel any worse, but I do. I can’t stay friends with them after this. I don’t want to hear their explanation. I don’t want to hear or see or feel anything.

  “Nadine! Open the door.” It’s Grant, pounding on the door. “Please.”

  I sob, unable to move or do anything at all besides clutch myself like I’m trying to give myself a hug. I eventually walk over to the door and open it for him, even though it’s the last thing I want. Almost on reflex, my heart turns over in my chest when I see him. He’s dressed now (obviously) in a button-down shirt I bought him and shorts. His hair is still a mess, but his blue eyes are clearer and full of regret.

  Grant slams the door shut behind him and comes toward me like he wants to hug me, but I flinch.

  “Nadine, baby,” he says, almost pleading. “Can we talk?”

  “About what? About how you cheated on me?” I step back and put the chair between the two of us.

  “I promise you, it’s not what it looks like,” he says. “Let me explain.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I scream hoarsely. I didn’t know the phrase ‘seeing red’ meant something until now. “Explain how my friends probably knew that you were cheating on me? Or how they said that you were going to tell me, but clearly you didn’t?”

  My fists are clenched so tight my knuckles are going white. I need to grab something to force my anger in. I grab my soft makeup case and squeeze. It’s a reminder that we had our whole rehearsal dinner last night, and he acted like nothing was wrong. I’d put on my makeup in the way I knew he liked it — pink lipstick, the shade I’d worn on our first date. I’ve gone through more than one tube in the three years we’ve been together.

  “Or are you going to explain why you strung me along? Or how you said we should wait until marriage to have sex?” A realization pops into my head. “Were you only saying that because you were getting some on the side from that girl?”

  “Listen to me,” Grant yells, which takes me aback. He’s never yelled at me, and it shakes me to my core. “I just got scared, okay? We’re hardly twenty-two, and here we are, getting married? For the rest of our lives?”

  “What the hell? You proposed to me!” I throw the makeup case on the ground near his feet. Not at him, but he’s shocked enough to go red with rage.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t think you would want to get married less than a year afterward!”

  “And yet you went along with all of this? I can’t read your stupid mind, Grant. I can’t know if you want a long engagement if you don’t tell me.” I smack another thing off the table.

  This isn’t me. I don’t get angry like this, to the point of throwing things around like a crazy person. I’m usually a happy, if not reserved person. But that’s the kind of thing that happens when your whole world is rocked.

  “You
can be so fucking avoidant sometimes; you know that? That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to rock the boat. You want everything to be all tidy and happy and by the books. You don’t want us to have any conflict, ever.”

  “That’s not true!”

  I hear a few thumps on the wall joining this room to the next one. Our neighbors can hear us fighting, but I don’t care.

  “Yeah, it is.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, tugging at it. “Instead of picking fights, you just shut them down and pretend everything’s okay. It’s like you’re a nice little robot. Repressed. I didn’t even think you wanted to fuck. I figured I would quit once we got married since we’d actually have sex.”

  I start sobbing all over again, feeling like he’s just stabbed me in the chest. I don’t get it. I’ve never seen this side of Grant, ever. Who even thinks like that? That they’d have a substitute girlfriend to tide them over until their real one gives it up?

  I’ve never known him to be anything but nice to me. And honest.

  But this isn’t honest. It’s cruel.

  I should have told him I wanted to sleep with him, but like he just said, I didn’t want to rock the boat and start a fight if he didn’t like that idea. He seemed so adamant about waiting.

  I believed him when he told me why he didn’t want to push the sexual part of our relationship. He’s not particularly religious, but his family is, so the idea of waiting for marriage so we’d know we weren’t being blinded by lust or our youth wasn’t a big leap for him. I went along with it, and now I can’t remember why I did.

  But now I know the truth. He was just using me, manipulating me, and planting careful lies so he could just go cavort around with anyone he wanted, apparently. The thought makes me sick. I barely manage to keep my stomach down.

  The only upside to this situation is that I know now, and not right after our wedding. Without even talking about it, I know we’re going to cancel it. My face burns with humiliation. Everyone’s already here, probably, and they’ll probably learn why we broke up. The town is small, so everyone who wasn’t even invited will probably know too. I look so stupid, like a kid who thought she could be a grown-up.

  I can’t believe it’s all come crashing down so hard and fast. When I went to sleep last night, I dreamed of our future. He’s going to medical school, and I’m planning on going to law school after working a few years. We talked about having a bunch of kids, too. I wanted the chance to have a career and still be a young-ish mom.

  Things were going to be perfect.

  “Can I have the ring back?” he asks, after watching me sob for what feels like a century. “I can return it.”

  I stare at him, open-mouthed, then look down at my ring. It’s massive, and I’m surprised he could afford it. He says he used part of his inheritance from his grandmother to buy it, so it has to be expensive.

  I’m going to sell it. If we get any deposit money back from our vendors, somehow, I’ll take that money too and just leave this stupid town. I’ll move somewhere I can blend in.

  “No,” I snap, surprised at my own determination. “Get out.”

  “Come on, Nadine—”

  “Get out!” I storm past him and yank open the door. Some random strangers are in the hall, obviously eavesdropping. “Get the hell out of here too!”

  I slam the door in their faces and throw on the bolt.

  I can’t bring myself to take another step, so I slide down to the floor until I’m laying down on the gross carpet. I cry and cry until I don’t think I can anymore.

  Drinking champagne alone in my mom’s house, champagne that was supposed to be for the wedding, was getting a little too pathetic, even for me. Coming to this bar, which has a 3-star rating on Yelp, is a step up from that, and it’s far enough from the center of town for me to not run into anyone. It’s tucked into a residential area that no one I know lives in.

  I sit down on one of the stools, which is a little too tall for me. I’m average height, but my feet don’t reach the footrest. I sigh and swing my legs like a little kid.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asks.

  This isn’t the kind of place with a separate cocktail menu, so I ask for a rum and coke. He makes it quickly and slides it to me. It’s just strong enough to be easy to drink, but not so weak that I won’t feel anything. The bartender doesn’t bug me, thankfully, so all I have to occupy me is two guys fighting on TV. I’m not into sports or anything, but I can get behind this. I bet it would be cathartic to be able to beat the crap out of someone with their consent.

  I knock back more of my drink. I know I should be a better person and not want to fight someone but walking in on your fiancé with some other girl on the morning of your wedding will make you question basically every decision you’ve made.

  I’ve been crying for the past two weeks straight since that day. How am I tearing up yet again?

  This really and truly sucks.

  I finish my drink in another long sip and the bartender gives me another. I took a car over, so I don’t have to worry about driving. But still, I need to get myself under control. I have a flight to catch tomorrow evening and dealing with the remnants of a hangover at the airport, even though my flight is short, doesn’t sound super appealing.

  I slam down my glass a little harder than necessary.

  “Damn, Nadine. I never thought you’d be the hard-drinking, MMA fight-watching type,” a man says from over my shoulder. He has a deep voice, with a bit of a rasp to it that’s always been there.

  I tense up immediately because I know the voice. My brother’s best friend, Noah Egan. Just thinking about him makes my blood boil. Of course, he’d be here. Just my luck. He definitely knows about the wedding’s cancellation, since Andy had added him to the list, but he doesn’t give me the pitying look some of my family members and acquaintances (the few I’ve accidentally seen) have given me, at least.

  “Why are you here?” I ask, whipping around to look up at him.

  I hate myself for feeling a little flustered when I do. He’s so attractive that my distaste for him can be overridden if I look at him for too long. He’s tall, but not too tall, and has a good bone structure — almost pretty, but his square jaw and the slight bump in his nose make him lean more toward ruggedly masculine. And it’s not just his face and body that are attractive. He carries himself with a dangerous amount of confidence that I hate to love.

  So I try not to look at him at all.

  He gestures toward the TV in front of me with his beer bottle. “This is the only bar in the area that plays fights without a stupid cover charge.”

  I turn back around, hoping he’ll leave me alone, but instead, he slides onto the stool next to mine and leans his elbows on the bar.

  “I didn’t ask for company,” I say, swirling the ice in my drink around over and over again. I try not to look at his built arms. The way his t-shirt sleeve is cut makes them look mouthwatering. Not too buff, but far from scrawny.

  “You’re in my regular seat, and I want to watch the fight. You’re going to have company whether you want it or not.” He settles in his seat and swigs his beer, somehow smirking at the same time. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, and the stubble along his jaw is growing out a bit, and I want to run my hand along it.

  Ugh. What good does it do to lust after a guy who’s always been a dick to me, who definitely wouldn’t be into me like that? I mean, he hasn’t been a dick to me recently, not since high school, maybe. But he was such a tool in that five- or six-year period before high school that it made a lasting impact.

  I look up at the TV since I don’t want to use my phone. I don’t have any social media accounts anymore anyway, and I don’t have a book to read. Two guys are in the cage (or ring? I know it’s something different in mixed martial arts, but I don’t know the name.) The fight hasn’t started yet, but the announcer is introducing them both with a lot of enthusiasm.

  The two fighters go to the middle of
the ring, staring each other down, while the ref keeps them apart with his forearms. After explaining the rules briefly, the fighters touch gloves and go back to their sides of the ring. Then, the fight starts. I expect the guys to go running in and start wailing on each other, but they approach each other like boxers.

  Noah gets another beer, taking his eyes off the screen for a brief second. The bartender must know him because he hardly had to say a word. I slow down on my rum and coke since I’m starting to feel very tipsy, very fast. I’m at just the right level of intoxication to feel less awful about life. I’m not even as mad at Noah, especially since he’s leaving me alone.

  The fight sucks me in, to my surprise. I’m usually not into anything even close to violent. I don’t even watch violent movies or TV shows all that often. There’s clearly a ton of skill involved, and even though I don’t know what all the techniques are, it’s clear where one fighter has an advantage and the other doesn’t. The fighter in red shorts wrestles better, but the one in the blue punches better.

  “Sucks about your wedding,” Noah says after a long pause.

  I rest my elbow on the bar, then my forehead in my hand. “I thought you were going to be the one person to not bring it up to me.”

  “It would have felt weird if I didn’t.” He studies me in a way that makes me nervous. Not in the same way that he has in the past, which was a bad nervous, but a ‘what is he thinking about?’ nervous.

  The thing that annoys me the most about Noah is how he likes to dig into whatever flaw or problem someone happens to have. He’s like a human woodpecker, and I’m usually the wood.

  “Drinking the pain away?” he asks after another pause.