The Mind (The Reluctant Romantics #1.5) (17 page)

It wasn’t even a question as everything fell into place in the years it took to get the place going. It was simply a matter of when.

I looked on at Dallas’s babies, Grant and Annabelle, as my father read to them about the Bernstein Bears. I couldn’t believe how much those two favored their father, Dean. And I was still oddly in awe that my sister was a mother.

Things had changed so drastically.

I stared at the babies. Both of them had brilliant blue eyes and black hair. The only way I could tell they belonged to my sister was by their personalities. And Lord have mercy on us all for that. I chuckled as Grant squirmed loose of my father and came running towards me. His grin was devilish and his dimples showed as he ran into my arms, tackling me. It hadn’t taken me long to fall in love with him. I would say as long as it did his predecessor of the same name. It was love at first sight. The minute Grant Jeffrey Martin was born, I had a new purpose. Although being an aunt wasn’t what most would call a life goal, it meant more to me than anything.

“Aunt Wose, you and me sleep in de teepee tonight?” Grant asked, his chubby cheeks and sweet smell my undoing.

“Of course,” I said, picking him up and holding him close.

“Aunt Wose, I don’t want Annabelle da come,” he said directly into my ear, making me giggle at the tickle.

“Okay, buddy, I’ll make sure grandpa keeps her away.”

“Let’s go fast!” He urged me up the stairs so Anabelle couldn’t follow. I obliged, lifting him quickly up the stairs as his chubby hand nestled in my hair at the back of my neck, a habit he had formed when he was just months old. It warmed me to no end.

We sat up for hours, building our fort and playing underneath it. He told me about his day and about an incident with yogurt while I taught him the names of the bones in his arms and hand. Grant finally drifted to sleep and my mother peeked in and whispered goodnight. I lay next to him, watching his chest rise and fall.

I’d been beyond touched when my sister informed me she was naming her firstborn Grant. And although it stung at times, I couldn’t see him with any other name. He didn’t look a thing like the man I’d lost, but his beating heart reminded me of him daily. The baby had taken my entire heart over in a matter of minutes and refused to let go. And as I held him, I remembered thinking that was the kind of love I’d thought I’d lost forever. Loving my nephew the way I did reminded me that I was still capable, and though I’d suffered the worst loss imaginable, it let me know I was still there.

Watching the sweet saccharin drip from his mouth, I smiled. My Grant wouldn’t have wanted me to give up. I knew deep down that I would eventually have to try again. My thoughts drifted to the man I had just spent the night with. He was part of the reason I had cowered to my parents. I didn’t know what to think about what we’d done. He had been the first since I’d lost Grant.

With Jack, I’d managed to capture a small piece of me that I hadn’t realized still existed. The passion in which he’d taken me felt beyond good and yet the guilt I felt after leaving his bed was enough to level me. I didn’t want to be reminded of how much further my life with Grant had just drifted away with that one act.

Grant was no longer the last man that had touched me.

I closed my eyes, stifling a sob. That alone might be too much to bear. I drifted to sleep thinking of the first time Grant had ever kissed me. His strong arms braced on either side of his kneeling stance as he leaned in and pressed his soft full lips to mine. I dreamed of his tender kiss and the words that echoed throughout my body and through my thoughts daily on repeat, letting me know that what I had and lost was truly exceptional and could never be replaced.

“Did you feel that?”

I opened my eyes, hearing his voice with clarity, noting it had only been a short hour since I closed them. I pulled the covers over Grant and turned on my side to gaze out the bedroom window. I did what I always do and remembered Grant’s and my time from beginning to end. Maybe it was a sadistic ritual, but I had made him a promise and it was one I intended to keep.

His life was not in vain. He would not be forgotten. As sad as the ritual might have been, I had no intention of letting go of it. It was for me and in honor of the man that would never let me forget that at one time I was one romantic madly in love with another.

I replayed our short time together, right down to the very last time he spoke to me.

“One week, Mr. Foster. Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

“One week and forever, baby. I promise.”

He promised.

No, no one will want to hear our story anymore because it doesn’t have the ending that they want, but for Grant, I will always tell it.

****

LOOK FOR ROSE’S FULL STORY IN THE HEART, COMING MARCH 2016

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THANK
YOU...

Thank you God, for this awesome journey, for the friends I’ve made and the lessons I’ve learned.

I want to thank my hubby, who has stood by me for the last eleven years and been my constant. In a world this scary sometimes all you have to do is be there, but you do so much more and are so much more and I am so grateful. I love you, Nick.

To my Street Team the Asskickers:
Stacy, Tabatha, Cindy, Akeisha, Sophie, Julie, Paula, Susan, Melissa, Theresa, Jessica, Jess B, Gia, Sarah, Vrsha, Jessica R, Jen, Kathy, Lina, SB, Donna, Karrie, Lisa D, Rachel, Kristan, Erica, Beth, Angela, Kelli C, Sharon, Beverly, Courtney, Jessica, Jen, Stephanie, Danielle, Jules, Yamara, Vrosha, Sopie, Christin, Karrie, Paula, Tristan, Sarah-Jane, Christy B, Cathy, Theresa, Malene, Kim B, Kathryn S, Cheryl, Jessica B, Suzanne B, Donna, Alison, Letitia, Stephanie, Katy, Kathy, Darlene, Marie, Heather, Cezanne, Keanna, Melissa, SB and Sanne, thank you for all you do and for having my back. I love you ladies and I love all the fun we have.

Edee Fallon:
Thank you for not letting me skip the hard stuff. You’ve never let me down and you always lift me up. I know it’s a hard job, but I’m so glad it’s yours.

Jules:
I would put hot sauce on my ears and fight Mike Tyson for you.

To My Dear Friends:
Jules, Christine, Theresa, Ally, Erica, Edee, Irene, Stacy, Anne, Julie, Patty, Jessica X2, Heather, Jackie (MJ), Danielle, Sharon, Anne, Yams, Riann, you ladies give me a damn good reason to smile. Seriously, you women are extraordinary and I’m so lucky.

To My Family:
To say I’m blessed is a cop out, seriously your love and support especially this last month or two has been amazing. What a lucky Scott I am.

Bloggers:
I’m so grateful for you. Thank you for taking the time to do what you do and for giving my books a chance. Your love of books and your eagerness to share the books you love is really something, so thank you.

Please
take a second to read an excerpt from the amazing Stevie J. Cole's upcoming release...

A Love So Tragic

Prologue

I’m not an author, but maybe this hurt is.

You never think you'll become one of those people you hate. You think you know how you'll react in similar situations. You want to believe you are a better person than 
those 
people. 

But fate doesn't always let you be a good person. Sometimes, to end up where we're supposed to, we have to become one of those people. Heartache, guilt, insecurities—they can all make you do things you shouldn't. And regret, well, regret makes you appreciate things you may otherwise not. 

By the time you finish this story, you may very well hate me. Actually, you'll probably hate me pretty close to the beginning, but try not to look at me as one of those people, because even though I am, I'm not. And that may not make sense to you now, but maybe it will at the end. You have to take this for what it is. Wrong in every way, except one because throughout my life there has always been one part that was right, even if I let it go.  

The only way to possibly make you understand this is to start at the beginning, and even putting this story into words, nothing can pull you into my heart, there aren’t enough words to place you inside my soul. I need you to feel the magnitude of this story, of this romance, of this man. And words could never do Nicolas justice. If I could, I would let you live this, feel it, experience it the way I did, but I can't make you me. Just know that whatever you feel during the course of this story most likely isn't even a tenth of what I felt, and when you cry, it won't be as hard as I did.

Chapter 1

I watch Nicolas walk toward me and my heart sinks. He looks like he hasn't slept, and when his gaze meets mine, he doesn't smile. I can't blame him.   

"So, what do we do?" he asks, stopping several feet in front of me like he knows he can't come any closer to me—like he wants to prove to me that I'm no longer his. 

My vision blurs behind tears and all I can manage is a shrug. There are so many things I want to say to him, but I won't. He drags his hands through his dark hair, his honey-green eyes narrowing on me as he pulls his keys from his pocket and turns away. "Let's just..." he glances back at me. "Let's just go for a drive." 

I follow him to his car. Even though he should hate me, he still opens the door for me. I slide into the passenger side seat and he shuts the door. I look around inside, and it's strange knowing this is the last time I'll ever sit in here. It's funny the things that gut you in moments like this. There's a Playboy bunny sticker on his rear view mirror, I stuck that there. If I close my eyes, I can picture all the times we made love in the backseat because we had nowhere else to go when we were eighteen. I think about how I was supposed to marry him, and now I'm marrying someone else. This is no longer my life, and the thing that kills me most is that one day the life I should have had with Nicolas will be someone else's life.

****

Three years later...

"Please, Peyton." Momma pauses, struggling to take a deep breath. "Just throw it away. Honey…” She places her hand on mine. 

I intertwine my fingers with hers and fight back the tight feeling creeping up my throat.  Her skin and the whites of her eyes are a deep yellow from the jaundice. She's dying, the cancer has spread too far. And as stupid as it sounds, even though I'm twenty-seven, I never really believed she would die. I stare at her bony fingers laced between mine; the hands that braided my hair when I was a little girl, that have cared for me, wiped away tears all my life. I just cannot comprehend my life without her. If ever a person was someone’s world, she is mine, she is everything to me. I’ve been holding out hope for a miracle, but at this moment, I’m forced to take it all in. This is death. 

"Baby, please. I can't die knowing that if he finds those things—I can’t hurt Isaac by letting him think I helped you hold onto that piece of your life." She attempts to lift her head from the pillow, but lacks the strength and lays back down, closing her eyes as she squeezes my hand in a silent plea. 

"Okay, Momma," I answer, but don't move. 

"It's where,” she coughs and fidgets with the oxygen mask.  “It’s in the top of the closet." 

I hesitate before rising from the bed to walk across the hall to my old bedroom. I pull open the door and my eyes scan over the shelves, stopping on a binder and two old crumpled Adidas boxes shoved in the corner next to the blankets. My stomach knots. There's an entire relationship crammed inside those things, notes and ticket stubs and cards—things I should have let go of long ago, but couldn't. Several times a year I come lock myself in this bedroom, spends hours reading through the letters, and fall into a sobbing heap on the bed because I'm pathetic.  Dread mounts in my chest as I grab the binder. My heart bangs against my ribs and I tell myself:
Don’t open it. Throw it away. Don't look.
Unlike all the times I’ve pretended I can nonchalantly toss this part of my past away, I know I have to this time, and that makes this much worse. I sit on the floor, leaning my back against the far wall. This is the last time I can do this, this is the last time I can hide in this closet and feel him like this which means I’ll cry harder this time. Flipping to the first handwritten page, my heart jumps into my throat.  

Happy Anniversary Pretty Girl,

This may make me seem like a fucking pussy, but love does that I guess, and besides, I can just imagine the smile on your face when you read through this, so that's worth it.

Pictures are snapshots of memories, and we have tons of those to look back on. We can remember our past by looking at photos, but I want you to always be able to feel our past. Words make you feel, and I always want you to feel how much you mean to me, never question how much I love you. When we get into fights and you hate me, I want you to be able to read these words and feel how much I love you. Forever and always because there is nothing that could take my love for you away. Life is unpredictable, and I want to always be a constant in your life, no matter if I'm dead or alive. When you're old, I want your wrinkled hands to hold these letters and know that the kind of love we had is what true love stories are based on. So unbelievable that no one else would ever believe it weren't fiction. This is our love story...

This love is raw. And unforgiving. And that's just how it should be because those emotions in any good story will strip you bare and never let you go. I don't ever want to let you go.

I love you, Peyton.

Nicolas

I read that letter over and over, dwelling on the fact that I fucked it all up. I flip through pages of letters and poems, and he was right, these are feelings. 

Words: they take me back in time, pulling emotions as I read over them. These tattered pages keep my heart tethered to Nicolas, allowing me to still feel that ungodly sense of want wash over me, and then, when I let the reality set in, these letters brutally gut me. Reading them is a slow, masochistic form of suicide to my heart. They make me question my life, my decisions. These letters are the only thing I have left of Nicolas, and now I am being forced to part with them.