Текст книги "Until You"
Автор книги: Jeannie Moon
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Until You
Jeannie Moon
Until You
Copyright © 2015 Jeannie Moon
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-942240-33-4
“Jeannie Moon writes a sweet, sexy escape.”
~New York Times bestselling author Jill Shalvis
“Jeannie Moon is a rising star in the romance world. Don’t miss her books.”
~New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins
“Jeannie Moon always delivers a feel-good, warm-your-heart, can’t-stop-turning-the-pages story!”
~New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the moms out there who love unconditionally, sacrifice endlessly, and risk everything for their children.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for Jeannie Moon
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
This Christmas
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Until You is a book that’s been a long time in the making. I began writing it over ten years ago as a flash fiction challenge. The scene I wrote initially evolved into a very complex and beautiful love story between two people who didn’t know how much they needed each other.
And isn’t that often the way?
I didn’t know what my story needed until it landed in the very capable hands of Kelly Hunter and Jane Porter at Tule Publishing. Jane has created a haven for writers at Tule; a place where we can stretch our wings, and try new things. I will be forever grateful that she welcomed me into this community of artists, believed in my vision for this book, and gave it a home.
My editor, Kelly Hunter, has a gift for finding the heart of a book and helping a writer exploit all that is pure and beautiful in the story. Kate and David’s journey became something truly special under Kelly’s guiding hand. It’s a wonderful feeling for an author when her editor truly “gets” a book. Thank you, Kelly, for all you’ve given Until You, and to me in the process.
So, it takes a village, right?
Many thanks to my writing sisters at Tule for all your wisdom, and special thanks to my #Fab4 girls, Jennifer Gracen, Patty Blount and Jolyse Barnett. May we have long careers and continue to talk each other off those ledges. To my plotting buddies, Myra Platt, Liz Slawinski, Lisa Guilfoil, and Maggie Van Well—thank you, girls. Love you tons.
Big hugs to CTRWA, your rock; extra love to some of the best beta readers ever, Donna DeLuca, Danielle Giambrone, Jennifer Carberry and Clara Antunes.
Thank you to everyone at Tule, especially Meghan Farrell and Lindsey Stover, who make everything right in this writer’s world. Lee Hyat designs the most beautiful covers and she outdid herself with the one for this book. Endless thanks go out to BookSparks PR for getting the word out, and to my agent Stephany Evans for her friendship and guidance.
My street team, The Moonpies, are the absolute best people in Romancelandia. You have no idea how much I appreciate each and every one of you. Thank you, ladies.
Last but not least, I couldn’t do this job, and love it the way I do, without the support of my family. I’m truly blessed.
And to you, my dear reader friends, you make this fun. Thank you for joining me on this journey and I hope you enjoyed Until You. I’d love to hear what you think, so feel free to drop me a line through my website, www.jeanniemoon.com.
Chapter 1
‡
October
Kate spent her fortieth birthday in a hotel bar overlooking the Pacific Ocean, celebrating the milestone with a bottle of red wine and her divorce papers. Fiddling with the stem of the wine glass, she stared at the bulky package. The documents had arrived right before she’d left on her trip to California, and for the life of her, Kate didn’t know why she’d brought them with her. Maybe she needed a dose of reality. Maybe she needed to work up a good mad. Maybe she was using them as an excuse to feel sorry for herself. It really didn’t matter.
Her life was changing faster than she could keep up.
The events of the past ten months were a blur. Her ex-husband was going on a trip as well, taking his fiancée to Europe. Richard’s paramour was a thirty-five-year-old adjunct English professor and sometimes writer who sprinkled her casual conversations liberally with academic drivel and spouted pretense wherever she went.
The woman pushed every one of Kate’s buttons. Tall and exotic looking, Marie professed to be a literary novelist. What bullshit. Kate was the novelist. Kate was the one who, surprisingly, had over two hundred and fifty people show up for her last book signing. Though Marie what’s-her-name did do the whole intellectual artist thing well. Always in black and unimpressed by the world around her, the woman was a cliché. She walked the walk and talked the talk, but who the hell read her books?
Kate swirled the last of the wine in her glass and took a deep breath. Cliché or not, the “other woman” had forced Kate to see what a mess she’d allowed her life to become. A million best sellers wouldn’t fix that.
Biting her fingernail, Kate poured the last few drops of wine into her glass. Where did the bottle go? An expensive bottle of Shiraz was gone and she didn’t even feel like she had a good buzz. Boy, that sucked. She wanted to get drunk on her birthday and couldn’t even do that right.
Glancing at her watch, she saw she’d been sitting on the deck, outside the bar, for over four hours. That would explain why the wine hadn’t done any good. If she’d stayed inside the bar, she would have downed the bottle more quickly, but instead she lost herself in the seventy-five degree sunshine and the cool breeze off the ocean. There were people walking on the beach and a few wet-suit clad surfers in the grey-green water, and she let the scene play around in her mind. There were stories here, but then again, there were stories everywhere.
Opening her bag, she placed the leather-bound journal on the table and started to jot down ideas. She wrote notes about what she experienced, taking in the sights and sounds and smells. This would be a great place to set down one of her characters.
Characters. Her editor had been calling, her agent had been calling, and both were asking for chapters from her latest work in progress. Unfortunately, over the last few months, when the divorce started to get ugly, Kate couldn’t think about her writing. She couldn’t think of anything except how stupid she’d been.
Her recent attempts to get any words down were a joke. The plot was weak. Her research was shoddy. And the honorable, brave heroine, whom she’d written over the course of the series, became a vengeful shrew, hell-bent on punishing everyone in her path. Oh yeah, her readers would love that. But regardless of the problems Kate was facing, she had to get back to her writing. She had a contract and a career and a reputation to consider.
A lone teardrop blurred the ink on the journal page. It spoke volumes. Professionally, Kate would get a handle on things, but personally, her life was a disaster.
*
David had been watching the woman on the deck for almost half an hour.
Three times he’d started over to talk to her. Once he chickened out, reminding himself he was past the point in his life of having to find a woman in a bar. The second time, he was halfway to her when her cell phone rang. The third time, he’d gone through the open door and was about to take the final few steps toward her when she pulled a book out of her bag and started writing. It was the last time, when he was just a few feet from her, that he caught a whiff of her perfume and got a look at her up close. Brown hair, smooth skin, and she didn’t wear much makeup. Not that she needed it. She wasn’t flashy, but quietly sexy; from her tailored slacks to the soft blue sweater that allowed just a hint of cleavage to peek out, she was a refined package. Women like her never went for guys like him.
This, of course, was why his buddies had issued the challenge. Assholes.
He was about to walk out of the bar and forget the whole shittin’ bet when he saw her draw a deep breath, push her sunglasses up onto her head, and wipe at her eyes. She was crying. In most cases that would have been enough to scare him off, but the fact she might need someone changed everything. David went to her, because if nothing else, he saw an opening he could use to his advantage. Game on.
Circling her table, he saw an empty bottle and a wine glass. The woman didn’t look drunk, but he proceeded cautiously, just in case.
Still moving slowly, David took her in. Damn, she was pretty. For the first time he could see her eyes. They were hazel—not quite green, not quite brown, large and surrounded by dark, spiky lashes. She placed her book in her bag and let out a shaky breath. Her hands were steady, her demeanor calm. Obviously upset, but definitely not drunk. When she looked up and caught his gaze, David felt a whole new kind of kick in his chest. Something about this woman, about the way she looked at him, stopped him cold. When she finally broke eye contact, David regained his senses.
“Hi,” he said, willing himself to say something. What the hell was he doing? “Are you all right?”
Gazing up, her lower lip quivered, but before speaking she sucked it in and composed herself. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.” He moved around the table in her direction. End this. End this. David’s conscience screamed at him. This is a dick move. Leave her alone.
“I am. Really.” She stood and he saw she was a tiny thing, petite, but with curves in all the right places.
When she started to leave, he almost let her, but his competitive streak got the better of him and he touched her arm. The woman jerked back and David pulled his hand away, realizing he’d crossed a line.
Again, those eyes drilled into him, flustering him, so before he could stop himself, the first thing that came into his head flew out of his mouth. It wasn’t clever. It wasn’t witty.
He simply got to the point. “Please don’t go.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
Her voice was clear and soft; she wasn’t afraid, but confused. Hell, he was confused. He needed a line. But instead of something smooth and charming, he was bumbling.
“David. David Burke. I’ve been watching you for a while and I just got up the nerve to talk to you.”
The woman stared blankly. David couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or disgusted. It didn’t matter; neither would get him what he wanted. “You looked upset a few minutes ago. Can I help?”
“I don’t need your help.” Her jaw was set, her gaze steady. Initially, this woman may have seemed vulnerable, but it was obvious she was no pushover.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “There’s no harm in telling me that.” Please tell me. Or I’m out a few thousand bucks without even getting up to bat.
Her mouth curved into half a smile. “Kate Nicholls.” She paused and chewed on her lower lip. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine.” When she started to walk away again, David took his last shot.
“Would you have dinner with me?” The question shot out before he could stop himself. He wanted a drink and some sex. Dinner would mean he’d have to have a conversation, but he was desperate.
“Oh, I don’t think—” A loud crash inside the bar provoked a roar of laughter, and a huge male body stumbled outside and landed on his hands and knees. Her scowl was unmistakable. “I’ll be so happy to go home tomorrow.”
“Why is that?” He tried to ask the question as innocently as possible, but based on her reaction, he pretty much knew the answer.
“With all the idiot hockey players in and out of this hotel, it’s been like living in a frat house.”
No surprise there. The guy who’d almost face-planted on the deck was one of his teammates. Kate snarled as the kid belched with enthusiasm. Perfect. Hopefully, the rookie wouldn’t talk to him.
“Hey, Padre.” So much for luck. “How’s it goin’, man?”
Graves was an asshole. Talk about getting hosed. David was thinking he could toss the son of a bitch into the cold ocean as revenge, but the idiot was so drunk he’d sink like a stone. He turned his attention back to Kate, who nailed him with those gorgeous eyes of hers.
“Padre?” she inquired. “You’re a priest?”
“No.” His answer came out on a growl. “Padre is a nickname.”
“Nickname? Let me guess. You’re a hockey player?”
His eyes settled on his teammate, who was examining the deck closely for some reason, and then David looked back at Kate. He had nothing to lose at this point. “Will you have dinner with me anyway?”
“You’re very nice to ask, but no.”
“Please?” He smiled. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“I don’t even know you.” A grin teased the corners of her mouth and she nodded toward his teammate who was easing his way off the deck. “You could be insane, like your friend over there.”
He laughed. “We’ll tell the desk clerk that we’re leaving together. If they’re worried about you, they’ll know to find me.”
She glanced away, but he waited patiently and almost willed her to look at him. David wanted her to believe he wasn’t like his teammates, so he asked again. “Don’t make me hang out with that bunch. I’ll be scarred for life.”
A smile played on her lips and in her eyes. “Okay, dinner.” Pausing for a moment to consider him, she took out the notebook and wrote something down.
“What was that?” he asked.
Kate grinned again and looked at him. “A note,” she began. “So I remember to find myself a good psychiatrist.”
*
They ended up on Highway 1, heading toward Santa Monica. There might have been quicker ways to get there, but the winding drive along the ocean was, by far, the prettiest. Kate had rented a sporty convertible to help her deal with her birthday blues, but she handed the keys over to David. She didn’t feel drunk, but she’d consumed an entire bottle of wine by herself, and she was fairly sure she shouldn’t get behind the wheel.
Then again, the alcohol must have done something, because she was sitting in a car with a strange man heading to points unknown. It wasn’t like her in the least. And it felt great.
Apparently they were headed to a great restaurant he knew on the beach, and after an initial burst of small talk, they settled in for the drive. That gave Kate the opportunity to take him in and convince herself she hadn’t fallen into some alcohol induced, midlife delusion. This was too good. She was depressed and alone on her fortieth birthday, a landmark in any woman’s life, and out of nowhere came a gorgeous man to whisk her away for dinner on the beach. If she’d written a story like this, her editor would tell her the scenario was just too perfect and readers wouldn’t buy it. She would have been right. Kate wasn’t sure she bought it herself, but for now, she was going to slip happily into the delusion and enjoy it.
David concentrated on the road, keeping one hand on the wheel and the other hand on the stick shift between them. He looked so young. Damn. Couldn’t she focus on something else? She turned a little in the bucket seat and gazed at him. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and wavy, the ends of it curling over the collar of his shirt. His eyes, which were now covered by a pair of Ray-Ban aviators, were the same deep brown. At first glance, he looked like someone in town for business, but then Kate noticed the remnants of battle. His nose had a bump, probably from being broken, and his face was etched with tiny scars. One long, thin scar ran from his ear to his chin along his jaw line. She hadn’t noticed earlier, but his cheek sported a bruise. This man, who could have passed for an executive, was, in fact, a warrior, and it surprised Kate that the fact thrilled her more than a little.
He glanced at her and smiled when he caught her staring. “What are you looking at?”
She felt the heat rise in her face. “Just enjoying the view.”
That was a lie; she was trying to figure out why he looked so familiar. Although, there was no denying he was nice to look at.
He grinned and reddened. She’d embarrassed him? That was unexpected. She’d never have pegged him as the humble type.
“Why were you crying earlier?”
The question took her by surprise and she struggled to think of an answer, even a meaningless one. “It was nothing.”
“It must have been something,” he said.
She hated when her emotions got the better of her. It had been happening way too often lately.
David must have seen how deeply she had fallen into her own thoughts, because he cleared his throat before speaking again. “Want to talk about it? I’m the perfect person. Who am I gonna tell?”
“Are you sure you want to hear it?”
He nodded. “Why the tears?”
She drew a deep breath, preparing herself to face the truth she tried to drown in the red wine. “Today’s my birthday, and it’s a little depressing because five days ago my divorce became final and tomorrow my ex-husband leaves for Europe with his fiancée.”
“Oh, man—” He reached over and took her hand with the one he’d had on the shifter. “I’m sorry, Kate.”
“He left me ten months ago, and it was bad long before that.” She shrugged. “You’d think I’d have adjusted by now.”
“Were you married long?”
“Since I was twenty. Too young.”
He didn’t say anything, but let the silence between them comfort her. She appreciated he didn’t offer any trite platitudes or silly advice about ‘moving on’. She’d had enough of that from almost everyone she knew.
“It’s your birthday?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me which one it is?”
“It’s not polite to ask a lady her age.” Kate felt the smile pull across her face and she hoped no new wrinkles popped up.
“Sorry. I’ll assume it’s a crisis birthday then.”
“A crisis birthday?”
“Yeah, you know, a big one. Twenty-five or thirty. A birthday that confirms you’re not a kid anymore.”
“Well, I’ll give you that. I’m no kid.” That’s for sure. She wondered if he really thought she was that young. “How old are you?”
Why did she ask that? She didn’t want to know.
“I’ll be thirty in December.” He said it proudly, as if he were trying to make a point to her that age was no big deal. Kate felt a little twinge of guilt for not coming clean about her age, but why? They had no relationship. She’d never see him again, and lots of women lied about their age. He’d picked her up in a bar, what did he expect?
Kate sucked in a breath.
Oh. God. She’d never been picked up in a bar and she had no idea what he expected. He’d been a gentleman so far, but a wave of panic washed through her. She was totally unequipped for an encounter like this.
Her eyes went back to David. So taken with his face, she hadn’t really paid attention to anything else. She knew he was tall, probably about six-three, and taking a good look she could see every inch of him was lean muscle. Her eyes were drawn to the hand that held hers. His fingers were long and tapered and the skin was roughened from constant battering and use. But there was a gentleness in the way he touched her, in the way his thumb played lightly over her knuckles. Kate felt a curl of heat in her abdomen as she started to imagine how it would feel to have him touch her in more intimate places. When he moved his hand to change gears, she snapped back to reality. This was bad.
Very bad.
*
David slowed the car as he turned off the freeway, finding a place to park near the pier. Kate was fidgeting in her seat as he threw the car into gear, pressed the brake, and turned off the engine. What was she thinking about? He’d certainly gotten points with the sensitive male routine in the car, but he was having an attack of conscience. He felt bad. She was a nice woman, and times had been tough. But then he thought maybe what she needed was a night out and some great sex. It was her birthday; he’d take her out for a nice evening, get her in bed, and she’d feel like a million bucks in the morning. The rationale made perfect sense to him… and then Kate made him feel like a total shit.
“I really want to see the carousel,” she said with a smile. “It’s supposed to be beautiful. I’ve made so many trips to California, and I’ve never been here.”
He smiled in response. It was easy because she was the most sincere person he’d ever met. Her joy was completely genuine, and David felt like the scum of the earth. Once upon a time, he’d been a nice guy. Life intruded, things changed, and he’d lost track of that person somewhere along the road. But watching the happiness spread across her face, knowing he was responsible for it, was a sort of personal epiphany. The bet no longer mattered. Kate offered him redemption, even if it was temporary.
Looking at her again, there was no indication her birthday made her feel older; she was a big kid, eager and enthusiastic. “Let’s eat first, and then we’ll walk around and check things out.”
She agreed and they made a short walk to the restaurant. It was an informal place, almost a shack, and not much to look at. But even the rough tables, the votive candles held in shot glasses, and the paper placemats couldn’t take away from the romantic evening that was developing. The soft piano music playing in the background gave the place a hip ambiance that David liked. Kate took her menu, asked him if he knew what was good, and he marveled that it never occurred to her to snub her nose at the place.
She ordered Pellegrino with lime, folded her arms on the table, and grinned, her eyes sparking with life. God, she was adorable.
“Do you want wine with dinner?”
Kate shook her head. “I’ve had more than enough today.”
“Drank the whole bottle, eh?” He had to tease her a little. He couldn’t help himself.
“I never do that,” she chuckled. “But it was over several hours and it is my birthday, after all.”
“True enough.” She may have been feeling a little beat up over her divorce, but David liked the sweet, sassy personality he saw emerging.
“Okay, David, I bared my soul. Now it’s your turn.”
“What do you want to know?” He tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in olive oil.
“Tell me about hockey. How long have you been playing?”
“Professionally? This is my eighth season.”
“And before that?”
“I played at Boston College, which is where I picked up my nickname.” She leveled her gaze and leaned in. That little bit of info wasn’t going to satisfy her—she wanted details. “My freshman year I kind of kept to myself, didn’t go out much, and my teammates teased me for acting like a priest.”
Kate smiled, and nodded her understanding. “My dad went to B-C,” she said. “It’s where I should have gone.”
“Where did you go?”
“Harvard.” She smirked and broke off a piece of bread for herself. “Dad wasn’t happy.”
He chuckled. Only a person who went to school in Boston, and who understood the rivalries, could comprehend why a parent would be disappointed his child had chosen Harvard. “My father didn’t want me to go at all. He wanted me to play in Juniors in Canada. If I’d gone that route, I’d have jumped to the NHL two seasons sooner, but my mother wanted me to get an education.”
“She must be proud of you.”
“I hope so. She died when I was sixteen.” Why had he said that? He never talked about his mother, ever. But something about Kate, about the sudden softness in her expression, told him she’d understand.
“That had to be difficult for you.”
“It was. We were close and she was sick for a long time.”
“Did you get your looks from your mother?”
“I did.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“Burke is an Irish name, and you don’t look Irish.”
He felt a little twitch around his heart—it was new and unexpected. Those little details would have been lost on most women. “Her people were Italian.”
“Where did you grow up?” She stared at him with those amazing cat eyes. He was convinced she could probably see in the dark.
“A town outside Calgary.” He took a sip of his beer. “You never told me what you do.”
“I’m a teacher and… a writer.” She fiddled with her fork, almost as if she were embarrassed by the fact.
“What do you teach?” he asked.
“High school English. I’m here for a conference.”
“And what do you write?”
She paused, considering the question. “Um… I guess you could call them crime novels, suspense.”
She surprised him. She seemed so down to earth, and he always thought of novelists as having an air of mystery, or pretense, around them. “Would I have read anything you’ve written?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged and her tongue played over her lips, spreading a stray drop of olive oil.
“I am literate,” he teased.
Her eyes twinkled and she nodded. “I know.”
David tapped his finger on the edge of his glass. Maybe she did fit the bill. She sure wasn’t giving up much. David wanted to know what was cooking underneath Kate’s cool exterior—he had a feeling he’d find a lot of heat. “How many have you written?”
“A few, but you changed the subject. I want to know about the NHL.”
Again, David felt warmth spread through his chest. It was a nice change to be with a woman who wasn’t talking about the best personal trainer or the newest, hottest club. Kate was genuinely interested in him—in who he was and how he lived his life. So, he told her about his games and what it was like playing pro. He explained how the travel got to him, about his teammates and their antics, and about the injuries. He hadn’t opened up like this to anyone in a while, but Kate made it easy. She asked him questions, but her undemanding manner made him comfortable, and David was never comfortable. Something wiggled inside him, something that told him this was the way it was supposed to be with a woman.
They ordered different pasta dishes and he fed her a bite of his. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste. Then she looked in his eyes, not a coy glance—she went deep, probing. Unexpectedly, her hand came up and grazed over the bruise on his face. David felt a rush go through his body. The touch was innocent, but it upset his balance; the part of him that kept his emotions in check and his actions controlled spun and collided with a physical response that was so sudden, he felt weak.
David grasped her fingers. “Jesus,” he whispered, unable to say any more than that.
“What happened?” she asked.
Realizing she was talking about the bruise, he answered, “High stick last night in San Jose.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really.” He laced his fingers with hers and drew a deep, painful breath. The air felt thick in his lungs. “Are you finished? We could take that walk now.”
She acknowledged him without a word. David paid the check and led her out toward the beach.
