Oughta Be a Movie: a Sugar-&-Spice romantic comedy (15 page)

“We’ll see.” Bree looked at Ben. “I’m feeling forgiveness right now.”

Ben’s mouth ticked up in a small smile, but then he was serious again. “I love you Allison Marie McKenna. And when you think I’ve earned the right, I’ll propose to you, and we can have any kind of wedding you want. We can ask Bree to put on a pageant because she’s the best, or we can go to an Elvis chapel in Vegas or rent out the Houston zoo or stand barefoot on the beach at sunset or go to some South American rainforest and give all the guests jars to collect bugs for your research—oh, God, I hope you don’t choose that one. But if that’s what you want, we’ll do it. Anything that makes you happy.”

She tried not to smile at the idea of Ben in a rainforest. “I like the beach.”

Bree piped up. “I can work with the beach.”

Ali and Ben both laughed. Then he was standing and pulling her up with him. His arms slipped around her, and his lips were on hers. One perfect kiss. When he let her breathe, she leaned back to look at him.
Words.
The words mattered. “I love you, Ben Harrison. Always have.” Then her hands were on the back of his neck as she pulled him to her and told him again with her kiss.

He let her have control for a moment. Then his hand on her back pulled her closer before he eased back. “Ah, sweetness, it doesn’t get any better than this.”

“I bet it does.” Her last word came out on a whoosh when he tossed her over his shoulder and spun around. “Ben!”

She clutched at his back as he signaled to the bellman to take care of her luggage, getting a grin and a thumbs up in reply. “Smile, Ali-Cat. I think everyone’s watching.”

Everyone. Their friends were beaming and clapping and sniffling. The check-in staff was pulling out tissues then someone set the box on the counter. The chef who had stepped out of the restaurant was nodding. The lady from the gift shop had a knowing smile, like she’d played a part in this. And the security guard was at the elevator, putting in a key to call a car express to the lobby.

“Ben, put me down.”

“Not until I’ve got you upstairs, and I’m tying you to my bed.”

“Ben!” No one heard this last exchange except the guard who didn’t seem inclined to come to her rescue. He was too busy high-fiving her abductor. As Ben stepped into the elevator, Bree’s voice carried across the lobby.

“Aww, this oughta be a movie.”

Ben hit the button to close the doors. “Already working on the sequel.”

#
fini

Thank you for sharing this crazy wedding weekend with Ali and Ben.

Sign up for my mailing list at

SusanHammondWrites.com

~
  Find out when I have a new book about to release

~
  Get an invitation to read an advance copy

~ 
Get the inside scoop on what happens when Ben proposes!

Look for a free holiday short story for mailing list subscribers.

Keep in touch on Facebook at:

Facebook.com/SusanHammondWrites

And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much I’d appreciate your review of this book on Amazon and/or Goodreads.

Wishing you moments so sweet that they…oughta be a movie,

Susan

In some ways, writing is solitary—sitting at the desk in my “green room,” lost in a world with imaginary friends, caught up in their stories, laughing and crying with them. But in fact, it takes a lot of Real Life support to have that imaginary playtime.

Many thanks to family and friends who believe in the crazy idea that I can be a writer, cheer me on, read my words, and pour the wine. You know who you are.

One of the delights of this writing and publishing journey has been discovering how generous writers are. From an online community where someone is always willing to share expertise, experience, opinion, or virtual hugs to first readers who both cheer and guide to beta readers who get the first look at the “whole thing” and point out the blips and slips. (Really? What color
are
this dude’s eyes?) Thank you everyone.

And most generous of all, my writing and critique partner, Rusty Rhoad. He inspires with his own writing…check it out. Gives unselfishly of his time to any new writer who seriously wants to improve. And nudges me back on course. Repeatedly. Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it.

And thanks to John, my own personal Happy-Ever-After, who picks up the DQ burgers without complaint when I don’t come back to Real Life soon enough to make dinner. Again.

Movie quotations were verified on IMDb, an Amazon company (formerly International Movie Database). At least verified as far as possible. Occasionally there are multiple versions of a quotation. But since Ali and Ben often adapt a quote to their conversation when they play Name That Movie, close enough was good enough.

Ali’s science tidbits were verified on a number of “respected” Interwebz sites. I’m not listing these sites because if I got it wrong, I take the blame. Some of the science is simplified and shouldn’t be taken as the “final word” on the subject.

Cover by Resplendent Media

Editing and publicity by Heat Wave Books

Unfinished:

a first love, second chance romance

(2015, Saturday Edition Books, 420 pp.)

One summer, one secret, one last chance…

Nicole Chandler was seventeen the summer she fell in love with Jake Evans, the sexy, rough-around-the-edges mechanic who came to work in her father's marine repair shop. At twenty, Jake had seen more of the dark side of life than any kid ever should, yet underneath the hard exterior was a man who protected and cared for what was his.

For
Jake
,
Nicole was a sunshine he’d never known—sweetness and innocence, feisty, brave, funny, and definitely sexy. He knew he shouldn't love her, yet she believed in him as no one ever had and made him laugh as though life might turn out okay. When the summer ended, Niki held his heart.

Then she broke it.

His secret, her misunderstanding—the mistakes they both made—sent their lives on different paths, their story unfinished. But twenty-three years later, they still remember.

Nicole, now a successful artist, is starting over. When Jake finds her again, she’s ready to believe in what they once had. Yet after years of being alone, driven by nothing more than success, he may learn to forgive; but he can’t seem to forget. And he’s damn sure never again going to feel the pain of having someone he loves and trusts walk away from him.

Young love is fragile, but with histories and exes and families, grown-up love is messy. And while building trust is hard, rebuilding what was once shattered may be impossible.

Does first love ever really get a second chance?

At Lake Annabelle

Annabelle, Texas

This year, Sunday, August 17

The stillness wrapped around her, the only sound a click as the door closed. The old familiar furniture, the same painting over the fireplace, her mother’s china still in the breakfront. But the quiet was different. Not the hold-your-breath quiet of anticipation, but a lifeless silence. A house where no one was coming home.

Nicole shook off the maudlin thoughts and dropped her bag on the kitchen island, calling up the memories of how the house had felt when she was growing up. She and her brother, Rob, with their mom and dad—both gone now—laughing and talking and eating her mom’s terrible cooking at that round table.

It was past time to sell the house since neither she nor Rob wanted to live at the lake, but she’d been dragging her feet. He’d had some painting and sprucing up done; soon a stager would come in and decide what furniture and paintings to use while the house was on the market. The rest would go to an estate sale. She’d taken the things she wanted, but Rob wanted her to walk-through one more time.

Opening the door to the empty pantry, she laughed at the memory of the night she and her best friend had hidden in there to spy on Rob and his friends in the family room having a party. But she and Beca had fallen asleep and caused quite a stir when her mother couldn’t find them and had thought they were missing. It was all Beca’s idea—it must have been. A grin spread across her face at the thought of all the mischief they’d gotten into.

Her smile stayed in place as she walked through the rest of the first floor and up the stairs to the bedrooms, going in her old room last. Sophisticated dove grey walls, a white comforter, sea green accents. Once it had been a Strawberry Shortcake room, followed by a purple princess castle. That summer when Jake had barged in here determined to tell her his story, the quilt had been a rose-and-green chintz. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she’d played with a loose thread as he talked.

You thought I would be disappointed in you, but I thought you were a hero.

Running her hand over the worn surface of the white desk beside the bed, she remembered the day he left. Sitting right here, she’d made a chain of paperclips to mark the days until they’d see each other again.

Who are you now?

Nicole turned off the light and took the attic stairs to her mom’s studio. Bare shelves, the art supplies cleared out years ago. One oversized canvas hung on the far wall, prepped and primed, almost blank. Unfinished. Really barely started. She’d left it there when everything else was moved out as if it could summon her mom back to fill in the empty spaces. She reached into her pocket for her phone and made a note to have the canvas moved to Austin.

Back downstairs, she stopped again at the breakfront, opening a drawer, then adding another note to box up the silver for her daughter. If Sara never wanted it, Nicole would sell it later. But right now she needed to get out of the house before this nostalgia tour had her tagging everything in it as “keep.”

Once outside, she started toward her car in the driveway but turned to the back of the house instead. Lake Annabelle spread out in front of her, midday sun reflecting off the white caps. The table on the terrace where she and Jake had dinner the night he told her about his father was still there, repainted, but in the exact same place. Her glance moved across the lawn to the boathouse.

Without making a conscious decision, she walked that way, pausing at the bottom of the steps to the deck and apartment, almost turning back. Instead she slowly climbed the stairs. At the apartment door, she reached to the top of the frame, feeling for the key. Right where he’d put it when he’d told her to come in if she needed something. Her fist closed around it, clutching it, and her humorless laugh echoed sadly across the deck.

It was you I needed, Jake.

Without opening the door, Nicole slipped the key back where it had waited all these years and walked over to sit at the table in the corner of the deck. So many images. Their mornings together. The first time he kissed her. That last night when she fell asleep waiting for him. They’d been so young.

Jake.

Pulling a sketchbook out of her bag, she began to draw him the way he’d looked the first time she saw him standing right here. Over twenty-three years ago now, but the memory still bright.

Do you ever think of me?

None of my earlier writing prepared me for the rush of telling a story—the one that's in my head and wants to be told. My fondest wish is that readers will laugh and cry and sigh, maybe wonder “what if…”

My writing "career" began in third grade when I wrote a story about a pioneer family and decided I'd grow up to be a novelist. The journey to those bright lights took off (Not!) when I was tapped to write the junior high gossip column for our local newspaper.

Over the years, I wrote instructional materials for accountants, exploration geophysicists, and airline pilots. One gig included writing a newsletter on raising dairy goats. (Somebody had to write it!) Returning to my small town newspaper roots, I wrote a humor column on living with teenagers. And believe me, there was never a shortage of material.

You can sign up for Susan’s newsletter at

SusanHammondWrites.com

. . . . .

This book is a work of fiction. Although some people, places, locales, and historical events in this book are real, they are used fictitiously. All other characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are creations of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise) without the express written consent of the copyright holder. Exception to this prohibition is granted for the use of short passages for the purpose of review.

© Copyright, Susan Hammond, 2016

Saturday Edition Books

. . . . .

The Woodlands, Texas