From Chapter One...

©Mira Lyn Kelly

 Winter Break

Liam

Tucked away in this crowded Vegas bar with an SUV-sized wreath strung overhead, I’ve found what I’ve been looking for.

I don’t even know her name. But for some reason, this adorable little drunk with her sad eyes, crooked bun, and preoccupation with revenge is the perfect distraction.

As a rule, I’m not big on introductions. My size sets me apart from the average Joe, but without the helmet and stick, my face alone doesn’t give me away as a Chicago Slayers hockey player. But the name Liam Diesel? Even outside Illinois, it’s occasionally enough to make the connection.

Still, there’s something about this girl that has me acting out of character, ready to throw caution to the wind and give up my name so I can get hers. Maybe find out what spurred this hard grudge against love she’s got going. If her story is worse than mine.

Not likely.

I start to introduce myself, but her index finger mushes against my lips.

“Uh-uh-uhh. Whatever your name is, Sexy Stranger has a way better ring to it. Packs more punch when I tell my ex, ‘I didn’t even ask his name.’”

It’s the kind of warning that at any other time would have me making up an excuse about a sick cat and finding another bar. Not today.

“Agreed.” I don’t sleep with drunk girls, but for the purposes of this little revenge fantasy, I play along. “You don’t want to go home and be like, ‘His name was Francis.’”

She sits straighter. “His name was Francis. And he was a stallion.” Her eyes cut to mine, narrowing a little. “Your name is Francis?”

“Nah. It’s Sexy Stranger.”

She smiles, and her face transforms from pretty into fucking gorgeous. “See, that’s why I like you.” She blinks. Wrinkles her nose. Slants an assessing look my way and lets out a gusty sigh so chock full of disappointment, I raise a brow.

“Problem?”

She nods. “I think I like you too much to use you for revenge. Feels like we’re friends. Can’t take advantage.”

Damn, there’s something about this girl. “By having sex with me?”

“Meaningless revenge sex.”

Got it.

“Okay, friend. So why are you after revenge? And on Christmas Eve, no less.”

Her smile blinks out and those too blue eyes fix on the flute of champagne already losing its bubbles. “Tale as old as time.”

Pretty sure she’s not talking about a Disney movie. “Cheating ex?”

“Nailed it in one.”

I blow out a heavy breath. “Fuck him.”

“Everybody else has.” She pushes the champagne around. “So, I pawned my engagement ring when I got here. And I’m going to put my money on the game with the worst odds.”

“You want to lose it on purpose?”

“Nah. I’m in it to win.”

She’s so confident. This I gotta hear. “Tell me.”

“Well, what are the odds that my fiancé, the guy I’ve known since birth, have been dating since high school, and thought was my best friend would have his dick in our warehouse manager’s throat the night before our wedding… or that I’d walk in on him in the act? Slim, right?”

Whoa. “Definitely play the odds.”

She takes a sip of her champagne, the light in her eyes dimmed.

“Even if I lose it all… that’ll pack a pretty good punch too.”

“It would.”

We’re quiet for a moment, and then she downs the rest of her glass, points to my bourbon, and I down it too.

At her signal, the server brings two more.

“So, what’s first… throw my ring money away on a bad bet or find another Sexy Stranger— who I will fall into bed with… and not just fast friendship?”

I rub the back of my neck. “You’re not really going to find some rando to revenge fuck, are you?”

It shouldn’t bother me. I don’t know why it does. I’m not taking her back to my room. I’ll never see her again. But watching her angle around in her seat, those sad blue eyes scanning the patrons of the bar with a scrutinizing stare, does something my gut can’t handle.

This girl deserves better than some shitty lay and an STD to remember it by.

“Yeah, I am.” She nods absently, eyes still on the crowd even though her lips are turned down at the corners. She’s no more impressed with the selection than I am. “Can’t take back all the meaningful things I gave him, but I can make them mean less.”

Fuck.

“Look, you’re beautiful. Funny. Sweet. You’re the kind of girl a decent guy would be lucky to have.” Maybe if I’d met her a month ago— No. “Why not wait for him? Give someone deserving what your fuckwit ex didn’t respect enough to hold on to.”

Folding her arms over the table in front of her, she levels me with a look that begs, Really?

“Do you seriously think… I’m ever… going to set myself up for this again?”

I sure as hell won’t. So why would I want her to?

I shake my head and sit back with a nod. “Good for you.”

“That’s right, good for me. And what about you?”

“Nope.” And more than that? “You know what I think?”

She smiles, leaning in to hear. “What?”

“I think you’re lucky. In fact, that fuckwit did you a favor.”

Her head tips and one eye narrows. “Ehhh.”

“You got out. Before it was too late. Most people aren’t so lucky.”

I know five women who weren’t. Make that four. I can’t feel sorry for Jess.

I raise a brow and lean forward, glass in hand. I’m not sure how many drinks we’ve had because they keep clearing the empties, but I’m feeling them. And they feel pretty good. Almost as good as sitting here with this pretty girl who won’t tell me her name, likes me too much to take advantage of me, and whose brush with love has been as shitty as mine.

“You made it out. Congrats. Now, the trick is not to get sucked in again.”

She sighs, looking at the ceiling. “It seems so obvious, right? But we’re going to go home and it’s all going to start again. Friends and family with their campaigns to keep us from dying alone.”

“God save us from the well-intentioned.”

“Right?”

“Right.”

She takes a slug of champagne and slumps back in her chair, blowing at a dark curl that keeps falling into her eyes. She’s cute. Such a sour little grump.

I shouldn’t care, but damn it, I really don’t like the idea of her ending up with another broken heart.

Leaning in, I brush the offending curl behind her ear. Get a little distracted by the softness of the strands and the slow rise of her eyes meeting mine. How they hold there. And this weird, almost painful ache in the center of my chest—

She blinks. “I have an idea.”

Her smile spreads, and a light fills her eyes that has me thinking whatever it is— streaking down the strip, jumping in the Bellagio fountain, or letting one of those guys staked out every five feet on the strip actually sell us tickets to a show —I’m in.

“Let’s hear it.”

Her hands come up in excited fists at her shoulders. “Yes!”

I chuckle, all the bullshit from this morning evaporating beneath the warmth of her smile.

Riffling through her purse, she comes up with a pen and then waves the cocktail napkin from her champagne at me.

“You’re going to love this!”

***

 Winter Break – a year later

Stormy

It’s. Never. Him.

I think I see him everywhere. On the sidewalk. In the market. Across a crowded lobby. Around every corner and down each concourse.

For a year, I’ve imagined our paths crossing, fate tossing us together once more.

And for a year, it hasn’t been him.

I’ve told myself to stop looking, to shut down that breath-held double take. To ignore the crazy mix of excitement, fear, and anticipation thrumming through my veins. To stop wondering what he’d say. If he’d stop, or if our eyes would meet, holding through one weighted beat before we continued on our separate ways, a secret smile curving our lips.

I’ve gotten pretty good at stifling that impulse. At least outwardly.

Maybe too good because this time, I shouldn’t have ignored the blurred figure in my periphery as I followed the exit ramp out of short-term parking at O’Hare. I shouldn’t have dismissed the tingle at the back of my neck as wishful conjuring.

I should have stopped. Looked back.

And then I should have hit the gas, gotten the hell out of there, and disappeared into Chicago’s holiday traffic.

Because this time, it’s him.

Diesel. Or whatever his real name is. The kindred spirit from Vegas last year who was looking for the same escape I was. The one who promised we’d never see each other again and then sealed it with a kiss.

The man who just followed me home.

Slinging my carry-on over my shoulder, I blink past the snowflakes clinging to my lashes.

I can’t believe it’s him, but I recognize the thick fingers plowing through a fall of dark hair and the groove digging deep between eyes I’ve dreamed of too many nights.

Long, powerful legs encased in dark jeans come into view as he rounds the car abandoned half on the curb, engine still running. Seemingly oblivious to the guy bellowing animatedly from the passenger seat, Diesel closes the distance between us.

I gulp and, like a total chicken, dart toward my building.

“Jane!”

The name I gave him a year ago cracks like thunder through the gently falling flurries and sets loose a panic-laced giggle within me as I fumble my keys. There is nothing funny about this.

It’s never supposed to be him.

What’s he doing here?

Why now?

I manage the lock and get on the far side of the security door, but before I can push it shut behind me, he’s there, eyes hard as they meet mine through the glass. His hands are on the metal bar on the other side. He could push once and he’d be through, but instead he holds steady.

“Jane, come on. You can’t hide in there forever. I’ll wait you out. But I’m not leaving until we talk.”

I didn’t see my sister’s car when I pulled up, but she could show up anytime, and if Diesel— Yes, that Diesel, the one I won’t talk about —is here when she does, she’ll start pumping him for the answers I won’t give her.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” I plead, but before the words are even out of my mouth, I know they were the wrong ones to say.

One dark brow pushes up. “So, you know I’ve got nothing better to do than wait for you.”

I do.

I’ve spent more than a few moments thinking about him these past few weeks. Wondering how he’d spend the holiday. Where he’d be.

If he’d be alone or find another—

Enough.

Frustrated with myself as much as I am him, I shove off the door with a growl.

It’s invitation enough for him to follow me up the narrow stairwell to the second floor.

I unlock the apartment and, after double-checking Misty isn’t home, give him an impatient wave inside.

He steps past me, his giant body making me blink twice. I knew he was a big guy in Vegas. Tall with broad shoulders and a built frame. But everything is larger-than-life there, so it takes seeing him step into the space of my real life to register just how big he really is.

“Diesel, what are you doing here?”

This is so bad.

He reaches for me then, and my belly dips as those long, thick fingers wrap around the strap of my bag to pull me closer.

“Too much to want to say hello to my wife? Happy anniversary, baby.” He lifts the bag from over my shoulder. “Let’s talk divorce.”

Back to Top