Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

I want all that first.

And then, yes, I want forever.

The first boarding call for our flight echoes through the terminal, and he glances at my ticket. "Coach?" he says.

"All I could get," I admit. "For that matter, all I could afford." My first-class ticket to LA had been a gift from my agent. "Smuggle a cookie to me, okay?"

"For you, anything. Although I think I can do better than that." He leaves me befuddled, then heads to the gate agent. I watch their negotiation, see the exchange of paper and my stomach leaps as I become more and more certain tha

t he's negotiating a first-class seat for me.

Two minutes later, he's back.

"First class was full," he says. "Sorry."

"Oh." I never realized how physical an emotion disappointment is. I'm heavy from the weight of it. "That's okay. I've got a book. I'll be fine."

"So I traded my ticket with the lady who had the seat next to you."

I gape at him. "You downgraded? You're moving your seat from first class to coach?"

"Considering the company, I didn't consider it downward mobility at all."

"Wow," I tease, my grin wide with happiness. "This might be love." Only after I've said the words do I realize I've broken my own rule. My cheeks heat, and I start to call them back.

But I don't get the chance.

"Sweetheart," he says, with his eyes on me and his voice heavy with meaning. "I think it just might be."

A former attorney, J. Kenner (aka Julie Kenner) is the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal, and number one international best-selling author of over seventy novels, novellas, and short stories in a variety of genres. A five-time RITA finalist, JK won the first RITA given in the category of erotic romance with her novel Claim Me, book two of her Stark trilogy.

Visit her website at http://www.jkenner.com to learn more and to connect with JK through social media!

September 8, 1805

NOTHING CAN MATCH THE beauty of a late summer wedding, when the salt air carries the warmth of the sun-heated sea over the cooling landscape, holding off the inevitable darker days to follow. Everyone gathered in the ancient church at Cloverhill agreed this was so, though the lovely bride was scarcely more than a child, and more likely to be compared to the early buds of spring than the fading leaves of September. And yet, at sixteen, she had known her charming groom half her life, and the families had long hoped they would marry someday, for so well matched were they in temperament and intellectual pursuits and their passion for the marvels of the natural world.

"I am sure his horse threw a shoe, or something of that sort," whispered Mrs. Wharton, attempting to calm the bride and her younger sisters.

"Mother, Edward would then rely on his own shoes and walk from the peninsula," said Katharine. "It must be something else, for he is impossibly reliable."

She gazed upon the small bouquet she'd gathered that morning, confident in her groom. Edward was unfailingly steady, trustworthy, and strong. The bond between them was not created by lightning, but by a slow-building fire that grew in warmth and intensity over many years.

Nestled between the flowers were small fossil shells. Though the lilies would wilt by evening, the shells, ancient and enduring, would last forever.

She believed the same was true for their love.

"The guests are restless," said Mr. Wharton, emerging from the church. "Edward's family is not here either."

Katharine fingered one of the shells, a little snail Edward found years ago, telling her such a specimen was common in the far-off Caribbean, a place he might visit one day. He did not know how the little snail shell came to Cloverhill, but he knew where it was now destined. His smile as he said those words had a most extraordinary effect on her, for it felt like all the breath had left her body.

"Are you well, daughter?" her father asked.

Still caressing the shell, she glanced at her father. "There must be a reasonable explanation."

But when the explanation finally came, it seemed anything but reasonable.

As the Wharton family stood close together, circling their expectant bride, Edward's cousin approached them through the graveyard. Dressed in formal attire, as befitted a member of the wedding party, and one who would someday be the Earl of Penfield, he nevertheless looked wretched.