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

"I see." I began collecting my belongings, trying not to look as dejected as I felt.

I capped my pen and stood to leave when Artie chuckled, low but challenging. He shook his head. A few nearby customers turned their attention to us, guessing something semi-dramatic might be afoot. I, however, had no idea what would happen. Even the many fictional scenarios I could imagine didn't give me relief in the moment. I wanted to know what this Art Cavendish guy would truly say next.

"No coffee, but I'm fond of tea--herbal, in fact," he explained, raising an eyebrow. Then, just in case I missed his intention, he pointed to the beverage counter.

Incredulous, I asked, "For real, or are you teasing me again?"

He nodded. "For real. Truth is stranger than fiction, you know." He grinned and motioned once more toward the cafe. "C'mon, we've got a second chance to write a new ending to our story. A more accurate one, I hope. Let's take it." He stood and stretched his palm out toward me.

As I took his hand, I squeezed and reveled in the actuality of the two of us connecting here and now, with the possibility of for always. It was a heady feeling. Then I said, "That's a pretty good line. You might see it again. In print."

He squeezed my hand in return. "I'd be disappointed if I didn't."

Marilyn Brant is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary women's fiction, romantic comedy, and mystery. In 2013, she was named Author of the Year by the Illinois Association of Teachers of English. She loves Sherlock Holmes, travel, music, chocolate, and all things Jane Austen. Her Austen-inspired debut novel, According to Jane, won RWA's prestigious Golden Heart(r) Award, and Buzzle.com named it one of the 100 Best Romance Novels of All Time. Marilyn's romantic women's fiction has been included in the Doubleday Book Club, Book-of-the-Month Club, Literary Guild, and Rhapsody Book Club. She's also written several romantic comedies, like On Any Given Sundae, as well as a coming-of-age mystery called The Road to You. Her latest releases are sexy contemporary romances in her Mirabelle Harbor series, set on the shores of Lake Michigan, near her home in the Chicago suburbs.

For updates, visit her website, http://www.marilynbrant.com.

"WE NEED TO TALK."

With trembling hands, Mika Montrell t

ried to hold the edges of her towel in place around her body. Her throat went dry. She tried to swallow. Tried to breathe. Tears stung her eyes as the voice resounded in her mind. His unmistakable voice.

Jabbing at her phone, she listened to the voicemail again. "We need to talk." That's all. No number. No name. But she didn't need one. She knew exactly who it was.

Her husband.

She tried to hold in the tears. Tried to keep her knees from wobbling. To remain upright. Flung back to the devastation of the past, she failed. Clinging to her towel, she slid down the wall, collapsing on the floor.

She hadn't heard the phone ring from the shower. She hadn't been prepared when she listened to the voicemail.

Now, shaking so badly, she could hardly hold onto her cellphone, could hardly read the screen as she checked the number displayed. It wasn't one she recognized, but that didn't really surprise her. Either he'd gotten a new number since the last time they'd spoke, or he was using someone else's phone, thinking she wouldn't answer if she knew it was him.

He'd been right.

A tear fell. Another. "Fuck." Mika dabbed the edge of the soft terrycloth to her face. She'd cried enough tears. Enough damn tears. It'd been three years since she left her husband, and she'd thought she was over the emotion. Apparently not. A sob escaped. Her body shook, shoulders aching with sorrow and tension. Air burned in her lungs, but her heart raced.

Gathering herself, she pushed replay on her phone and put on the speaker so she could hear his voice fill the room. We need to talk. Again ... We need to talk. Again ... We need to talk. She played the message over and over. His voice, low and thick, still did things to her. Warmed her body. Stroked along her skin. Aroused her body as only he could. Reminded her of another time.

Destroyed, she felt sucker punched in the gut, but that was ridiculous. She knew this day would come. Had expected it to come sooner. She was consumed with an intense combination of wanting him to call, to hear his voice and comforting words, and needing him to stay away. She'd had to leave him. None if it was his fault. Had never been his fault.

It was all hers.

How could she look at him after the death of their son? How could she look him in the eye and not feel an overwhelming and suffocating amount of guilt? How could she look at her husband and not be reminded of the infant son who was his spitting image--a tiny DNA replica--who'd been stolen away by sudden infant death syndrome.

Everyone had assured and reassured her it wasn't her fault. That it had been nothing she'd done and nothing she could've done. The doctors had told her, the coroner, her husband. But despite logic, how could she not blame herself? Why had she let him nap alone, and why hadn't she checked him sooner? A mother is supposed to protect her child. She hadn't. And Rye Junior--RJ--was gone.

She'd left, too. Left her home, her husband, her friends, and family. For a while, she'd even thought she'd left her mind, slipping into deep and ugly depression. Not showering or eating. Rarely getting out of bed, except to work her online job enough to pay rent for her small apartment.

Closing her eyes, Mika tilted her head against the wall. The towel wrapping her damp hair fell to the floor. She'd sat on the floor so long listening to his voice that her hair began to air dry. It'd be full of knots and a pain in the ass to comb through. She pushed the curls from her face and listened one more time to the message. She just needed to hear his tone. A small moan escaped her lips as she remembered his calls after she'd first left. A dozen or more daily, begging her--pleading with her--to come home, telling her how much he loved her, how much he needed her.

She'd never returned a single one. Not even a single reply to a text. She'd shut him out of her life, wanting to rid herself of any reminder of her son. Many days, she hadn't been sure if she wanted to survive this, but if she did, closing him out had been her only way. Eventually, the calls slowed to a few a day, then a few a week, then a few a month. Now, it'd been nearly two years since she'd heard from him.

Mika sucked in a deep breath and tried to remember her husband during happier times. To remember how she loved him once--still--and how it felt to be loved by him. For so long, she'd only been able to remember the pain and horror on his beautiful face. How his light brown eyes had been tortured and twisted in loss and agony. She forced a memory of their wedding day. A memory of his smile--warm, welcoming. Engaging.

Drawing strength from the vision, she opened her eyes and returned the call.

It only rang once. "Mika?" His voice was deep, rough. The same languid drawl she'd adored whispered in her ear. A shiver danced across her skin.