Back With You at Forty-Two (Fortysomething Singles of Virginia Beach #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

A shley

Tomorrow is my wedding day; the day I'll say yes to Ross Brynn, my future husband.

I’m making a smart choice. A safe choice. A choice I have weighed from every possible angle.

I love Ross. It’s not the reckless sort of love I had with Mr. Unnameable when I was young, dumb, and intellectually numb. That was a dangerous sort of love. The sort that broke my heart so entirely that part of it even died one day.

But having a dead part in your heart isn’t such a bad thing. Not when the part that died was the foolish part. The part that believed in a fairy tale type of love that doesn’t really exist.

Ross is going to be a dentist, which is perfect because I just earned my degree as a dental hygienist. Shortly after the wedding, we’ll fly to Louisville, Kentucky, where Ross will complete dental school, and we’ll start our lives together.

“Hellooo…” A hand waves before my face, the bright, purple manicure pulling me from my musings. “Earth to Ashley. Put your arms up, girl. Let’s get this thing on you.”

My lashes flutter as I focus on Shelly, who’s holding my Bride-to-be sash with her outstretched hands.

“There you are,” she says when my eyes meet hers. “Lift up those arms, shorty. It’s time to don your party favors.” She proceeds to slip the thing over my head as Jessica comes in with the tiara.

“Yes, girl, queen !” Jessica says as she digs the spiky clips along my scalp to make it stay. They’re wearing party favors of their own, sashes titled Bridesmaid 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.

They have crowns too, but theirs are smaller with far less diamonds, of course, because tonight is—as my bridesmaid party assures me—my night.

“Now, I know Ross doesn’t want you to drink tonight,” Jessica says, “but you can at least do one celebration shot with us.” She ushers me to a tall table with an inflatable palm tree resting in the center. A sign dangles from one of its puffy palm fronds: Reserved for the Bride-to-be and Her Beaches.

“Okay,” I say, trying my best to sound resigned. Ross has strong opinions, and since I’m more of a go-with-the-flow type of gal, I don’t mind letting him dictate aspects that he feels strongly about. Hence, the no drinking while we’re apart rule.

But what my friends don’t know is that Ross changed his mind and decided it was fine if we each had just one celebratory drink at our events, which means I get to take the shot and skip the lingering side of guilt for going against Ross’s wishes on such a momentous night.

The rather hunky bartender (I wonder when I’ll stop noticing things like that) brings the round of shots to our table personally before adding a heap of whipped cream on top of mine and holding it out for me.

“So we lose another,” the handsome guy says with a wink. “Tell me, are you handing out any party favors tonight? Say, in the form of an innocent celebration kiss?” He taps the corner of his lips.

“I know I am,” Shelly says.

“Me too,” Jessica coos.

I grin, knowing I’m about to say no but still basking in the delicious warmth of feeling desired. I haven’t been looked at in such a way since…since a time I refuse to reflect on.

I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I say, “we might not have exchanged vows yet, but I am a taken woman.”

“And he’s a lucky man,” the bartender says, lifting my hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to it.

I blush, and my bridal party lets out a collective sigh.

“You ladies enjoy your night,” he says before heading back to the bar.

Jessica stretches her arm toward the center of the table, nudging the inflatable palm to one side. “Who’s giving the toast?”

“I am,” my sister Annica cheers. We stretch our shot glasses toward the center. “To Ashley, may this be the long-lasting love she’s been searching for.”

We clink glasses. I slurp the mound of cream off the top before tipping mine back, then shudder violently. “Yeesh,” I say, giving in to yet another shiver.

The girls laugh and pull me onto the dance floor.

“Let’s dance before the food comes,” Shelly says.

As I head onto the dance floor, I feel on top of the world. I am going to get loose with my bridesmaids and enjoy the night. As we dance, I take a moment to reflect on the special friendship I have with each of them. Jessica is stylish, confident, and flirtatious. Shelly is sophisticated, passionate, and loyal to a fault. And, of course, my sister Annica has been and always will be my number one in life.

I’m not sure I see that changing after marriage. Maybe it’s a na?ve notion, but I like to think that my only sister will be my ride-or-die forever. Sisters Chantel and Lindsay, who are also part of my bridal party, have that kind of kinship, too.

I'm the baby of the group, a result of having moved up a grade in elementary. Despite that fact, I’m a pioneer among them—the first to brave the trail of matrimony, and I like that. I’ve known since I was a little girl that I wanted to get married and have a family, and now, I’m well on my way.

The night moves on, and I dance like I’ve never danced before. High on caffeine, courtesy of a few Diet Cokes, I enjoy my final evening of singlehood.

I’m considering a third Diet Coke as we make our way back to the bar when one of our favorite line-dance songs blasts over the speakers. It’s later now, the hour when they increase the volume for that perfect dance night vibe.

“This is it,” Annica yells.

“Let’s move it,” Shelly cheers.

Since Jessica is busy flirting with the bartender, I tug on her hand. "To be continued,” I tell him.

He lifts a hand and waves. “Catch you later, Jessica.”

I spin around and, in my hurry to join the others on the floor, run right into a passerby with a dizzying thud.

“Umph," I yelp, and press my smooshed cheek away from the rather rock-hard chest I ran into.

I stumble back as a pair of muscular arms steadies me in place. Whoever this guy is, he is buff . And good on his feet, having stayed upright after being Billy-goat-rammed by the bride-to-be. And, man, he smells good.

I wonder if I have a concussion.

“Sorry,” comes a masculine voice. But it’s not just any voice. Sure, the music is thumping, and Jessica is somewhere in the background asking me if I’m all right. And yeah, I did just knock my head upside the marble-strength mass of muscle before me, but still…I’m almost positive I recognize that deep, masculine voice—a voice that reaches right into my lower tummy with a tightening twist.

My pulse spikes—a hot flash in my chest as I step back and slowly lift my gaze, past the well-defined chest with also familiar-olive toned skin, past a very chiseled jaw with a dusting of devastating facial hair, and right into the eyes of a man I never thought I’d see again.

It’s him, Mr. Unnameable, the man who killed a part of my heart. An organ that plummets straight to my feet and keels over. Dead.

His name is the closest thing to an oath in my world, but it flies off my lips like a bird set free.

“Liam?”

Liam

Keep it together, Liam, keep it together.

The fact that my inner coach is speaking up is not a good thing. It means I’m in panic mode and trying hard to stay calm.

But calm, my friends, has left the building, because I’m standing face-to-face with my reason for being here tonight.

"Hey, Ashley,” I rasp, taking in the stunning sight of her. No, I’m more than just taking in the sight of her. When a man’s been deprived of oxygen, and he finally gets that blessed gasp, he inhales with greedy desperation. And so do I in this moment. Dang, she looks good. Those gorgeous brown eyes, that shiny black hair, and a figure that still hasn’t seen a day of neglect.

Easy, Liam, Coach urges.

I can't say I’m shocked to see Ashley Chen here since she's the reason I came tonight, but this isn’t the sort of “running into her” I had in mind.

Ashley, however, would look less surprised if she saw the ghost of Elvis. I lower my head to speak over the blasting beat. I’d have preferred to have this conversation at a different time in a different place, but you know what they say about beggars.

“How are you?” I inhale her subtle scent, sweet like a crisp, tangy apple.

“Uhh…” She adjusts the small crown on her head and shrugs. “Fine.” Her delicate hand slides down the sash she wears over her blouse. And though I know Ashley’s here for her bachelorette party, the sight of that phrase— Bride-to-be —toys with my mind. I don't read it as if she’s someone else's bride-to-be; I read it like she’s about to be mine.

I never thought Ashley wouldn’t belong to me, nor I to her. Yet here we are, surrounded by strangers in a moment that comes down to my one final shot.

"My ummm…my friends are on the dance floor," Ashley adds, pointing toward the group.

I’m lipreading, mostly, since she has taken a step back. I shoot a half-glance at them before fixing my gaze back on her. Please, God, let her hear me out. Let her give me a chance.

Her dark brown eyes are full of shock and…well, I can’t be sure. Longing, maybe? Desire? Unless that’s just wishful thinking.

I step closer once more and lean in. "Hey, I heard you were going to be here tonight, and I came here because I have something to tell you.” I pause, but only for a beat. I don’t want her to stop me from saying what I came to say.

“I want you to know that…losing you is the biggest regret of my life." My voice breaks from the truth of that confession. The tip of my nose grazes her silky, fragrant hair as I speak closer to her ear, not wanting her to miss a word.

"I know you’re getting married tomorrow…” The admission makes my voice shake. “If Ross is the right one for you, then I’ll…be happy for you, I really will. But if there is any doubt in that pretty head of yours…” I cup a palm around her shoulder. “If you ever spend sleepless nights like I do, wondering what could've been between us, then I'm begging you to hold off on the wedding and consider giving me a chance.”

My head spins. My pulse spikes. Every event in my life has led me to this very moment. A moment I would have seized sooner if I’d had the chance.

It might seem like a jerk move to drop this bomb the night before her wedding, but being the nice guy is what got me here to begin with. If I hadn’t been thinking of her best interest, I would never have suggested we step back from our three-year relationship.

The thing is, Ashley and I went on our first date when she was just fifteen years old. By the time she turned sixteen—Ashley in her junior year and me in my senior—we became exclusive. We were known as a power couple, in fact, staying strong until we both graduated.

During my first year of college, I was inundated with advice about the importance of dating around. I started to worry that—if Ashley never dated anyone else—she’d come to resent me one day. I addressed it after Ashley had a year of college under her belt as well. I didn’t think I was ending things; I thought I was giving her the chance to date around if she wanted. To make sure she was sure that I was, in fact, the one. I wanted to do right by her.

Talk about a misfire.

“I don't know about you,” I add, “but I don't want some what-if question haunting me for the rest of my life. What I did was stupid, and I want a chance to make it right.”

I straighten and pull back enough to look at her.

Her brow furrows, her lips get tight, and she turns her head to look decidedly away from me.

I stand there, unmoving, barely breathing, willing her to say she feels the same. To say she, too, wonders nonstop about what could have been.

It’s not the first time I’ve reached out. After the breakup, I sent texts, showed up at her work, I even reached out to her sister, Annica. It’s not that I didn’t respect her choice to split up if that’s what she really wanted; it’s that she misunderstood my reasons for taking a break. I wasn’t being selfish. I didn’t want to see other women. I was only in love with her.

I let her be, relying on the old butterfly adage, praying that she really was mine and that she’d come back to me one day.

A year ago, I gave it one more try. I sent her a handwritten letter with sentiments to rival that of the sappiest sucker in town.

Nada.

My heart wallops, hot, sloppy thumps out of beat as Ashley lowers her chin and looks down at her feet.

Oh no, this is it, isn’t it? It’s the moment I’m supposed to walk away and move on with my life.

I take a single step back. "I mean, only if you feel the same way,” I say loud enough to be heard over the music. “I don't want to sidetrack you or make you second-guess something if you're sure it’s right." It’s sort of a lie, though; that’s exactly what I want to do because I’m positive that Ross Freaking Brynn is not the right guy for her.

Ashley glances at her friends on the dance floor, down to her feet again, and then back up at me. I can’t believe I’m actually face-to-face with Ashley Chen right now, at this very moment. I want to pull her into my arms and feel her warm and snug against me.

Nostalgia, longing, love, and heartache, it’s a cocktail so strong my knees go wobbly and weak. She's the same in so many ways—the same girl I fell in love with, but she’s different, too. I'm used to reading her mind by simply gauging her expression. Yet now, as I look at her full, beautiful pout, as I sense the chaos flashing behind her brown eyes, I’m at a loss. I have no idea what she's thinking. No idea if she feels the same. No idea if I’m making a fool out of myself.

"The um…”

I step forward, anxious to hear what she has to say, but she shakes her head and dies off there. Her chin quivers, and tears well in her eyes. The sight is razor sharp and dagger deep in my chest. It’s like déjà vu, a momentous spot in our lives, and I’m making her cry yet again.

"Did you get my letter?" I blurt.

I want her to say no, she didn't get it. I want her to say that if she had gotten it, I’d be the one standing at the altar tomorrow, not Ross Freaking Brynn.

Ashley nods but says nothing. Nothing like, ‘ it made me miss you. It made me want to call you or reach out, but I was just too proud or scared or unsure.’

I stare at her, waiting for one little word of acknowledgment. Anything that says she thinks about me, too.

It doesn’t come.

The song changes, seeming to say, ‘ time’s up, pal. Move along.’

“So that's it," I lean in to say. “One strike and I’m out, huh? You’re never going to give me a second chance." I take a step back, willing Ashley to stop me, willing myself to try harder before I walk away forever.

I take another step back, and Ashley tilts her head to one side. She’s chewing her lip and spinning the ring on her pointer finger, and just like that I’m transported through time. Times when I caught her doing that very thing, and it was always when she was holding back. Trying not to say whatever balanced on the tip of her tongue.

C’mon, Ash, just say it!

“Are you good, Ashley?” Annica asks, coming up behind her before looking at me. “Hi, Liam.”

My face flushes with heat. Their whole family probably views me as the jerk who broke Ashley’s heart. “Hey, Annica.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Ashley tells her sister. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Once Annica strides away, I take a step closer to Ashley. "Do you love him?" I ask, my voice breaking once again.

Ashley pins her lips closed, and her cheeks glow red.

A desperate part of me sees this as an opening door; even if it's just a crack, I'll shoot my shot. I step even closer, cup her elbows with my hands, and ask one more time. "Are you really in love with him? Like you were with me?”

The pause is painful—a space where my desperation crashes head-on with blind, reckless hope.

“Just tell me," I urge.

At last, she lifts her chin and gives me a curt nod. "I love him, Liam, and we’re getting married tomorrow.” She steps back and looks me up and down before meeting my eyes for maybe the last time ever. “Goodbye."