The Reluctant Heiress_A Novella Page 14

  Can I imagine my mom finding joy in seeing her husband with another woman?

  Yes—goddamnit all—I can.

  I finally answer my father’s question. “No, it doesn’t seem out of character. I… I believe you.” My voice is thick with emotion. “Does anyone else know?”

  “Only you and Nona, who had the misfortune in those early months of reminding me daily why I should stay alive.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my heart aching, too full, too confused.

  I expect a canned response along the lines of “when you’re a parent, you’ll understand,” but all he says is, “I’m sorry, Candace. So very sorry for hurting you.”

  I think of all my failed relationships, the years spent running from commitment, and most recently from my feelings for Sebastian. The meaningless sex, my broken picker that seemed stuck on asshole. And finally, the bitter irony of digging myself into a hole of anxiety and depression over… what? A single overheard conversation? A lesson in maturity I was too young to understand, that which proves the inherent, messy, humanness of life?

  Because I understand now. That life is messy and painful and lovely, and all of those facts together are what make it both perfect and quintessentially human.

  My father’s quiet voice pulls me from my existential spiral. “Please don’t let this affect your choice about Sebastian. You both deserve happiness. Frankly, I can’t imagine two people more suited to each other. Except maybe Alex and Thea.”

  I give him a watery smile, which he returns.

  Does what I’ve learned undo the pain of the past? No. Not for either of us. But I do feel… cleaner.

  Lighter.

  I wipe my face a final time. “For the record, if I’m destined to go out like Mom, I’m chaining Sebastian to the bedpost. I’ll borrow rope from Alex.”

  He winces. “What do you kids say these days? T-M-I? Too much information, right?”

  I nod, laughing, then find I can’t stop. A few moments later, my father’s bemusement turns to mirth, and eventually our laughter fades to smiles.

  “Can I stay a while?” I ask, nodding toward the television. “Watch some videos with you?”

  He blinks hard, clearing his throat. “Of course. How about the ones from that last summer?”

  My heart pulses with the old, familiar ache, but it’s less potent than usual. A wound without poison, one that even now is healing. There will always be a scar, but a scar alone is oddly comforting.

  Scars mean a life has been lived.

  I nod, grinning. “There’s a lot of shirtless-Sebastian running around in those, right?”

  My father groans. “TMI, Candace!”

  30

  cancer free.

  Such small words. Such heavy, monumental, life-changing words. It takes three weeks after my doctor delivers the news for the truth of it to fully sink in. And as it does, the last chain weighing on my heart breaks.

  I’m free.

  “I want kids,” I blurt, silencing the conversation at the table where Sebastian and I are having a mellow New Year’s Eve dinner with Nona and my dad.

  Sebastian’s fork hangs suspended halfway to his mouth. “Okay.” He clears his throat. “Shouldn’t we get married first?”

  Avoiding his eyes, I shrug and tear a dinner roll in half. It’s too late to take the words back—not that I want to. But I realize my timing could have been better. A little more private.

  Oh well. We’ve never been great at following the rules, anyway. Since Thanksgiving, we’ve been attached at the hip like lusty teens, taking advantage of Sebastian’s current hiatus and making up for lost time. We’ve given Nona her house back and moved into one of the guest suites upstairs—far away from my dad’s room.

  We haven’t talked about the next steps, where we’ll live, what I want to do for a vocation. But neither of us are in a hurry. For the first time in our respective lives, we’ve slowed down. Way, way down. No more running from the past or each other. We’re living in the moment and appreciating every day.

  Some of it is uncomfortable—exposing layers of ourselves to each other that no one has ever seen—and some of it is indescribably beautiful—falling asleep and waking up in each other’s arms, taking long walks, having quiet dinners with the family, and simply being happy.

  Some of it, too, is disastrous. Like when we caught a case of the Idiots and decided to live out our fantasy role-play in the woods. In the middle of the night. In winter. In Massachusetts. In the freaking snow. No matter what you might be imagining, it wasn’t sexy. But at least (a few days and hot baths later) it was funny.

  Thanking a cancer scare for my newfound zeal for life is the last thing I want to do, but for better or worse, it’s the truth. The small lump in my breast was a fibroadenoma, a non-cancerous tumor that’s not all that uncommon, though my doctor recommended removing it anyway. It was a simple outpatient procedure, the recovery not long, but the whole process was a stark reminder that I remain genetically at risk.

  Vera flew back out from L.A. with Alex and Thea, and Charles and Deacon returned as well. The waiting room was packed, just like Vera had said it would be. My brothers were especially affected, sober and attentive and trying hard to hide their worry. Deacon took it the hardest, even sharing with me on previously taboo topics like his desire to have a family. After assuring him that he’d find his happily ever after, I privately wished luck to whatever future woman found herself in his crosshairs.

  Sebastian’s voice brings me back to the present. “We can talk about this later. There’s no rush.” I realize he’s misinterpreted my silence for regret, which makes me smile.

  I look at him, at his beautiful face, and words tumble out with my breath. “To be honest, Bast, I don’t care if we get married.”

  “Really?” he asks skeptically.

  “Yes, really. I mean, if you want to get married, we can get married. All I ask is that it’s small. Like small. And in a few years. We might as well make sure we don’t kill each other first.”

  Sebastian’s eyes sparkle. “I think we have other methods now for dealing with our frustrations.”

  I grin. “I’ll say.”

  My dad groans, slumping in his chair with his hand over his face. Unrepentant, Sebastian and I laugh.

  Nona pipes in, her tone arch: “In case it matters, I’d like there to be a wedding.”

  My dad perks up. “Do I get a vote?”

  “Of course not,” says Nona, as Sebastian mutters, “Why not?”

  My dad grins at me—the same devilish expression mastered by all of his sons. “If you rob me of the pleasure of walking my only daughter down an aisle, I’ll haunt you forever.”

  Seeing the true sentiment and vulnerability lurking behind his smile, warm affection spreads through me. Keeping eye contact, I nod. “Deal. Not the haunting bit, but the walking.”

  Sebastian clears his throat. “I’m not sure how I feel about getting married by popular vote.”

  I throw half of my dinner roll at him. Grinning, he catches it midair and takes a bite.

  My current predicament is a welcome one, a delicious, stretching invasion as Sebastian enters me one slow inch at a time.

  “Look at me.”

  The words are punctuated by a thrust that anchors him fully inside me. Gasping, I open my eyes. Moonlight filters through the filmy curtains by the bed, giving his features an ethereal glow. A lock of hair, slightly curled, falls across his brow. Lifting my hand from his waist, I brush it back, and he dips to capture my lips in a lush kiss.

  “I’ve made a decision,” I say breathlessly.

  An adorable little frown pinches the skin between his eyebrows. “About what? It’s a little late to back out of…” He glances down and I swat his arm.

  “About what I want to do.”

  “Oh yeah?” He kisses my chin. “What’s that?”

  “I want to expand the reach of Mom’s charity, Delilah’s Cause. I’m thinking of starting free after-school a
rt programs for underprivileged kids. Boston to start, then who knows. Maybe go national. And I want to do work overseas. Travel where help is needed, and—”

  “Okay.”

  I focus on Sebastian’s wide smile. “Okay?”

  He nods. “It sounds perfect for you. For us.”

  I melt into the moment, my senses opening wide. His warm chest presses against mine, our hearts beating together. His dark eyes are full of tenderness and passion. Muscled arms cage my head, making me feel small and protected. He’s everywhere inside me, deep in my bones, in my blood and breath.

  “Make love to me, Bast,” I whisper, arching beneath him. “Give me everything.”

  His fingers whisper along my cheekbone, graze my jaw and lips. “You have it, Candy. Always.”

  His hips swirl against mine, pouring kerosene on the flame that lives between us… has flickered since we were too young to know what it meant. Whimpering in need, I clench my legs around his hips, shattering his restraint.

  And he gives it to me. Everything.

  Epilogue

  six months later

  BlueBell Farm, Maine

  A soft breeze brings the mingled scents of grass, earth, and apple blossoms across the hundred or so people seated in rows on the lawn. My steps down the petal-strewn aisle are steady, as are the beats of my heart. There’s nowhere I’d rather be—no person I’d rather be—than myself in this moment, walking toward the man I love.

  There’s a wicked glint in Sebastian’s eyes as they follow me to the exclusion of all else. His gaze tells me that no one, not even the adorable flower girl—Jonah and Meghan’s youngest granddaughter—will command his attention. Just me, the unshakable bond between our hearts, and perhaps the snug, flattering cut of my dress. From the carnal heat in his expression, I’m guessing it won’t stay on my body very long tonight, which I’m totally fine with.

  When I make it to the end of the aisle, all I want to do is run into Sebastian’s arms. But I have enough wits left to smile at my escort, Thea’s brother, Oliver, and take up position next to her best friend, Lillian. Then I look back at Sebastian, because he looks so fucking good in a tux.

  Not until Alex clears his throat in amused reprimand do Sebastian and I stop staring hungrily at each other. I grin at my brother, who offers a shaky, nervous one in return. From his position behind Alex and Oliver, Sebastian winks at me.

  The haunting and lovely music of a lone violin floats on the breeze, and we all perk to attention. The flower girl, her cherubic face rosy and grinning, completes her journey down the aisle. Then Thea appears with her father, both of them beaming.

  The second he sees his bride, Alex’s body drains of tension. A beatific smile overtakes his face and tears of emotion fill his eyes. I can’t help glancing at Sebastian again, wondering if he’s feeling what I’m feeling—the soaring rightness of true love.

  I’m not surprised to find him already looking at me. The smile on his face tells me everything I need to know. Love didn’t cease to exist just because I denied it out of fear. Love is a seed waiting for soil, water, and air.

  These days, I’m pretty handy in a garden.

  the end

  Note from the Author

  Thank you for reading The Reluctant Heiress. I hope you enjoyed this whirlwind novella and Candace’s journey to finding love, acceptance, and herself. Oh, and Sebastian. Drool. Some of you have been waiting for this a long time—thanks for hanging in there!

  Believe it or not, I started writing The Reluctant Heiress shortly after finishing work on The Reluctant Socialite. My initial plan was to publish both within months of each other. What’s my excuse? In a nutshell, life happens. More specifically, I hit an emotional wall when I realized to do Candace justice, I needed to write about breast cancer.

  The topic is a painful one for me. I’ve lost people, one of my sisters among them. I’ve also watched warrior-women fight and overcome this terrible affliction. I found it incredibly tricky to navigate the line between my emotional response and the purity of the love story. Frankly, the first draft was sad. Really, really freaking sad. S-A-D.

  So I cut, rewrote, cut some more, and ended up with what you have in your hands—a story about a woman who (like most of us) has some hangups and unhealed heart-wounds, and finds the courage to let it all hang out on the road to happiness.

  All my love,

  LM

  Turn the page for an exclusive excerpt of The Muse, available now on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited!

  The Muse

  1. aesthetics

  The three flights of stairs before me might as well be Everest, only instead of snow and rocks barring my way, it’s students loitering before their first class of the quarter.

  Like them, I’m late. Unlike them, I hate being late. Especially today, as my class is a thousand times more important than whatever introductory English course these fresh-faced undergrads are too lazy to reach on time.

  For starters, I’m not a student. At least not at the moment. I’m supposed to be assistant teaching a small group of English majors in a classroom that still, after two flights of stairs, seems to be a continent away.

  On the plateau before my final ascension, I’m confronted by a group hogging the space. They’re talking and laughing loudly, unmindful of those of us who actually give a shit about academics.

  “Excuse me, please!”

  Despite my lofty graduate-student status, no one bothers moving. I’m forced to dive through them like I’m spelunking instead of mountain climbing. Not an uncommon occurrence, unfortunately. I blame my mother, who bestowed upon me her diminutive stature, pale blonde hair, and perpetually fey features.

  A glance at my watch tells me I have less than a minute until I’m going to make a terrible first impression on the professor.

  I break into a run, messenger bag bouncing against my hip as I dart up the final staircase and down a rapidly emptying hallway. Ignoring the twinge in my bad knee, I skid to a stop before the desired door and yank it open.

  Thank God.

  Pre-class antics are still taking place. Students are chatting, slapping notebooks and pencils on desks, fiddling with smartphones, or surreptitiously slurping coffee and munching breakfast bars.

  A glance toward the head of the room gives me my first look at Professor James S. Beckett, who was supposed to be at the faculty luncheon yesterday but never showed. On paper he’s scary as hell: acclaimed poet, award-winning, New York Times Bestselling author of crime fiction, and newly appointed Director of the Creative Writing Program.

  Thanks to borderline-obsessive Google searching, I know what he looks like. But all I can see right now is longish brown hair tousled to the kind of accidental perfection normally not seen out of magazine spreads. His face is downturned, eyes on the open notebook on his desk. He writes furiously, the movements harsh and slashing. Left-handed.

  As I walk closer, I have an unhealthy urge to snatch the notebook away and read it.

  “Professor Beckett?” I ask breathlessly.

  He grunts, not looking up. A glance back at the class shows me faces angled toward us in curiosity. Some are familiar from previous courses, and I trade a few smiles.

  “Are you going to talk or just stand there?”

  The rude question is made irritatingly musical by a smooth British accent. My head whips back around, a flush rising to my face.

  “I’m sorry?” I squeak, then clear my throat. “I’m Iris Eliot. Your TA.”

  The pen finally stops moving—it’s not a slow fading of mind-body transfer but a savage stop. His head comes up, vivid green eyes narrowing on my face. I stop breathing for a few moments, feeling like an insect under a pin. The dissection of my person lasts long enough that I hear students begin to whisper.

  Then, with no shift in expression, he glances over my shoulder toward the wall clock. “You’re late,” he says sharply, and stands with a screech of wooden chair legs to address the class.

  Still frozen like a brai
nless golem beside his desk, I watch him similarly dissect the fifteen faces seated before him.

  “If you’re here, it means you want to be writers. Maybe you want to teach, too, but this class isn’t about teaching. It’s about writing.”

  Stalking around the desk, he leans against it to cross arms over his sweater-clad chest. After another sweep of his gaze across the classroom, he continues, “If even the smallest part of you is unsure about your identity as a writer, pack up your things now.” He points at a student in the front row, a mousy girl not more than twenty-one, with thick glasses and lustrous dark hair. “Are you a writer?”

  She turns beet red, mouth opening soundlessly. Finally, she gasps, “Yes.”

  Beckett nods, gaze swerving to the back of the room. “How about you? Yes, you, the young man with gum in his mouth, a bad shave, and greasy hair.”

  I wince, my eyes finding the shocked student’s face. A wad of white gum is stuck to his bottom molars, visible inside his open mouth.

  “Uhh—” he starts.

  “Nope,” snaps Beckett. “Get out.”

  The student flushes. “I’m an English major—”

  “Creative Writing focus?” grates Beckett.

  “Uhh, no—”

  “Out!”

  The command snaps like a whip, and a second later the student gathers his belongings and rushes out the door. I stare after him, then turn to glare at Professor Beckett. If there’s one type of person I truly loathe, it’s a bully.

  I’m so incensed, I don’t care that he’s already looking at me, brows raised in inquiry. When I recognize the glint in his eyes as amusement, I lose my shit.

  “You can’t do that!”

  His lips curl, but I hesitate to call it a smile. A snarl, more like. “Oh, can’t I? Are you a writer, Iris Eliot?”

  “Yes,” I snap.

  Satisfaction flares in his eyes. “There,” he says, jerking a thumb in my direction as he addresses the class. “That is the response of a writer. How about you—third row. Yes, you. Are you a writer?”