AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Let’s get some of this trash cleaned up,” Ayla urged Preston. “It’s a mess back here, bubba!”
As the two of them shoveled fast food wrappers and empty water bottles into a bag, Ayla glanced up and across the backseat to watch the driver of the black SUV walk into the store. His walk was unhurried, graceful and confident. He was tall and dark. She had to assume handsome, since she could only see the back of his head. His arms bulged and rippled in all the right places, and Ayla’s pulse quickened.
Once she was satisfied that Preston’s pigsty was clean, she pushed the bag down into the trash barrel by the door and walked into the store, stopping to let the cold air conditioning work its magic.
Preston was a bundle of energy after spending the entire afternoon in the backseat, and he burst through the doors and skipped down the candy aisle.
“Walk!” Ayla commanded, and Preston’s pace slowed, albeit almost imperceptibly.
Ayla stretched and waltzed over to where Preston had disappeared down the candy aisle and toward the coolers where the soda and sports drinks were displayed.
She arrived at the intersection of the aisles just in time to see a running Preston collide with someone and bounce backwards.
Her son had turned the corner at full speed, and the poor guy he crashed into was minding his own business, having just pulled two Gatorades from the cooler.
Preston started to fall, Ayla started to shout, and the man her son had bumped into juggled his two bottles and shot a hand out to grab Preston’s forearm and stop his momentum, suspending him inches from crashing to the floor.
“There’s a good lad,” he said, as Ayla rushed up from behind. “You alright, mate?”
Words tripped over themselves coming out of Ayla’s mouth. She wanted to thank the man, apologize, and scold Preston for his carelessness, all at once.
“Preston! Thank you, I’m so sorry, I told him to slow down, he never list—”
Ayla’s voice caught in her throat.
Preston looked up at the man he’d run into like he was seeing a superhero. As Ayla suspected, he was handsome as well as being tall, dark, and muscle-bound.
He was Mick Merryweather.
Mick straightened up to his full 6-foot-3 and loosened his grip on the boys’ arm. Preston looked at his mommy and at the stranger he’d crashed into. Then back at his mother. He expected his mother to scold him, but she wasn’t saying anything. The two grownups stood there with their mouths moving, but no sounds were coming out. Preston was puzzled by their behavior, and he shuffled sideways until he was next to his mom. He reached up and placed his hand in hers.
Preston’s hand felt real enough, but Ayla gave it a squeeze just to make sure; to confirm she wasn’t dreaming. It was him.
She’d certainly dreamt of him enough to know exactly what he looked like, and to recall his voice. His hair was shot through with salt here and there now, but otherwise, he looked just the same – the same as that miraculous night he took her on that garage roof beneath the stars, amid all the neon the Las Vegas Strip had to offer…
Ayla’s pulse raced and she fought back a tremble, for Preston’s sa
ke. This was the day she’d longed for and fantasized about for so long, and especially in the past few days, but the shock of suddenly being face to face with him was almost too much. What would she say? What would she do? Would he even remember her?
What would he say? What would he do? Would she even remember him?
Mick Merryweather had been minding his own business, grabbing two bottles of Gatorade to replace everything he’d left on the mat at The Sweat Factory, when an exuberant little boy had turned the corner too quickly and collided with him. He’d bounced off and fallen back, and it was only through some sort of reflex that Mick had been able to shift one of the bottles into the crook of his elbow and snatch the boy out of the air before he tumbled to the floor. It seemed the sort of thing his own father would have done, catching him or his brother when one of them fell while trying to leap from the kitchen counter to the sofa in the next room. Mick and Frank had been hellions, more often than not sporting black eyes and split lips. It was only due, on more than one occasion, to their father’s protective instincts that they escaped permanent injury.
If, however, Mick had surprised himself with his heroism— hell, he even sounded just like his father when he spoke to the boy (‘There’s a good lad…’ How many times had Harry Merryweather said that to Frank or Mick?)— he was downright shocked when he saw the boy’s mother.
It was her. There was no mistaking it. Sure, the last time— well, the only time, he’d seen her— she’d been dressed to the nines, with perfect hair and makeup, and now she was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, with her hair piled up on top of her head. But he’d recognize her anywhere.
She’d spent enough time in his dreams, and in his fantasies, that he’d memorized all the curves of her wicked body and contours of her angelic face.
It was her. Now the only problem was whether or not she remembered him. Or if she did, if she’d even care.
She evidently had a son, so that meant she probably had a man… but he might never get another chance. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.
“Hi. I… this is awkward. I don’t know if you remember me, but I think, no— I’m sorry, I’m sure of it,” Mick muttered, trying to control his breathing and calm himself. “Yes, we met once before. You’re Mick. Mick Merryweather.” He extended his hand. “And I am?”
Ayla laughed softly. “I think you’re Mick Merryweather. Right?” Did he actually seem nervous? She couldn’t imagine a man like him being nervous about anything.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mick replied. “Sorry.” He held up a bottle of purple Gatorade to his brow. “I’ve just come from a workout. I must be delirious. Yes, my name is Mick. It would be lovely to know yours. Oh, and his,” Mick motioned to Preston. “This strapping young man who almost knocked me down. Do you play rugby? That was quite a tackle!”
