Stories of Chance Romance [with 3 new stories] Read online

  Stories of Chance Romance

  by

  BC Deeks

  Roxy Boroughs

  Victoria Chatham

  This ebook is licensed for your personal reading enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Publisher: Baucis & Philemon

  Editor: WriteAdvice Press

  Cover Design: WriteAdvice Press

  Layout: WriteAdvice Press

  ISBN: 978-0-9878918-2-2

  First Edition ©2012 Roxy Boroughs/ Donna Tunney and Brenda M. Collins

  Second Edition ©2014 Donna Tunney, Brenda M. Collins, Victoria Chatham [3 added stories]

  All rights reserved

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Three women—desperate to do something about breast cancer; one suffered loss, one survived, and one endures. Together, they are trying to beat breast cancer—one book at a time! All authors’ profits from the sale of STORIES OF CHANCE ROMANCE are donated to advance the treatment of breast cancer.

  What readers are saying about STORIES OF CHANCE ROMANCE:

  “These stories are not only delightful but make you realize how important friendships are. These ladies are contributing all proceeds to help us create a future without breast cancer and were inspired by the breast cancer journey of friends and others.”

  “Eleven short and sweet romantic chance encounters that leaves a reader wanting to know, ‘What if’? What if they did meet this way? What if they found a way to make those few moments turn into a lifetime? The possibilities are endless. The authors did a lovely job of giving the reader just enough to satisfy and leave us wanting more.”

  “Who doesn't go for a nice, sweet romance with a happy ending? How about … romances with happy endings? This is a collection that is simple to read and basically clean. No sex scenes, and no profanity (at least that I remember). Each story is just long enough to whet your appetite for more. … The writing style was simple and sweet.”

  DEDICATION

  Here’s to finding love in any place, at any time. This collection of short stories of chance romance reflect the hope that comes with the first bloom of romance, whether you find it in your youth, midlife, or the twilight years.

  Like so many woman, we’ve been closely and personally touched by this disease. Roxy was diagnosed and successfully treated in 2010, and Brenda lost her very dear friend, Mary Beggan, to breast cancer. Vickie continues her journey as we release this second edition.

  We dedicate Stories of Chance Romance to all the women who face breast cancer and to the teams of family, friends and medical professionals who support them on their journey.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  DEDICATION

  A Class of His Own

  Stirring the Pot

  A Witch’s Charm

  Never a Bride

  A Trip Not Taken

  The Gift

  Love Magic

  Cowboy to the Rescue

  A Little Patch of Green

  Fuel for Love

  Picking Up the Pieces

  A Special Order

  The Best is Yet To Be

  Time and Time Again

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  BC Deeks

  Roxy Boroughs

  Victoria Chatham

  BONUS EXCERPTS

  The Holly & The Ivy

  Crazy for Cowboy

  A CLASS OF HIS OWN

  Gina headed to the Big Ridge High gymnasium, thrilled to find herself back in Montana, and at her old alma mater, ten years after graduating. Amidst the bobbing helium balloons and dim lighting, she could still make out the sign welcoming everyone to the reunion.

  Anticipation tickled her insides. Thanks to email, she’d kept in touch with many of her old buddies and couldn’t wait to see them again. Luanne, Conner, and Kirstin—the four of them had stuck together like honey on bread—done projects, endured gym class, and dreamed of a future when they’d grow out of their awkwardness.

  And Gina had. Braces off, she’d opted for laser surgery and pitched the glasses, and her beanpole body finally had some curves. She’d been on her share of dates—even had a marriage proposal—but hadn’t found Mr. Right. In spite of all the years that had passed, she still measured men by her high school crush.

  Adam Reinheart.

  He sure had her heart.

  Two years older, he’d been unobtainable at the time—tall and tanned, with curly brown hair, and boyish dimples that made him irresistible to the girls.

  And he had a bright future. His father, who owned one of the local gas stations, hoped Adam would attend a prominent university.

  Would she still feel the same magic when she saw him?

  Someone tapped Gina’s shoulder and she twirled around. Ten years hadn’t changed Kirstin one bit. She still had the same mischievous eyes, and let go with the same contagious laugh as the two hugged.

  Quickly, they caught up on the intervening years—Kirstin’s two children and Gina’s small catering business.

  “Who’s all here?”

  “The whole gang,” Kirstin told her. “Luanne. . .and Conner. You should see him now—just back from a tour of duty as a medic.”

  “How about. . .Adam?”

  “Reinheart?”

  Gina’s shoulders slumped when Kirstin frowned. “He didn’t come?”

  “Oh, he’s here all right. Follow me.” Kirstin led her across the dance floor, as Say My Name by Destiny’s Child segued into Breathe by Faith Hill.

  Through the parting crowd, she saw him—looking about as scrumptious as a man could. Maybe he had a little less hair on top but the sight of him still made Gina’s heart do a flip.

  “Adam,” Kirstin yelled over the music. “Do you remember Gina?”

  “I sure don’t.” Adam’s gaze wandered over Gina’s orchid-colored halter dress. A slow smile spread across his lips.

  Having made the introductions, Kirstin turned to leave. Gina reached for her, nervous to be left alone with her teenage idol.

  But Kirstin just winked. “Three’s a crowd,” she said, before disappearing into the dancing throng.

  Squelching her nerves, Gina looked up at Adam and willed herself to speak. “The last time we met, you were heading off to university.”

  “I did a year.” He gave a lazy shrug. “Why sweat it? I’ll inherit the gas station one day.” His eyes made another sweep of her dress.

  Gina was starting to wish she’d worn a sweater. She crossed her arms over her chest. “So, you’re working there now?”

  He laughed as though the idea was absurd.

  “How do you spend your days then?”

  Another shrug. “I hang out. Watch TV.”

  Gina’s lips quivered, her smile cracked. She was proud of her achievements, her work ethic. What had Adam accomplished? Was this the man she’d wasted so much time dreaming about?

  “So, Jenny,” he said, grabbing her arm with a clammy hand. “Wanna dance?”

  She shook him off with a quick backward step. “The name’s Gina. And no thanks.”

  Desperate for air, she fought her way to the exit. One moment, she was weaving through bodies. The next, she was spun around, locked in a man’s embrace.

  About to protest, she looked up, and into, the kindest eyes sh
e’d ever known.

  “Conner?”

  He laughed. “You recognized me.”

  “Hardly,” she admitted. Connor had always seemed frail as a teen. Not anymore. This man was solid, his biceps firm. When he smiled, it lit up the room.

  “How are you enjoying the reunion?”

  Gina shook her head. “It’s. . .”

  What could she say? Different than I expected?

  “It’s been an eye-opener,” she told him, finally. “How about you?”

  He took her hands in his. “Seeing you again has made my evening.”

  Her cheeks heated. Was her old pal flirting with her? “You were always a good friend, Conner.”

  “I wanted to be more than that.”

  How had she overlooked him in high school? He was smart, caring and, through the passing years, had acquired the kind of confidence that made a man truly attractive.

  “Gina, would you like to dance?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Three songs later, he held her tight, and whispered in her ear. “Great reunion, don’t you think?”

  “The best,” she murmured, right before he kissed her.

  *~*~*

  STIRRING THE POT

  Kenley Barrett stood across the street from the Homefront Community Kitchen, questioning her sanity.

  Since starting Masque Cosmetics four years ago, she had devoted herself to the company. Her business was thriving, but her social life was as exciting as Robinson Crusoe’s. At least if she were stranded on a deserted island she’d have an excuse. Kenley would be thirty-two by the end of the week and was beginning to wonder if she’d ever meet her ‘guy Friday’. She certainly wouldn’t at work. There, she was surrounded by other women. The few men who were on staff enjoyed wearing Masque Cosmetics as much as they enjoyed selling them.

  Now that the company was on track, Kenley needed to get a life—a soul mate, a dog even—anything that would mean something. It was time to break the routine; give back to the community and to herself. But was the Homefront Community Kitchen the answer?

  She glanced across the street at a cluster of shabby-looking men standing at the entrance to the building. Streams of cigarette smoke spiraled over several heads.

  Steadying her resolve, she marched toward the group, her gaze locked on her goal—the door. It swung open before her.

  “Can I help you?” She looked up into a pair of chocolate brown eyes. A faint stubble defined, rather than hid, the man’s strong jaw.

  “No, thanks. I’m just here to volunteer,” she replied, brushing past him. “I’m sure I can find the person in charge.”

  “The volunteer supervisor is at the stove. I can introduce you.”

  Her first instinct was to flinch as the homeless man reached up to lead her in, but the guy was being polite and smelled more musky than musty.

  Kenley followed the man into the kitchen where a white-haired woman, well into her twilight years, was stirring a huge, steaming cauldron. Wiry tendrils escaped from under her classic chef’s hat.

  “Martha, this is the new volunteer, Mrs.—?” He trailed off and queried Kenley with raised eyebrows.

  “Ms Kenley Barrett.”

  Martha turned away from the stove and, with hands on hips, looked Kenley over. “Well, missy, you sure aren’t dressed for this here job. Eh, Trey?”

  Kenley glanced from the man down to her white linen blouse, neatly tucked into her designer jeans. “I was told to dress casually.” She caught a glimpse of the grin on Trey’s face as he yanked an apron off a nearby hook and tossed it to her.

  “Better put this on. That blouse is worth more than this whole building.”

  Martha handed Kenley a wooden spoon and nodded towards the soup. “You finish here. I have to see to a delivery,” the older woman told her and hustled out the back door, her chef’s hat flapping with every step.

  Kenley peered dubiously into the pot. On the nights she dined at home, she ordered take out. Soup was something that came in small, disposable containers.

  She pondered the ingredients on the rack—baking powder, cayenne pepper, ginger. Her gaze alternated between the pot and the spices until, decisively, she measured out equal portions of each and threw them into the soup. She added a pinch of salt and stirred vigorously.

  She heard a chuckle and glanced around the kitchen. Trey was lounging against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other. “Ever made soup before?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she lied. “Should you be in the kitchen?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  She might have taken the comment as an insult, if an appealing grin hadn’t followed his words.

  He grabbed a dishcloth from the counter and walked over to where she stood. “Why don’t we try something else?” Trey reached for her hand, cupping it as he placed the soggy cloth in her palm. “You can wipe tables.” The inflection of his voice was caught somewhere between a question and a suggestion. Without waiting for a reply, he ushered her out of the kitchen.

  Kenley looked around the dining area – although ‘dining’ was far too sophisticated a word to use given the setting. There were a dozen or more mismatched tables surrounded by equally incompatible chairs.

  The room’s earthy scent crawled over Kenley’s skin. Seated in every nook and cranny were the kind of people she’d noticed on street corners, begging for money—shabby creatures, their dull eyes staring at the ground. But here, those same people held their heads high; they talked to one another; they even smiled. Especially at Trey.

  Wiping the nearest table, Kenley’s gaze followed him as he drifted from group to group. He quieted a fussy baby so her mother could eat; he winked at an elderly man who was clearly enamored with the wrinkled lady beside him.

  Kenley puzzled over the ironies of life. Trey had nothing, but was calmly and happily mingling with the steady stream of people through the door. She, on the other hand, was totally stressed out, obsessed with her business, but felt her life had no substance.

  By the time the supper crowd thinned, Kenley was exhausted. Her shirt was ruined—a kaleidoscope of splattered food and patches of perspiration forming an eternal reminder of the day. She reached for her makeup in a vain effort to freshen her appearance. With lipstick and compact in hand, she caught the scrutiny of a young girl, about thirteen or fourteen years old, with stringy, blond hair and sallow skin. When their eyes locked, the girl dropped her head, curtaining her face with her bangs.

  Moving toward the young woman, Kenley addressed her softly. “If I had your eyes, I sure wouldn’t hide them.”

  The girl shrugged without looking up. Kenley slid into the seat across from her. “All you need is a touch of lipstick and you’d be a knockout.”

  Kenley gently raised the girl’s chin with her fingertips. She smoothed her own lipstick over the teen’s thin, dry lips, then sat back to critically assess her handiwork. “Gorgeous.” She turned her compact so the girl could enjoy the end result as well.

  A shy smile bloomed across the tinted lips and spilled into the girl’s incredible green eyes. She stroked the engraved compact and then passed it back.

  Kenley shook her head. “No, you keep it—for when you need a touch-up.”

  Pocketing the treasure, the girl slipped away from the table. Kenley smiled, pushed up from her seat and collided with a firm, broad chest.

  “She really needs to feel special. Thanks.”

  Glancing around, Kenley realized that she and Trey were alone. She gulped. “Are we the last ones?”

  “Yeah, the end of a long day.”

  “But, who locks up? Is there a security guard?”

  He chuckled. “Like there’s something worth stealing in here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring.

  “They left you with the key?”

  “I am ‘they’. It’s my building.”

  Kenley tried not to look shocked, but failed.

  Trey explained. “I got a little wind
fall from an old uncle and decided to invest in real estate. I bought this building and set up the soup kitchen.”

  At a loss for an appropriate response, Kenley nodded. “A wise investment.”

  He laughed again. “My uncle was eccentric—he spent a lot of years on the street. I thought he’d want me to contribute to his world.” Trey reached past her and flicked off the lights of the room. “Will you come back?”

  “Yes,” she said, surprising even herself.

  His hand slid down her back and loosened the knot of her apron. “Would you like to grab some dinner with me?”

  Dinner? Was the man actually asking her out? Kenley glanced down at her soiled blouse and fingered her disheveled hair. Did she have time to run home and change? Should she ask for a rain check? Would Robinson Crusoe?

  Kenley smiled up at Trey. “I’d love to. Something other than soup though, okay?”

  *~*~*

  A WITCH’S CHARM

  Willa Bryant jammed the long-handled scraper against the edge of the candle wax at her feet with enough force to pop it into the air like a shapeless jack-in-the-box.

  “Agatha Westmore, how could you leave me with this mess? I have to leave early today to get ready for my date,” Willa muttered.

  Talking to herself was one of the negatives of being the sole employee at ‘The School’. The other was that there was no one to go for a drink with after work, or chat with over lunch, or even squabble over who had to do the grunt work, like cleanup duty.

  She flicked her gaze up at the round aluminum clock above the gymnasium door. Noon. The kids’ Halloween party was scheduled for two so she still had time.

  She spotted another multi-colored wax slab and, with the skill of a short-order cook, she slid the scraper underneath, flipped it up in the air and tossed it into the garbage bin. She took a moment to lean on her scrapper and watch the black and orange party decorations that were swaying in the slight fall breeze slipping in through the side door she’d wedged open with a rock.