Still the One: A Beloved Duet Read online

  Still the One

  A Beloved Duet

  Kelly Collins

  Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Collins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To everyone who deserved a second chance. Who among us is perfect?

  Contents

  Get a free Aspen Cove book.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Thank you for reading.

  Sneak Peek into Always the One

  Need More Beloved?

  Need More Small Town Romance?

  Get a free Aspen Cove book.

  About the Author

  Get a free Aspen Cove book.

  Click here for a free Aspen Cove Novella.

  Chapter One

  Lara

  As a florist in the heart of what used to be the Wild West, Lara Williams’s phone always rang off the hook, the texts kept flying, and her emails flowed like a raging river. But for a few minutes, all was calm.

  The bells on the door jingled and Mrs. Pruitt walked inside with one hand tightly gripping her cane while the other rested on her black patent leather purse because no respectable woman would be caught wearing white after Labor Day. No doubt she’d shuffle around the perimeter and scout out the new offerings, but she’d always choose the same bloom.

  “I’ve got those lilies right here.” Lara opened the refrigerator door and pulled out the older woman’s weekly order of a dozen stargazer lilies. Mrs. Pruitt only asked for six because she was on a tight budget, but Lara never failed to give her twelve. Nothing said I love you like a dozen.

  “He always loved these flowers.” Mrs. Pruitt paid for the blooms and hugged them to her chest. “You think he’s waiting for me?”

  Mr. Pruitt had died almost three years ago. “I’m sure of it, but I’m also sure he wouldn’t want you to hurry and join him.”

  “You’re right. I can’t go until I win karaoke at least once.”

  “You keep trying. I’m sure you’ve got a win in you.” Truth was, if that was the key to the pearly gates, Mrs. Pruitt would outlive them all because Lara’s best friend Aidy and her rival Celia Burns would never give up the crown they seemed to pass between them weekly. “Tell Mr. Pruitt I said hello.”

  “I’ll tell him, but he’s not that talkative these days.” She giggled and walked out the door. It was good she could talk lightly about the loss of her husband when the first year all Lara saw was tears.

  She laid out the orders for the week. Orders that would keep her busier than a squirrel prepping for winter.

  The running joke among business owners in Beloved, Colorado was they might have to find a smaller town to escape the hustle and bustle of their lives. Was it possible for a town of less than two thousand to keep so busy?

  With its majestic views of the Rockies, Beloved had become the go-to location for Western themed weddings. The residents made folksy, rustic and down-home a cottage industry no matter what time of year.

  People flocked in from all corners of the world to see the turn of the century buildings, relics left behind from the gold and silver mining days when donkeys were the preferred mode of transportation and salt pork and hard biscuits were regular fare.

  Beloved was the perfect mix of past meets present.

  A couple from California who wanted their piece of perfection was due in soon to choose the flowers for their wedding. They had no connection to Beloved or to Colorado, but they had traveled all the way here to say I do because it was charming and memorable.

  Lara compared the rich romance of the young and in-love couple to the going nowhere relationship she had with Chuck Bowman.

  For the life of her she couldn’t find a valid reason to date him nor could she find one to avoid him. Her only excuse was that the selection of eligible bachelors was slim. More than half of the single males had to be removed out of sheer necessity because they were in diapers, in school, or had one foot in the grave.

  Thinking about Chuck made her want to swear off men altogether. He was a nice, decent, and not bad-looking guy, but he was bland—so bland. As exciting as a slice of dry white toast. He was a deadpan joke in the flesh. A meal without salt or spices. She didn’t know who to feel sorry for, him for being him, or her for seeing Chuck as her only option.

  The saying was once burned twice shy, but the reality for Lara was she’d fallen head over heels in love too early in her life and now all relationships paled in comparison.

  The door to the shop opened and the bells hanging from the knob danced and sang at the appearance of Ben Bilby. His smile could melt the panties off a girl. Too bad he batted for the other team.

  “Got your order here.” He shoved a wooden wedge under the door to hold it open and went back to his truck. It was a happy looking truck with flowers blooming from the bottom edge up to the ivy letters that spelled out Ben’s Blooms.

  With both arms filled, he moved behind the counter to place the buckets of roses and lilies on the floor.

  She never got tired of the smell of fresh blooms—or maybe it was the smell of Ben. His mixture of sandalwood and sage brought back fond memories of her youth, when summer was for picnics and the backseats of cars were for kissing.

  He rushed out and back with another load.

  “I didn’t have the Gypsophila you wanted so I substituted with Festival Star. No one but a horticulturist will know the difference.”

  “You always have my back. Thanks, Ben.” She leaned down and smelled the roses.

  Ben brought in several other buckets and placed the overflow on the floor in front of the desk before he passed her the clipboard to sign.

  He pointed to the counter where a vase of gerbera daisies sat. “Those are for you.”

  She always had a soft spot for the happy looking flowers in bold unnatural colors. They were like waking up to Christmas presents or tasting a cookie straight out of the oven.

  After she signed the invoice and set the clipboard down, she threw her arms around Ben’s neck. “Thanks, Ben. If you were single, I’d sweep you up and keep you locked away.”

  His full lips turned into a wide smile. “You’d have to fight Daniel for me.”

  Daniel was Ben’s husband and also an MMA fighter. Where Ben was all roses and baby’s breath, Daniel was bruises and brawn.

  “While you’d be worth the fight, I’m not up to an ass kicking this week.”

  “Next week then.” Ben kissed her cheek and dashed out the door.

  She leaned on the counter surrounded by buds of happiness, flowers that would be tucked into decorative vases and corsages and wedding bouquets. She’d planned her wedding a thousand times over by the time she’d reached the age of eighteen but never since. Her life was relegated to making others’ wishes come true.

  It was late fall, and she was swamped with orders. There was the Braxton-Sorenson wedding this weekend. The Beckwith-Cockburn wedding midweek. Lara praye
d the woman would keep her own last name. She wondered how he’d fared during high school with the surname Cockburn.

  While she trimmed the apricot colored roses for the bride’s bouquet, she thought back to the silliest names she’d come across in her career.

  There was a Fister, a Wacko, and a Loser, but the worst had to be the Shittles. Poor Dorothy had waited forty years for the man of her dreams, and he turned out to be a shit—well, a Shittle.

  She pulled out the foam, the ribbon, and the floral pins and went to work. She had at least a dozen arrangements to create before noon tomorrow.

  The bells on the door rang again and it was no surprise that Joseph from the town’s only grocery store was there to pick up his order. Because of the deep discount she was able to get from Ben, she often supplemented Joseph’s small floral section. Some would say she was shooting herself in the foot, but the arrangement had its perks, as proven when he plopped a butcher-wrapped package on the counter.

  “I’ve brought you some lovely lamb chops today, Lara.” Joseph O’Malley’s accent had never gone away despite being a resident of Beloved for his entire life. If she recalled correctly, it was his parents who were first-generation immigrants from Ireland. They’d crossed the ocean in the forties and come through Ellis Island to find their way to Colorado.

  “I love lamb,” she told him.

  She turned around and gathered flowers she wouldn’t use this week. There was no sense in them going to waste when someone could enjoy them. “I’ve got some irises and daisies and tea roses for you.”

  “Lovely.”

  The word rolled off his tongue like a song. She plucked a hot pink gerbera daisy from the vase Ben had given her. “Give this to Claire for me.”

  Claire was Joseph’s granddaughter. She’d barely hit five and was a little princess through and through. In fact, there wasn’t a day when the pretty young thing didn’t go about wearing her plastic tiara despite the rhinestones being long gone.

  “She loves the special flowers you send her. You’re a good lass.” He tucked the stem in his shirt pocket and gathered the rest of the blossoms into his hands. “You need a good man. One who appreciates your soft heart.”

  “You know of one?”

  His laughter filled the air. “I know a lot of lads who would find ya to be a treasure, but sadly they’re all north of ya by at least a decade or two, or south of ya by the same.”

  Lara hopped up to lean over the counter. “Tell Mary that she got a good one.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and slid back to the concrete floor.

  “It’s me who hit the jackpot with my Mary. She’s a saint, I tell ya.”

  “That I’m sure. Give her a kiss on the cheek for me, will you?”

  “I surely will.” Joseph walked out of the shop, leaving her alone to think about settling down.

  Sadly, if she stuck with Chuck, settling was what it would be.

  Chapter Two

  Grayson

  The second thought that Grayson had after he slapped the button on his alarm clock was one of amusement. Why the Santa Monica sun didn’t wake him before the urgent sound did, he could never figure. He lived in a small place made of more glass than drywall. The early morning finger-like rays reached through the blinds each day, but he never stirred.

  Like most residents of California coastal towns, he took advantage of the weather and trained at a triathlete’s pace. He managed to maintain the rigor even with the demands of his business—a tattoo parlor on the pier. That and his rather vigorous love-life made Grayson sleep like a growing teenager.

  He rose at seven, which seemed like a reasonable hour for a man who kept an odd schedule. A few of his hardcore associates insisted on getting up at four. They considered themselves the athletic elite who woke, ran for ten miles, pumped iron, then took the rest of the day at a sprint until they finished, only to start again the next day.

  Grayson didn’t roll that way. He preferred to conduct his escapades into the night, not begin them before sunrise. He generally got up, showered, slammed back a coffee and walked to the pier each morning. It had worked for him the last ten years. Why change perfection?

  It was there on the pier he’d befriended the sweet, beautiful and maybe a slight bit too young for him waitress who was now snoozing in his bed. He brewed the coffee, showered and dressed, which didn’t take long, but when he was ready to leave, she was still there.

  He tried not to be callous, but sometimes his female companions played possum. Some were better than others at pretending that they had not heard him get up, or they were simply too exhausted from the night before to wake early.

  He couldn’t blame people for wanting more than an intense couple of hours, but he wasn’t on the same page. Sometimes, when he wasn’t busy, he stopped to think about relationships, and it made his insides twist. If he closed his eyes, he could see her. Every once in while the air carried the floral scent of her perfume, and he’d remember that once, there was a girl he loved.

  He didn’t go there too often because the memories never served him well. He turned to his bed, where the sheets were untucked from the mattress and the comforter barely covered the dimples of her ass. She looked phenomenal in his bed, but she wasn’t going to remain there. He didn’t know her that well. In fact, he made it a point to never get to know them well enough to let them lock up.

  “Shana,” he said as pleasantly as he could.

  His voice came out impatient, but gentle. The last thing he needed was to develop a reputation as being an asshole.

  “Shawna,” she corrected with a slight growl.

  Grayson smiled before she lifted her head and could see him. That was a great mistake and one he would put in his arsenal. Get her name wrong and it will hasten her departure.

  “Apologies,” he lied. “I had a mouthful of coffee. Want some?”

  “What are the odds you have disposable to-go cups?” she asked sarcastically as she rose like a siren from the sea of sheets.

  She was a spectacular woman, but after seven, Grayson was all business. His ability to compartmentalize was the reason his accountant called him Grayson Green instead of Grayson Gamble.

  Shawna certainly had his number.

  “Sorry, darlin’.” He flashed his most charming smile. “Work calls.”

  “That’s right,” she purred. “Scratchers.”

  She turned around slowly and modeled her bite-worthy backside.

  “What do you think? Should I get a tramp stamp?”

  “I wouldn’t.” He glanced at his watch, contemplating being late to work. “Don’t mar that body.”

  “That attitude is bad for business, wouldn’t you say?” Her brows arched to disappear under the fringe of her bangs. “Besides, you have a sleeve and your body is mmm.”

  Trying to entice him, she turned around as if on display, but he wasn’t buying. He stood guard as she stepped into her clothes.

  After declining his offer of her own coffee, she took a sip of his instead and paused to study him after a quick kiss. There was a look of understanding in her eyes. She knew the score. He wouldn’t have to explain a thing, but at the same time, the door was left open for another night of enjoyable sex.

  Grayson ushered her out of his place and locked the door behind them. As soon as they were on the sidewalk, they parted ways.

  It was broad daylight and she was safe to see herself home. He strolled down to the shops on the pier.

  The blue ocean and its briny smell were always a marvel to him, much like the Colorado Rockies. The majesty of nature and its gifts was one of the few aspects of life that actually humbled him.

  As Grayson headed for the door of his shop, two skaters hauled up the front walk. He had opened the door for himself but had basically held it for them to enter. The two new arrivals would be put on a list.

  It was edging toward eight o’clock and all the cubicles were occupied. Opening early was odd for a tattoo shop, but they were more than that. Scratchers was becomin
g an iconic landmark and the demand justified the hours.

  “Gentlemen,” said Grayson.

  He could have been their age. He wasn’t yet thirty-one and was younger than most of his clients, but as the owner of one of Los Angeles’ premier tattoo shops, he assumed an air of maturity.

  “What can I do you for?” He nodded towards the two who had rolled into his shop moments ago. They each unfolded the art they wanted on their body.

  “How much for this?” The long-haired blonde tapped his knuckles on the counter in front of him.

  It was a simple design that wouldn’t require hours of artistic talent.

  “Here’s our pricing. I’ll put you down for the next available artist.” He looked behind him to the already filled seats at each station. “Someone will be with you soon.” He pointed to the coffee pot in the corner. “Help yourself.”

  He sat behind the front desk and pulled up the morning’s receipts. All around him the whining sounds of tattoo guns filled the air. That was the sound of success.

  At the back of the shop was his private office. He rose and strolled inside and took a seat behind the big wooden desk.

  With the flip of a switch, his computer flickered to life. There was a single email in his personal folder. It was from his mother, Helen. In all the years he’d been in California and she remained in Colorado, they hadn’t gone more than a few days without contacting each other. Most often, though, they called or sent a text.