Second Chance at Forever

Excerpt:
Chapter One


Angie Detmer had known her recovery from the depths of despair would be a difficult one. She'd assumed, however, that the stumbling block would be something a bit more challenging than a double mattress.

She puffed and groaned her way backward up the stairs, dragging the floppy mattress one step at a time. Every fourth step or so she cursed Jazmine for not telling her the apartment was on the third floor, and herself for never asking.

Of course, at the time, she hadn't much cared where the apartment was. She still didn't care, except that she had no one to help her move in. Jazz was out of town. Her other old friends, the Bedrosians, had given her a job, so she wouldn't ask them to give her manual labor, too. Besides, they had to run the shop. And she knew no one else in D.C.

Loneliness would have overwhelmed her if she hadn't already been steeped in it. She paused at the second floor landing and dragged her arm across her forehead, wishing she had something to drink.

As if on cue, the two apartment doors on the second floor opened, and twin little old ladies stepped out. One carried a tray bearing a pitcher of lemonade, complete with fresh lemon slices, and a glass. The other carried a plate of chocolate chip cookies. They wore matching housecoats, one with flowers, and the other with stripes. Each one beamed at her from beneath a full head of snowy hair.

"Hello, dear," the one with the lemonade said. "Flossie and I thought you might like a snack."

"Yes, it's awfully hot today," Flossie added. "Myrtle and I don't want you to overdo."

Grateful for the excuse to take a break, Angie leaned the mattress against the wall and dusted her hands on her jeans.

"Thank you," she said, stepping forward and lifting a full glass off the tray. Aware of the ladies' watchful stares, she took a tentative sip. The beverage was tart and sweet but not too much of either. Her taste buds had been sleeping for the past few months, but the lemonade tasted like ambrosia. Suddenly aware of her thirst, she gulped it down. Flossie giggled.

"Wonderful! Here, dear, take a cookie." She offered the tray. The cookies were melt-in-your-mouth perfect. Angie ate two, noting how physical activity revved the appetite.

"Thanks, ladies. I need to keep moving if I'm going to get this done before dark." She renewed her grip on the mattress, then paused. "How rude of me." She dropped the mattress again. "I'm Angie Detmer. I guess I got so focused on my task that I didn't think." She held her hands awkwardly, aware of the film of dust on them. The ladies beamed brighter.

"Oh, we know who you are, dear," Flossie said. Myrtle nodded.

"Yes, Jazmine told us so much about you. Welcome to the building."

"Thank you." She tilted her head, wondering exactly how much Jazz had told them. Had she mentioned Todd's death, and the will? Or the mistresses that made the will moot? No, she decided. Flossie and Myrtle still beamed at her, without a hint of pity or disdain. She smiled, glad to have a clean slate with her new neighbors.

"I'm glad to be here." She stood for a moment, torn between social pleasantries and the work ahead of her. Myrtle seemed to sense her dilemma and moved toward her own doorway.

"We won't keep you, dear. Do come visit when you're settled."

"I will," Angie assured her, then bent to grab the corner of the mattress again.

But Flossie frowned. "Don't you have someone to help you? Those seem awfully heavy."

Angie shook her head and began pulling. "I don't need help, thanks." She wiggled the bulky mattress around the corner, only half-aware of the women whispering about someone named Michael. Their tone was vaguely appalled, even fearful. She paused again, about to see if she could help, but heard both apartment doors close before she could maneuver past the mattress.

Finally she got the darned thing into the bedroom and let it fall onto the floor. She barely stopped herself from dropping with it. She couldn't afford to rest. She still had half a U-Haul to unload.

She was plodding down the stairs when it happened. A flare of light penetrated the haze she'd looked through since her husband's death. The front door, which she'd propped open as best she could, opened wider. The rest of the world remained dim, colorless. But the fog seemed to melt around the man who stepped into the hallway.

Angie stopped on the second step from the bottom and blinked. Then blinked again. Nothing changed. The man hadn't noticed her yet. His keys chattered as he unlocked the door of the first floor apartment. His t-shirt should have seemed faded, stretched as it was across yard-wide shoulders and straining around baseball biceps. But the royal blue glowed, contrasting with the inky black bike shorts sprayed onto his thighs. Her gaze strayed to muscles spandex didn't hide. Sweat darkened the material in interesting places.

Then she realized she could see those places because he'd turned toward her. Her eyes shot to his face but skimmed as they passed. She barely had time to register Wow before his emerald eyes pierced her.

Pierced her?

She almost laughed; so ridiculous was the notion. Eyes couldn't pierce, no matter what the novelists and lyricists said. They were simply bright, most likely the product of contact lenses. He had that kind of look—like a cover model, or calendar hunk. The kind of man who strategically dampened his hair to make it look like he was sweating.

With a regal nod, she swept past him. She could feel him watching her walk down the hallway. Her breath hissed out as she crossed the threshold, releasing the whiff she'd inhaled of pure male that testified to his authenticity.

But she didn't have time to be curious. She heard the patter of slippered feet coming down the stairs as she stepped onto the front stoop. Maybe this guy was the Michael they'd been talking about earlier. She climbed into the truck to drag a six-drawer dresser toward the tailgate, then jumped to the street. She cursed the massive lump, an heirloom from her maternal grandmother. The damn thing had survived nearly a century without a nick, and she would be lucky to get it out of the truck without smashing it on the pavement. She wished she hadn't let her former employees help her load the stuff. If she'd known how difficult it would be to unload alone, she'd have left a lot of it behind.

Suddenly the weight of the wood against her shoulder lightened.

"Get out of the way."

The man's voice penetrated the cotton that muffled every other noise she'd heard since Todd's death, just as the sight of him had penetrated the matching fog. It had to be the guy from the hallway. Shrugging, she stepped back. Muscle Man gently slid the dresser to the ground. Angie had to be impressed. Not only by his strength, but by his control. And his arm span. As she began to thank him, though, she realized he was scowling at her.

"You shouldn't be moving heavy furniture." His gaze swept up and down her figure in reproach. Angie bristled.

"When did you become my boss?"

"I'm not trying to boss you." Now she saw that the look in his eyes was concern, not criticism. "It's dangerous for you to be working so hard."

"Oh?" Anger began to bubble in her. She propped her elbow on the side of the truck and glared at him. "And just what does that mean?" She prepared a comeback for the inevitable assertion that women weren't strong enough for man's work.

"It means you could lose your baby."

"Oh."

How did he know? Had Jazz told him? She'd sworn—no, she hadn't told anyone. Not even Jazz. She looked down, half expecting that she'd started to show overnight. Maybe her face looked fuller. But what guy would notice the 'glow of pregnancy' in a woman? Only old ladies recognized it.

That was it. Flossie and Myrtle had probably guessed.

Now that she wasn't distracted by that mystery, she flushed with shame. She should have thought of the dangers. She wasn't ignorant of the details of pregnancy. But since she still didn't know how she felt about her situation, she'd ignored those details.

Well, she didn't have a choice. And it was none of this guy's business that she had no one to help her, or that she'd forgotten she was pregnant. She feigned a cavalier attitude and hefted two drawers. "Is that all?"

Muscle Man followed her, grabbing her upper arm at the door.

"Angie, I can't let you do this."

"Excuse me?" She fixed a pointed look on him. "And you are?"

"I'm sorry." He dropped her arm. "Michael Ripley. I'm the building's superintendent. Jazz is a friend of mine."

Angie nodded in understanding, then turned again, hoping he'd give up. She was halfway up the stairs before he caught up to her.

"Let me help you!" Frustration put a growl into his voice, and he snatched one of the dresser drawers from her. Angie shrugged and kept going. It was easier not to argue. But her awareness of him behind her grew as they climbed the stairs. Heat slid from the back of her neck, down her spine, her legs, and into her ankles. She knew that if she'd had eyes in the back of her head she could have watched his gaze follow that same path.

When they reached the third floor landing she strode through the door and into the bedroom. She tossed the dresser drawer onto the mattress, and spun to exit again. Except her way was blocked by a mile-wide chest. An urge flashed through her to burrow into that chest like a rabbit into its hole. Alarmed, she hid it by glowering at him.

"Why are you in my bedroom?"

"This is where you went." His grin vanished as she tried to pass him. "Wait a minute. I want to talk to you."

Since he blocked the whole doorway, she had no choice. She folded her arms and waited. But now that he had her attention, he seemed uncertain what to say.

"Flossie and Myrtle are right, aren't they?" He placed his hands on her shoulders. "You are pregnant."

She avoided his gaze so he wouldn't see the truth in her eyes, knowing that doing so admitted her guilt anyway. She asked herself why she didn't pull away. This stranger had no business prying. But she didn't want to move, and that made her angry again.

"Did Jazz appoint you Moral Guardian, too?"

He grimaced. "Kind of. She didn't say so outright, but she wants me to watch out for you."

Anger flared higher. Angie jerked out of his grasp and stuck her fists on her hips. "She has no right to do that." But she couldn't aim her anger at her friend. Jazz had offered this apartment, and a friendship Angie had ignored for too long. Besides, Jazz didn't know about the baby. Her frustration redirected itself to the man in front of her. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time, and no self-appointed knight is going to charge to my rescue. Got it?"

Michael nodded, then folded his arms, and leaned against the bedroom doorway. "Not to ruin that nice fire you've got going there, but how are you going to lug that three-hundred-pound dresser up two flights of stairs?"

"It's not three hundred pounds." But as quickly as the anger had come, it went. Angie slumped, and shrugged. "I'll manage it." She turned, but Michael stopped her once again, this time with his hand on her wrist. His warmth seeped into her. First the sight of him, then the sound, now the feel. She had to figure out what was going on with this guy. After a moment she realized he was talking, and squinted at him.

"…So I can call him, see if he can help bring up some of the heavier stuff. You can buy us pizza in return."

Angie thought about the twenty-dollar bill in her purse that was all she had until her first payday, almost three weeks away. She thought about the meager supplies she'd stocked the kitchen with before starting to unload her furniture. Then she thought about the furniture—the dresser, and the mammoth sofa she'd taken from the curb during some little town's Big Trash Day, and the solid oak kitchen table. Originally she'd planned to take much less with her, to put her grandmother's things in storage. Then she found out how much storage units cost. There was no way she could afford it, and she'd assumed she could wiggle stuff into the apartment. The first floor apartment.

Now, imagining unloading it by herself made her feel like it was all resting on her shoulders, literally. So she nodded. Michael slipped past her before she could change her mind, and began trotting down the stairs.

"Brian only lives a few blocks away," he called back. "If he's available, he'll be here in minutes. We'll have you unloaded before nightfall."

While they waited, they brought up the rest of the drawers. Angie stopped Michael before he went back down the stairs.

"Why are you helping me, anyway?"

"I told you. Jazz is a friend of mine, and you're a friend of hers. She told me you could use some help." He shrugged. "Besides, I couldn't let you move that furniture alone, pregnant or not."

"Well, thank you. I really didn't know how I was going to do it."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You figured you'd be able to drag that stuff up two flights of stairs?"

Angie blushed. "I, um, didn't realize the apartment was on the third floor."

Luckily, before he could pursue that, a shout floated up from the foyer.

"That would be Brian."

Angie followed him downstairs. Brian leaned against the bottom of the banister, smiling up at them.

"Hey, man, thanks for coming on short notice." Michael clapped him on the shoulder. "Angie, my boss, Brian Trent."

"My pleasure. I always like to help a pretty lady." He held out his hand.

Despite the glib line, he looked sincere rather than flirtatious, and Angie smiled back as she shook his hand. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

"Ah, I owe him one." They walked outside. "He keeps me in business."

"Hey!" Michael grabbed Angie's wrist again as she reached for an end table. "We'll unload. Go upstairs and direct."

She tried to protest, but they overruled her. Normally she would have hated that, but circumstances didn't give her that luxury. So she went upstairs to "direct."

As the day went on, Angie grew more and more exhausted, even though she wasn't doing much. On the third trip up, Michael asked if she wanted the nightstand to the left or right of the bed.

"Doesn't matter." She pulled sheets from a box and began making the bed. When he brought in a beat-up rocker, he got the same response. And she hadn't finished stretching out the bottom sheet.

A few minutes later Brian asked if she wanted the box of dishes on the counter or the floor.

"Whichever's easier."

"How about this table?" The oak dining table was a bit large for the kitchen. "You want it behind the couch here?"

"You decide."

Michael frowned. He wasn't an interior decorator.

"Lady, if you say 'I don't care' one more time, I'm gonna leave everything in the street." He let his end of the table drop with a bang and scowled at the woman who seemed so tiny, despite her height. The lack of any emotion in her eyes disturbed him, especially after the heat he'd witnessed earlier.

Angie tossed her hands. "I don't care, Michael." She seemed to hear the harshness in her voice, because she winced and shoved her hand through her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm sounding ungrateful. I appreciate what you two are doing for me, a stranger." She tilted her face toward him, and now, instead of reflecting emptiness, her eyes were bleak. "I've had my fill of difficult decisions lately. I guess I don't want to deal with the placement of the kitchen table."

She crossed the living room and knelt next to a box of books, laboriously lifting them out, one by one, and placing them on the built-in bookshelves. Every knot of her spine was visible beneath the thin t-shirt. Michael could even see her ribs when she stretched to place a book.

Pity took hold in his heart. Jazz had told him her husband died a couple of months ago. He knew what she was feeling. Loss, and despair, and worry that she'd never make it through. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right. But he couldn't lie.

He angled his head toward the kitchen and he and Brian wrestled the monster table into the little room.