Fall In Love Again (Serendipitous Love Book 3) Read online

  Fall In Love Again

  Copyright © 2014 Christina C. Jones

  Cover art by Christina Jones

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real locations, people, or events is coincidental, and unintentional.

  a note—

  Whew.

  Tough one, again. I spent a lot of time questioning these characters, their actions, if this or that would “okay”… and then I finally just had to let Charlie and Nixon tell their own story.

  At the beginning of the year, I made it my goal to write fearlessly. That… is still aspiration. I’m not there yet. Don’t know that I ever will be, but I do know that I’m enjoying the ride.

  Each project chips away a little more at that inclination for everything the characters do to line up neatly. In real life, sometimes we do things that are little messy. Sometimes we hurt people when we didn’t intend to. Sometimes we say the wrong things, the wrong way, at the wrong times.

  That’s just real.

  And if I consider my contemporary romance genre books to be examples of “Real Life. Real Love.” I need to be willing to let things get a little messy. We can clean it up after

  Acknowledgements

  As always, my heavenly Father, and my husband & girls, for obvious reasons.

  Love & Nasi for encouraging me to just tell the story — my own reservations be damned.

  My wonderful group of betas — JW & AW & SW & CJ & LW & MW & MM —for being so generous with their time and attention, and for giving such wonderful feedback.

  And last, but most certainly not least, my readers. This is project #10, can you believe it?! Thank you for supporting me by reading this book, leaving reviews, liking and sharing posts on Facebook, for ALL that you do. You are so, so very appreciated.

  This for you.

  Happy Reading!

  The inspiration playlist For Fall In Love Again is available on Spotify!

  https://play.spotify.com/user/1260206154/playlist/7ARZSh8JBdP9xAQaLE8TRp

  one.

  charlie.

  I never claimed to be his “ride or die”.

  Really, I couldn’t understand why he would expect such a thing from me. I mean… it was never a secret — at least not between us— that love was the very last thing on the list of needs we met for each other. An educated, successful, good-looking, brown-skinned spouse, check, check, check, and check. And just to make it even, we could throw occasional hot, albeit meaningless sex in there to round things out to an even five “checks”. But… considering us anything more than good friends who decided to get married because it was convenient was honestly laughable. That’s why it was baffling to me that Adrian actually thought I was going to wait around for him while he served a sentence in federal prison.

  Like… real ass prison.

  That negro was out of his mind.

  He waited as long as he possibly could to tell me he was under investigation for securities fraud. He was sweaty, and nervous, and stuttering, and not at all the cool, collected Adrian I knew. I could accept that I’d committed my life to a man who wasn’t my “soul mate”. I could not accept that I’d married a criminal… until the FBI started showing up at the house and freezing our accounts, and news vans started popping up in the front yard. I couldn’t really be in denial after that, which is why I was preparing to sublet an apartment thousands of miles away, where hardly anybody knew Adrian’s name. Here I was, leaving in disgrace, to go back home.

  Back home.

  Guess how I left home in the first place?

  Yep…. in disgrace.

  I didn’t want to go home. What I wanted to do was throw a fit.

  You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.

  I had no idea why that kept coming to the forefront of my mind, because if anybody deserved to throw a fit… I deserved to be throw a fit. And I don’t mean a sitting around pouting for a few hours with ice cream and a glass of wine kind of fit. No, I mean a snotty-nosed crying, rolling around on the floor, black auntie at a funeral kind of fit.

  FBI, SEC, IRS… I’d dealt with enough abbreviated government agencies to make my head spin by the time they were done tearing our life apart. But once I finally got the news that I had been cleared of any wrongdoing… only one acronym mattered.

  POS.

  No, not that one, even though as of late, Adrian was frequently a piece of shit in my thoughts… and words, and emails, and texts, etc. No, the POS I refer to is the cute little saying I’d run across in various groups online, for women trying to conceive a baby: peeing on a stick.

  I had to make sure that bastard hadn’t gotten me pregnant.

  Please God, don’t let me be pregnant.

  That sentiment was a big difference from six or seven months ago, when I actually wanted a little blue plus sign to pop up on a plastic stick. I needed somebody around here that I could love on. Now, as I stood in the bathroom, furiously washing my hands to pass the time, I wanted nothing more than a big, fat, minus.

  If Adrian had finally succeeded at getting me pregnant, after months of trying… I was gonna throw that fit.

  I somehow found the self-control to not look at the test until the two minutes had passed, then I snatched it from the counter and held it in front of my eyes.

  My heart slammed to the front of my chest.

  Halle-freakin’-lujah.

  I tossed the test into the trashcan with a flourish, and pranced into the bedroom I’d shared with Adrian for the last three years. Before all of the bullshit, this had been a beautiful room, decorated in lush summer blue, gray, and white. Now, all the accessories I’d painstakingly chosen — gorgeous bed linens from Paris, one-of-a-kind paintings commissioned from black artists… everything was packed away in boxes. One set of boxes for the storage building I couldn’t really afford, one set marked as “evidence”, and one set tagged for auction — to pay restitution to Adrian’s victims.

  Victims.

  I’d married a man who had victims.

  Kelis’ Caught Out There cycled through the speakers, and I cranked it up louder. “I hate you so much right now” was a more than appropriate sentiment for the onerous task of clearing out the house — to be sold as well.

  “I can’t believe you’re bailing on me Charlie. I thought we were in this thing together— forever.”

  Hmph.

  The look on Adrian’s face when I had to explain that he’d thought wrong was comical.

  This entire thing was.

  I almost laughed as I pulled the boxes of ovulation prediction kits from under the bathroom counter, tossing them into the bin marked "purge".

  Almost.

  Because it wasn't funny, not even a little, that instead of happily planning a baby with my husband, I was packing the wreckage of my life into as few boxes as I could. There was nothing amusing about the hassle of settling massive bills, talking to lawyers, and keeping a tenuous hold on the only thing I had left.

  It was messed up.

  I was messed up.

  Maybe I should be sticking by my husband.

  So what that he was kinda… vanilla. He was good to me, and he made me laugh. In general, he was a little on the quiet side, but so what? When prodded, the man could talk people, politics, and pop culture, so we were never hard up for conversation. So what that we didn’t love each other “like that”? Before the decision to get married, we were friends. So maybe… maybe I did love him a little. It wasn�
��t possible to live with someone for three years and not develop a certain level of fondness. Repeatedly, the thought that I could really use one of Adrian’s firm, delicious-smelling hugs ran through my mind… but, oh, yeah.

  Adrian was a POS.

  Yeah. That kind.

  When I boarded that flight to Morocco for our ridiculous, bougie-overload destination wedding, I had no idea that three years later, the man I married would be sitting in a federal prison awaiting trial. Real ass prison. Nothing tipped me off that “investment banker” — at least in Adrian’s case — was just code for “white collar criminal”. There were zero hints that he’d funded our luxurious life on the backs of little old ladies living off their husband’s pensions.

  His pleas of innocence meant nothing to me when I — and my clients, friends, hell, the mailman — was watching dateline-esque probes by the local new station, with my husband’s face — and sometimes mine — constantly flashed across the screen.

  No.

  No.

  He could talk to me when he’d won an appeal.

  My music stopped.

  A text message notification interrupted the stream, and I pulled the last of the things under the cabinet out, dumping them in the trash before I went to collect my phone. When I saw the name of the person who’d sent the message, I lifted an eyebrow.

  When I read the message, I played Caught Out There again.

  It was even more appropriate for lost his mind negro number two, on the other end of this text.

  I took a deep breath, and ignored his message. I could deal with that later. For now, my priorities were getting this house cleared, and not missing my flight.

  The next several hours were devoted to packing the last of our things. Once they were securely taped, and tagged with a prepaid shipping label, the boxes with my personal belongings would go to my cousin’s apartment, where I would be staying until I found a place of my own.

  Almost too late, I remembered that I needed clothing for the few days it would take to get the boxes cross-country. I found my luggage in a — luckily not-yet-taped — box, and filled my carryon with a random assortment of tee shirts, jeans, and underwear. I didn’t anticipate needing or feeling like putting in the effort into looking cute.

  The way I saw it, I was in mourning. For my lifestyle, my house, my dignity… and my marriage. None of this was easy for me. I didn’t feel brave, or free, or relieved, I felt… like a failure. My grand plan to marry someone who made sense, versus someone who affected my sensibilities… wasn’t so grand.

  As a last act of wifely benevolence, I packed as many of Adrian’s treasured belongings as I could fit into two large boxes, and slapped on a shipping label that would take them to his mother’s house. If you wanna talk about a ride-or-die, that lady was it. When it came to the men in her life, Sandra Richards believed the sun rose on their whim, and set on their command. She was beyond scandalized that I wasn’t visiting Adrian every day, weeping, and lamenting, and decrying the injustice of it all, because didn’t I know her son was innocent, and don’t you know what you won’t do, another woman will.

  Uh, no girl.

  The alphabet soup of agencies with Adrian’s name at the top of their lists, the fact that even my personal assets were frozen, pending investigation, and the fact that he was sitting in federal prison — real ass prison — all told a different story about his innocence. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t put my life on hold for that. And as far as another woman taking my please?

  Hmph.

  She could have his ass.

  — & —

  By design, no one was waiting for me at the airport. I didn’t want to see anybody, I wanted to get to my new apartment, take a long nap, and wake up to realize this was all just a horrible nightmare.

  My cousin, who I was subletting from, had already sent me the key, so I let myself in and took in my surroundings. Being back in this city, back in this neighborhood… I’d expected to feel anxious, and maybe even a little afraid. The people I considered my friends before… would they still feel that way? But somehow, as I stepped up to the large window that looked out over familiar streets, I just felt… home.

  I knew my mother would be ready to kill me for not being the first to know I was back in town, but I wasn’t ready to deal with her dramatics. Between her and my aunt Morgan, they probably already had a list of potential new husbands waiting for me, and I wasn’t quite rid of the first yet.

  Instead of calling her — or anyone else — I texted my cousin to let her know I was there, then stripped down to nothing and took a hot shower. It was late, and I was tired. After my shower, I crawled into the bed and closed my eyes. Starting over could wait until tomorrow.

  two.

  charlie.

  When I opened the doors and stepped into Pot Liquor, — the cozy, eclectically designed modern soul food restaurant I was so proud of — I felt a warm, welcoming sense of home. When I stepped into the kitchen of said restaurant… this first thing I heard when my heels hit the tiles was “So I heard your high-class husband went to federal prison. Like… real ass prison. Damn, that’s… hilarious.”

  Mugshots aren’t cute, girl.

  I hadn’t even been back for a full day yet, and here I was, already trying to talk myself out of a murder. One would think I’d try my best to stay away from any and everything related to ending up behind bars, but… bodily harm seemed like the only proper reaction to a bullshit statement like that.

  Nostrils flared, I stopped walking to take a cleansing breath. Around me, it seemed like everything had stopped. The cheerful banter, running water, sizzling skillets… all of the normal noises of a commercial kitchen were replaced by apprehensive quiet, leaving behind the sounds of Grown Folk’s Music — the only radio station we played — in the background.

  My eyebrow twitched as I turned to face the source of the ugly remark that had my cheeks burning, fists clenched, and shoulders full of enough tension to crack pecans.

  Lost his mind negro number two, in the flesh. Nixon Graham.

  Or, as I think of him more often than not — a thorn in my side.

  My irritation faltered — just a little — and the heat in my face intensified as his gaze took an unhurried, appreciative expedition from my head to my toes. Inexplicably, I was glad I’d managed a cute outfit from what I had in the hastily packed carryon bag from my flight.

  We communicated on a professional level almost daily, but I hadn’t seen Nixon face to face in years.

  On purpose.

  Unfortunately for me, those years had been very good to him. Like… crazy good. Like, went through the line twice good.

  Nixon was nobody’s pretty boy. The last traces of boy were gone from his face, replaced by a sculpted hardness that spoke very strongly of all man. He wasn’t even the kind of handsome that was universally agreed-upon, but lawd, have mercy, the confidence in his walk as he swaggered up to me screamed sexy. The top of his faded haircut was left a little longer than I remembered, but it suited him well. The self-assured way he held his broad, athletic shoulders, those dark hazel eyes against that deep, golden-brown skin, and his newly-acquired, velvety-thick beard… I was a fan. I would purchase tee-shirts, tickets, follow him on a world tour… if only there were a different person in the body.

  But there wasn’t.

  It was… ugh… him.

  “Screw you, Nixon. Will you trip and fall into the deep fryer already? Please?”

  Nixon chuckled — a warm, robust sound that sent vibrations through my chest. When his eyes met my face again, his lips turned up in a grin as he took the last few steps to reach me. For a moment, he just stared, then without a word, he pulled me close, enveloping me in the aroma of cardamom and sweet potatoes, blended with the woodsy scent of his cologne.

  Don’t close your eyes, don’t close your eyes.

  Screw it.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled, taking advantage of the fleeting opportunity to revel in a man’s embrace, something th
at hadn’t happened in a while. Too late, I remembered that he and I weren’t alone in the kitchen, and I opened my eyes to find part of the kitchen staff pretending not to stare.

  Clearing my throat, I shoved my way out of Nixon’s arms, tugging at the hem of my fitted tee to straighten it. “Aren’t there customers waiting for their food?” I posed the question aloud, to no one in particular, but it was enough to snap the sous chefs’ attention back to their jobs, instead of Nixon and me. To him, I said, “I need to talk to you. Privately.”

  “Lead the way.”

  He winked, and I sucked my teeth. Nixon thought he was slick, talking about “lead the way”. I knew exactly why he wanted me to walk in front of him, but I turned on my heels to head to my original destination: his office.

  The whole way, I felt his eyes caressing my jean-clad backside. When I glanced back, he was wearing a lustful grin as he ran a thumb over the swath of hair under his lip.

  Shaking my head, I pushed open the door to the tiny office, stepping in far enough that Nixon could enter as well. He grabbed me at the waist, lingering against my ass longer than necessary as he squeezed past me to get to the other side of the desk.

  “Nixon, seriously? Could you not?”

  He shot me another of those lecherous smirks, bringing his dimples into full view. “Could I not… what?”

  “Feel me up.”

  “It’s a small space.”

  “You had room.”

  Nixon chuckled, running his tongue over his lips as he sat down, then leaned back, kicking his feet up on the desk. “You’re looking damned good these days, Charlene… but I didn’t do nothin’, I swear.”

  “Whatever. Can you not call me that?”

  “Call you… what?”

  “Charlene.”

  “Ain’t that what your mama named you?”

  I sighed, running my fingers through my close-cropped curls. “Can we get to the point, please? We have something important to discuss, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Nixon said, propping his hands behind his head. “I would love to know the whole story behind your precious Adrian getting the book thrown at him.”